Chapter 2 Do Not Press Play

Emma Park

Hana’s apartment smelled like garlic noodles and unresolved feelings.

“Sit,” she said, dropping my bag by the door like a body.

“I’m already sitting.”

“Sit better.”

I was lying face down on her couch, still in my travel hoodie, one shoe on. We’d landed at midnight, taken a taxi that smelled like pine air freshener and regret, and Hana had refused to let me go home.

“You’ll stare at the ceiling for six hours,” she’d said. “At least here someone can interrupt you.”

Now she set takeout containers on the coffee table with the energy of a woman preparing for a hostage negotiation.

“Eat three bites and I’ll let you suffer in peace.”

I ate three bites. They were excellent. I hated that they were excellent.

“Good.” Hana sat on the arm of the couch. “Now. I need to tell you something, and I need you to hear the whole thing before you say no.”

“That’s a terrible opening.”

“Sportsline Network called me.”

“Why would Sportsline call you?”

“Because they can’t call you. You’ve changed your number twice.” She took a breath. “They want you in the commentary booth. January. Ninety thousand a year, a desk, and a very nice lanyard.”

I looked at her. She looked at me. Somewhere in the walls, a pipe ticked.

“They want me to narrate other people’s matches.”

“They want you. You’re funny, Em. You know the sport. You’re...“

“Famous for a clip.”

“Famous. It’s a start.”

“Who gave them your number?”

“A friend of a friend at the Federation.”

I sat up very slowly. “Hana. The Federation sent me an email tonight saying I’m cut off on Friday. And a friend of a friend at the Federation is already finding me a job.”

“Maybe they feel bad.”

“Gordon Hale doesn’t feel bad. He feels tidy.” I rubbed my face. “That’s a soft landing with a bow on it. Take the booth, say thank you, vanish quietly. Everyone’s problem solved.”

“Is that so terrible?”

“It’s a very comfortable coffin.”

“That’s dark.”

“It’s dark and it’s got a lanyard.”

Hana pressed her lips together. I could see her fight with herself, the way she did when she wanted to say I’m worried and you’re right at the same time.

“So what do you do?” she asked.

“I go to the meeting.”

“And then?”

“And then I make him an offer.”

At 12:40, while Hana was in the shower, I did something I hadn’t done in eleven months. I called Coach Rafferty.

It rang six times. I counted. I was about to hang up and pretend I’d dialed by mistake when the line clicked.

“Em.”

He sounded older. Breathless, as if he’d run to the phone.

“Hi, Coach.”

“I saw the clip. I’m so sorry. It’s a terrible thing, to be turned into...” He gave up. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Manageable.”

A pause, long enough that I checked the screen. “Is that what they’re telling you?”

“Coach, are you okay? You sound...”

“I’m in Ghent. I run a little academy now. Forty kids. They give me a grant.” He laughed, and it wasn’t a good laugh. “Federation grant. Very generous. No strings.”

“That’s great.”

“Em, listen to me.” His voice dropped, as if someone might be standing in his kitchen. “Whatever Gordon offers you next, take the soft one.”

The room went cold.

“How do you know he’s offering anything?”

“Because he offered me one.”

“Coach...”

“Take the booth, or the desk, or the lanyard. Smile and say thank you.” Something rattled on his end, a cup, a door. “Some doors don’t open from the inside.”

“What happened to you? At the final, at the changeover, you were right there. You saw me...”

“I have to go.”

“Coach!”

“I’m proud of you,” Rafferty said. “I always was. Please don’t make me say it twice.”

The line went dead.

I sat very still, the phone warm against my ear, and listened to the silence where a man I trusted had been.

At two in the morning I was cross-legged on Hana’s rug with a laptop, three highlighters and a sleeve of crackers, and my sister was reading over my shoulder with the face of a woman at a car accident.

“Slide one,” she read. “’COMEBACK, COSTED.’”

“It’s a pitch.”

“It’s a PowerPoint.”

“It’s a pitch deck. Gordon is a numbers person. He backs things when they have a return.”

“Slide four: ‘Shoulder: Manageable.’”

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“’Ranking: 53. Target: Top 40 in six weeks.’” Hana tilted her head. “Slide six has a pie chart.”

“It’s my training budget.”

“It’s mostly crackers.”

“It’s a placeholder.”

“Slide eight,” Hana read. “’Risks.’ Risk one: Gordon says no. Risk two: Gordon says yes. Risk three is a drawing of a duck.”

“The duck is a metaphor.”

“For what?”

“I haven’t decided.”

She laughed, and I laughed, and for a moment the whole awful week became a thing two sisters could look at from the outside. Then Hana reached across me and closed the laptop gently, and the room went quiet.

“Em, I have to say something. And you’re going to hate it.”

“I already hate it.”

She reached behind the couch and pulled out her own laptop, closed, with a sticky note on top in her neat handwriting: DO NOT PANIC.

“No,” I said.

“Emma.”

“Absolutely not. Put it away.”

“I’m not going to make you.”

“Then why is it out?”

“Because I need to confess something.” She set it on the table like it might bite. “I’ve watched it.”

“The final?”

“Forty-one times.”

I stared at her. “Forty-one?”

“On the plane. At the hotel. In the airport bathroom.” Her voice cracked. “You’ve never talked about it, Em. Not once. You went from champion to ghost overnight, and I didn’t know how to help, so I watched it. Over and over. Looking for a clue.”

“There’s no clue. I choked.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“What else could have happened?”

Hana didn’t answer. Her eyes went to the shelf behind the TV, where a row of my old trophies sat because my own flat was too small. One of them was covered by a dish towel.

“Why is that covered?”

“It’s dusty.”

“It’s draped.”

I crossed the room before she could stop me and lifted the towel. The Olympic silver medal sat there on a velvet cushion, gleaming. Hana had bought the cushion. I hadn’t asked her to.

“I keep it in a sock at home,” I said slowly.

“I know. That’s why I took it.”

“It’s a very nice sock.”

“Em.” She walked over and stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder, both of us staring at the towel. “I don’t think you froze.”

The room went very quiet.

“What did you say?”

“I think something happened before the freeze. I’ve watched it forty-one times, and every time, at the changeover, you walk to your bag. You pick up your towel. You look at the stands.” She gestured at her own face. “And you go gray. Like someone drained the color out of you.”

My heart was beating so loudly I could hear it in my ears.

“That’s called nerves.”

“It was the Olympic final. Everyone was gray. Not like that.” She turned to face me. “I’m going to ask you one thing, and I want you to answer honestly.”

“I don’t want to.”

“At the changeover. Before the last game. Was there a note?”

The floor tilted.

“What?”

“Something white in your hand, just for a second, before you slip it into your bag. I’ve paused it. I’ve zoomed in. Was there a note, Emma?”

“There was no note,” I said.

“Em.”

“There was no note.”

My voice cracked on the last word. We both heard it.

Hana’s eyes went soft, and sad, and very, very knowing.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I believe you.”

She did not believe me.

I walked back to the couch, picked up my bag, and unzipped the front pocket with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling. I told myself I was looking for my phone charger.

I was not looking for my phone charger.

Tucked between a worn-out grip tape and a crumpled boarding pass was a small, folded square of paper, soft at the creases, handled a thousand times.

Fourteen months, and I had never once thrown it away.

I closed the pocket before Hana could see.

“Em?” she called from across the room. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said.

I wasn’t.

Because I’d just remembered the last line of the note, and it hadn’t been a threat.

It had been a name.