Chapter 8 Not Wearing It

I didn't wear his jersey.

It hung in my closet, number 22, folded the way I always folded it. I stood in front of it for ten minutes that Friday morning with my hand on the hanger, and then I closed the door and put on a plain gray hoodie instead.

Jolie took one look at me in the arena and went silent.

"Okay," she said at last. "That's a statement."

It's a hoodie, I signed.

"It's a hoodie with no number on it. At a Hurricanes game. In the front row." She dropped into her seat. "Isa, the whole section is going to notice."

I sat down and said nothing.

The game was a quarterfinal qualifier, the kind that decided whether the season kept going. The arena was packed and loud, and the smell of ice and popcorn hung over everything. I watched the players warm up. Jace, number 9, shot a puck into the net and smirked at the crowd. And Aren, number 22, glided along the blue line with his captain's patch stitched on his chest.

He looked up once, at the front row, and found me.

He saw the hoodie.

His face didn't change. But his skating slowed for half a second, like a stumble, before he looked away.

I gripped my knees.

We won.

It was close, 3–2, with a goal in the last minute that made the whole arena shake. Jace scored the second one and pointed at us in the stands. Aren scored the winner and didn't celebrate. He just skated straight to the glass and pressed a gloved hand against it, right in front of my seat, for one second.

Then the team swarmed him.

Afterward the arena emptied slowly, and Jolie and I stayed by the rail while the crowd thinned. My legs felt strange. I hadn't realized how hard I'd been holding myself still.

"Isadora."

I turned.

Aren stood below the rail, still in his gear, hair damp, helmet in his hand. He climbed up to the walkway so easily that Jolie gasped, and stopped in front of me.

He didn't speak right away. He leaned in, close enough that his breath touched my ear, and his voice was so low that nobody else could have heard.

"You're not wearing it," he murmured, "why?"

My breath stopped.

I just lifted my shoulders and typed on my phone.

Why did you tell me to wear it? It's not like....

I pulled back, my heart pounding, and stared at him.

His eyes were steady and gold-brown under the arena lights.

"Like?" he encouraged me to continue my sentence.

I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I shrugged.

Never mind, I typed, and I put my phone back in my pocket.

Something flickered across his face, hurt, maybe, and he nodded slowly.

"Okay," he said softly. "Not yet."

"AREN!"

The voice cut through the air like a whistle.

Sheylla came flying down the walkway in her cheer uniform, ponytail swinging, and before he could turn, she threw herself against him. Her arms went around his neck, her whole body pressed to his.

My hurt sank, and it felt like I was intruding.

"You were amazing!" she squealed. "That last goal, oh my God—"

Aren didn't hug her back.

He gripped her arms and pushed her away, firmly but not roughly, and held her at a distance.

"Sheylla."

"What?" She laughed, confused. "We won!"

"I know."

But he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were on me, like pleading with me not to get the wrong idea, as though she weren't even there.

I looked away first.

Don't see it. You didn't see it. I turned to Jolie and tugged her sleeve, and she took one look at my face and walked with me without a word. We left the rail, and I didn't glance back, though I felt his stare on my back the whole way down the steps.

We found Jace near the tunnel, still in his jersey, and he and Jolie fell into arguing within seconds.

"You took that shot too early," she said.

"I scored."

"You got lucky."

"Jolie, I won the game."

"Aren won the game!"

"Aren passed to me, genius, that's how—"

I stood between them, and for the first time all day I almost smiled. They were always bickering like that.

"Yo, Saint!"

A voice called out behind us, loud and cheerful. Three of Jace's teammates were crossing the concourse, still sweaty and grinning. The one in front was tall and blond, and is looking straight at me.

"Is that your sister?" he said, and his grin widened. "Damn, Saint. You've been hiding this one from us?"

Jace went completely still.

"Trent." My brother turned, slowly, and his voice became menacing and dangerous. "Shut your mouth, or you won't be able to hide the mark of my fist on your face."

"Relax, man, I'm just saying—"

"I'm not."

Trent laughed, hands raised for peace, but his eyes were still on me, and I took a step back, my pulse rising.

Then something warm settled at my back.

Aren had come up behind me. I didn't turn, but I felt him, he had an aura that I could recognize even from afar, close enough that his shoulder nearly touched mine. He stood a half step in front of me, not touching me, but I could feel his warmth.

"Stop the bullshit, Trent," he said.

His voice was calm and low. But the whole concourse seemed to quiet.

Trent's grin faltered. "Come on, Cap, I was joking."

"Then you're done joking."

Then Trent glanced at Jace, at Aren, at me, and finally shrugged.

"Fine. Jesus." He backed away with his friends. "Relax, it was a compliment."

When they were gone, Jace let out a breath through his nose and rubbed his face.

"I swear I'm going to kill him one day."

"Not today," Jolie said.

"Not today," he agreed, and his eyes slid to Aren, still standing behind me.

He looked at him for a long moment, thoughtful, and something in his expression shifted, though I couldn't tell into what.

I stared at the floor.

Aren hadn't moved away.

And in the space between my shoulder blades, I could still feel exactly where he had stopped.