Me: Paul?

He has not answered me since the locker room. The message stays on delivered because he probably lost comms.

My heart does a wrong beat, and the cringe starts on the back of my neck like a mudskipper flip-flopping around. It wiggles down into my chest.

"Here you go, kiddo."

Dad is standing there, holding out my ice cream while Mom passes the twins their cones. Mine is chocolate soft serve with chocolate crunchies. I swallow the spit in my mouth, put my phone into my hoodie pocket, and take it from him.

It takes me a minute.

Paul is fine.

He lost comms.

That happens all the time.

I lick my ice cream. It is cold and creamy and so, so good. I love ice cream. I love chocolate crunchies. I love them.

"You shooted it, Eric. You shooted it the puck," Clara says.

Annie takes a lick of Clara's ice cream cone when Clara is not looking, even though Annie has one that is identical to it. The twins are identical too, but Annie has a freckle above her left eyebrow, and that is how I know when they are trying to trick me and switch. I can figure it out in two seconds, but it takes Mom and Dad longer, and the girls play tricks like that all the time. They do it to their teacher, too. Mom says they can be little devils.

I think they are smart.

If I had a brother who looked exactly like me, I would play tricks too, because it would be very fun.

"Stop it, Annie!" Clara whines. "That's mine!"

"Annie, eat your own ice cream," Mom says, pulling her back a little.

"I shot the puck," I correct Clara. "I shot the puck into the net."

"You shooted it good," Annie giggles, then licks the chocolate crunchies off the top of her soft serve. "Like ka-pow! Ka-pow! Shooted."

I roll my eyes.

"That's nice, Annie," Dad says, giving her hair a soft rustle. "You love hockey, don't you, girls?"

"Yeah!" Clara says, raising her spoon into the air. "Eric shooted it a goal!"

"That's right," Dad laughs. "Eric gets lots of goals, doesn't he?"

My sisters grin like they adore me.

I do not like being adored by six-year-old twins.

They are okay now. When they were babies, I hated being around them because they screamed and screamed and screamed, and I had to wear my earmuffs because the sound sank deep into my skull and made me cry. I would hide from it, and then Mom would get upset like she had made a mistake by having them, but it was not her fault. It was just my stupid crap getting in the way again.

They are better now. They are six, and I will be seventeen next week. They do not have high-pitched screams as much. They still cry when they get into fights about their dolls or their toys, but it is not like before.

They always want me to take them on the pond, but I do not like to because the pond is mine. It is very important for my practice, and it needs to be accurate. If they are on it, they kick against the grain and make divots, and then I have to try to smooth them out.

Dad will not buy a Zamboni, so I have to use the little hand machine he bought me last Christmas, and it does not get the ice exactly flat like the real rinks.

"Sorry I'm late."

Carson Wentworth smiles as he reaches our booth, and I make room for him beside me. "Got stuck on a phone call."

Carson is my family liaison, which means he does things for me when it comes to hockey. He can talk to people and take trips and go to lunch and dinner with important people because I cannot, because college rules do not like that and I verbally committed to Cleveland Lakes last month. Dad says one day Carson will probably be my agent, but while I am in high school and then college, he can just be my liaison helper.

I have known Carson since I was fourteen, when he started coming to some of my travel hockey games because my coaches sent him film. Lots of players my age send him film because he is famous in hockey circles, and if you are serious, you want him to watch yours. He has to go through so many of them and decide who he wants to talk to. Liaison work must be hard because a lot of people want to play hockey, but only a few of them are good enough, because professional sports are hard to do.

"That was a great game, Eric," Carson says, taking a sip of his coffee.

He did not get ice cream. He never gets ice cream when he comes out with us. I asked him once, and he said he does not like ice cream. I thought that was weird. I still think that is weird.

"Great goals," he says. "You really brought the team together. I made sure to ask your coach for the film. We'll send that to Tampa. Their development staff has been asking for more lately."

"Really?" Dad asks.

Carson smirks and nods. "Nothing ironclad, Frank. They're just having more of a look since they sent their guy out last month. It's early. He's young. Nobody wants to rush this and put too much pressure on him before he's ready."

Dad's face changes when Carson says that. It does not change a lot, but I see it. His mouth gets flatter. His eyes move to Mom, then to me, then back to Carson.

Mom notices too.

I lick the side of my ice cream before it drips onto my hand.

"What guy?" Clara asks.

"A Tampa guy," I say.

"What's Tampa?" Clara asks.

"A place in Florida," I tell her.  "They have a hockey team."

"Is it hot?"

"Yes."

"Do they have ice?"

"Yes."

She frowns because that does not make sense to her.

It makes sense to me because hockey has ice in places where ice should not be. Florida. Arizona. California. Texas. People build rinks and make the cold happen. I like that. I like that hockey does not have to wait for the weather.

Carson sets his coffee down. "They told me liked the way you handled pressure tonight, Eric. Development was watching the live stream."

"I did not handle it perfectly," I say.

"No one expected you to be perfect, Eric," he says.

"I got distracted."

"You got targeted," Dad says.

"That is different."

I look at my ice cream.

The chocolate crunchies are sinking into the soft serve now, making little dark caves in the top. I scoop some out with my tongue.

Carson leans back in the booth. "The point is, they liked the way you adjusted. The first shift was beautiful. The power-play goal was exactly the kind of read they want to see. And the last goal—" He shakes his head a little. "That was special."

The word special hits me weird.

Not because Carson means it wrong. He does not. Carson knows which words to use around me. He knows which ones make people look at me too long.

But Number Six said special too.

Special needs.

I hear it again in my head, even though nobody at the table says it.

Sure, special needs. Whatever you say.

My spoon presses into my soft serve until it bends slightly.

I do not want Carson to know Number Six called me that. I do not want Tampa to know. I do not want them to know my hands got tight. I do not want them to know the open shrank for a minute because that sounds like weakness, and people do strange things when they think I am weak.

So I say, "I still scored on him. Number Six. He didn't think I would do that."

Dad laughs once, short and proud. "Yeah, you did. Kid never saw you coming."

"You shooted it," Clara says, trying to fix the table even though she does not know what she is fixing.

"I shot it," I tell her.

"Shot it," she repeats carefully.

"Into the net," I say.

"Into the net," she says.

Annie lifts her cone. "Ka-pow."

I roll my eyes again, but this time I do not mind as much.

My phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket.

Everything inside me stops.

I pull it out too fast and almost drop it into my ice cream.

Paul: Had to move. I'm good.

I stare at the words. The mudskipper feeling leaves my chest so fast I feel hollow where it was.

Dad notices my face. "Paul?"

I nod.

Mom exhales like she has been holding her breath since before the game started.

Me: Okay.

I stare at my message after I send it. It is too small. Okay is too small for I am glad you are not dead and I hate that you disappear and I scored for you and I pointed at your seat and I want you home.

But okay is what fits in the box.

Me: We are at Carvel.

Three dots appear.

Paul: Eat some chocolate crunchies for me.

I look at my cone.

Then I type back.

Me: Carson is here but does not like ice cream.

Paul: Don't trust him.

I smile before I can stop it.

Carson looks at me. "What?"

"Paul says not to trust you."

Carson blinks. Dad laughs. Mom smiles into her napkin.

Carson puts one hand over his chest. "That hurts."

"He says it because you do not like ice cream."

"Well, then Paul has excellent judgment."

"He does," I say.

My phone stays warm in my hand. Paul is still far away. He is still in Kuwait or Syria or on a road between places Mom does not like to name. He is still not in the booth. He is still not stealing my chocolate crunchies or telling the twins not to say shooted because it makes my eye twitch.

But he answered.

He is good.

He is alive.

For a few minutes, the open is not on the ice.

It is here.