Chapter 9

I endedthe call and sat there, the weight of Trent's words lingering heavily on my mind. His words about the pressures of being a figure skater from a young age, and how it can lead to eating disorders, hit close to home. I had messaged him the day after the noodle shop disaster, and he'd messaged me back right away, saying he"d call me next weekend. I'd never expected him to call, but I'd dropped Soren's name, and given Soren was Ten's son, and Ten played hockey with Dieter, who was married to Trent, well… I let out a sigh… yeah, he called back, and now I didn't know what to do with myself.

I held hands with Kenji.

I held his hand.

I looked out the window, my thoughts wandering to Kenji, especially since Trent had mentioned what he thought Kenji might be going through. An eating disorder, a mental block to eating at all, anorexia nervosa. It was the last thing that scared me the most because that was a word I knew. Trent said he'd seen this before in figure skating, the fear of gaining weight and a distorted body image leading to a significant restriction of food intake. Everything fit, and I couldn't shake the image of Kenji, his discomfort obvious as he'd taken nothing more than a few sips of soup. I hadn't realized that he was fighting some unseen battle, one I couldn't fully understand, but Trent made it obvious.

He said it could be other things, that he wasn't a specialist, but he spoke about image, and strength, and a whole ton of things I couldn't get my head around. The tension in Kenji's shoulders when I'd made him eat at the noodle shop, the haunted expression—it was all too real, too raw. And as much as I wanted to help him, to be his ally in this fight, I realized the last thing he needed was for me to add to that battlefield.

No more forcing him to eat. No more mentioning the time way back that I'd caught him making himself sick. No more anger at him putting figure skating before himself.

So, what did I do now?

My phone vibrated with a message, one that Trent had promised me, a link to resources and to a couple of therapists he recommended.

Then, another message, summarizing everything Trent had said about what I could do. Just be his friend. I'll talk to Ilya. My heart hitched. Even though Trent promised he wouldn't mention Kenji, that it would just be a general chat about up-and-coming figure skaters and the pressure to be perfect, I was still worried. What if Ilya worked it out and said something to Kenji, and then Kenji knew what I'd done and…

Shit, I'm hyperventilating. This is too much.

I could be his friend. That is what he needs now.

I didn't have to think about the warmth in me whenever I looked at him, or thought about him, or worried about him.

Or held his hand.

We'd been friends before he'd chosen figure skating and I stayed in hockey, before we'd drifted away from each other. Was I being stupid? I mean, we'd been kids when we'd bonded over being out on the ice, and what if Kenji didn't need a friend like me right now?

He'd invited me to the history and art thing, that was kind, that was us being friends, and I'd been honest with him that there was something inside me that I wanted to share with him. I could be a friend who supported him with the eating disorder and the stress I saw in his face, and he could hold my hand if I came out of the closet. The thought of having someone in my corner who knew me was enough for me to smile.

I headed into Mom's room, pulled down the scrapbook she kept on the top shelf, my mum's way of collecting all kinds of hockey-related things on my way to the NHL—Dad's wording, not mine or my mom's. Then I returned to my room before anyone could catch me not doing the homework I'd said I had to do. The glitter on its cover caught the light as I opened to the first page, me being held by my dad in the hospital, in my Toronto jersey, him beaming proudly. He seemed softer in these photos, not so determined to live vicariously through me, still working hard at the AHL level and hoping to get seen.

He never got seen.

And now, he didn't seem to smile much at all.

I flipped the pages and memories flooded back as I scanned through the photos, images frozen in time from my days on the ice, and there it was, aged five, Kenji and me, full-caged face masks off, in the teeniest tiniest hockey gear ever.

I photographed every image or Kenji, his familiar grin and determined gaze staring back at me from the glossy paper. With each photo I took, I smiled harder.

Then, grabbing my keys, I tried to head out without getting caught, which didn't happen like that at all. As I passed through the living room, Mom caught me.

"Heading out, sweetheart?"

"Library," I lied and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. I almost made it outside, but Dad was out of his study in an instant and blocking my way.

"Where are you off to?"

"Library," I replied, trying to keep my tone casual. "Need some resources for homework."

"Why don't you use Google like normal kids do?" he grouched, eyeing my backpack.

Since when was I normal? He'd made sure I would never be completely normal. "I need access to archives."

He had nothing to say about my education, aside from knowing how low my grades could go before I lost my place on the team. Luckily for me and him, I was a straight-A student—well, A and a few B-pluses—and for the most part, it was easy enough to stay in everyone's good books, school, and home both. Head down, work hard.

He frowned. "We still have that Arizona-LA game tape to watch," he insisted, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. He insisted on us watching tapes of old games, acting as if this was some normal father/son thing, when actually, all he did was shout at the games and disparage them, as well as criticize me.

"I'll catch up on it later," I promised, already halfway out of the door. "I need to get this done."

With that, I escaped, stepping out into the crisp morning air, a sense of determination pushing me forward. There was something more important than game tape waiting for me. There was step one in the Kenji-is-my-best-friend-again-and-I-will-help-him plan.

I needed to come up with a catchier title. Oh, and ignore hand-holding, or the urge to cradle him close and kiss him. Nope, that would be bad. I was in the closet—he was a bright shining star—we didn't fit in that way.

The bell above the door of the photography store chimed, announcing my arrival to the clerk, who looked up from behind the counter with a friendly smile. I went over to the print machine, but there was a big Out-of-Order notice, and some of my happy bubbles popped.

"I need to print out some photos," I replied, reaching into my pocket to pull out my phone. "Just a few from my gallery."

He brightened. "No worries. If you can upload them to the store account, we can bypass the machine, and I can do that for you directly." He slid a card over the counter with an email address and code. I selected the images I needed and sent them.

"Got it," he said, flashing me a quick grin before disappearing into the back room. I shifted on my feet, my stomach twisting with nerves and anticipation—was this going to work? They were probably shitty quality. A few minutes later, he returned with a stack of glossy prints in hand, each one a snapshot of memories, and I thanked him, my voice catching in my throat as I took the photos from him.

Only one of them was blurred, but I could handle that another day.

This might be stupid anyway—I mean, who even printed out photos these days? I headed to the stationery place, picked up a scrapbook, all the while considering whether I should send them to him on his socials.

Clutching the photos, scrapbook, and glue, I headed to the library and found a table at the back behind the romance section. Then, I made a scrapbook for him, all about us, of the times we'd been friends, the games, the Peewee stuff, the frozen pond at the house down the road, the first sparkly leotard he'd worn, the sad face I pulled next to his grinning one, me with a stick, him with his arms stretched up like a ballerina.

Back then, I knew he wouldn't be playing hockey, and that, maybe, we wouldn't see each other all the time. I never imagined we would drift apart or end up fighting.

I'm going to fix that.

As soon as the scrapbook was done, I doodled our names on the cover—not quite as sparkly as my mom's one—and debated adding some hearts because he was my friend and I loved him.

That was all. Right? The weird fluttering in my chest whenever I saw him, the desperate pull to touch him, was nothing but friendship because I couldn't let it be anything else.

Anyway, hearts were probably overkill, right?

Then, I logged in to the library's internet and started my research from the links Trent had sent me. I wasn't going home yet—knowing how I could help Kenji was more important than watching game films.

Kenji was more important than hockey.

* * *

Monday arrived all too soon,the shrill sound of my alarm jolting me awake, but I rolled out of bed, my heart already pounding with anticipation and nerves. Today was important. I was going to be the best friend in the entire world, so Kenji could trust me, and then, I'd fix things.

Grabbing a bagel from the kitchen, I barely paused to chew as I hurried out the door, and was at the rink by 5:30, hurrying to the changing rooms. I shed my street clothes and pulled on my practice gear, but as I laced up my skates, my hands were unsteady with nerves, the weight of all my plans making my head hurt. By 5:40, I was out on the ice, my skates gliding over the smooth surface. Kenji was already there, stretching at his end of the rink, his movements fluid and precise. His choice of attire—pink leggings and a purple shirt—was just Kenji. I wanted to go back to the locker room, grab the scrapbook, and shove it at him, showing him the first time that he'd dressed up to dance on the ice.

He glanced over at me, a smile lighting his face. A surge of warmth spread through my chest. Despite the early hour and the chill in the air, there was nowhere else I'd rather be than here on the ice, with Kenji down at his end, as we worked on our skills, no one else there.

Of course, that changed as soon as Ilya arrived, angry and loud, and snapping out something about Kenji's lines being wrong. Fuck him—Kenji was good out there. Still, Kenji didn't argue, nodded, changed whatever he was doing, and I pretended not to be watching. Which was a good thing because then, my dad arrived, grumpy and snapping that I hadn't set out the cones right.

I was done with both of them.

By the time I made it to the locker room, Kenji was out of the shower and knotting his tie ready for the school day, and he sketched a wave as he left. I couldn't go over to him smelling as bad as I did, so I showered, headed to school, sat through Geography, and a boring and frustrating Math class, and it was lunchtime before I tracked Kenji down, finding him at his usual table on the opposite side of the room to the hockey guys. When I caught him glancing up at me, I pretended not to have noticed the lonely apple on his tray.

"Can we talk?" I asked, and the buzz of chat at his table died. "I have something to show you."

Someone snickered about jocks, but Kenji shot them a glare, and they subsided. He picked up his apple to follow me, and we headed outside, finding a table behind the drama block, and then, I put my best-friends-again-so-I-can-help plan into action.

And yep, I really needed to think of a cooler name.