Again.
At home that evening, Malik noticed her wet jacket immediately.
“Why is your hair blue?”
Monique looked in the hallway mirror.
A streak of Tanner’s sports drink had dried along one side.
“Somebody spilled something.”
Malik did not believe her.
At sixteen, he had inherited their mother’s ability to detect lies before the sentence finished.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Monique.”
She smiled.
“How was practice?”
Malik dropped his hockey bag near the kitchen table.
His smile vanished.
“Coach says if we lose Sunday ice, our team is done.”
Monique opened the refrigerator.
There was half a carton of milk.
Eggs.
Leftover chicken.
Not much else.
“Maybe the arena will change its mind.”
“They already changed the schedule.”
She closed the refrigerator.
“Then Coach will find another rink.”
“He called seven.”
Monique looked at him.
“All booked.”
Malik sat down.
“Or too expensive.”
That part she understood.
Their mother had died four years earlier after nearly two years of treatment.
Insurance covered some of it.
Not enough.
By the end, Monique had sold almost everything from her old hockey career.
Medals.
Memorabilia.
Signed jerseys.
Even the skates she wore during her final international tournament.
People online had called her disappearance mysterious.
Sports writers had speculated about injuries.
Contract disputes.
Burnout.
Nobody knew she had left because there had been a hospital bed in a small apartment, unpaid bills on the kitchen table, and a twelve-year-old brother who needed someone more than the hockey world needed another scorer.
Malik looked at her.
“You never told me you played for the national team.”
Monique froze.
“What?”
“Coach showed me.”
He placed his phone on the table.
A photograph filled the screen.
Monique in a red, white, and blue jersey.
Hair shorter.
Eyes harder.
A captain’s C stitched above her heart.
The headline beneath it read:
MONIQUE TATE LEADS NATIONAL TEAM WITH FIVE-GOAL WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP RUN
Monique sat down slowly.
“Where did you find that?”
“Coach did.”
Malik scrolled.
“National team captain. Top scorer at the world championship.”
He looked at her.
“You quit at twenty-three.”
Monique stared toward the old family photograph beside the refrigerator.
Their mother.
Young Malik.
Monique.
“That was before Mom got sick.”
Malik’s voice softened.
“You quit because of us.”
“Because of life.”
“You could’ve gone back.”
“Somebody had to stay.”
“You gave everything up.”
Monique shook her head.
“No.”
She reached across the table.
“I chose you.”
His eyes filled.
“I would’ve understood.”
“You were twelve.”
“I’m not twelve now.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“You’re worse.”
He laughed.
Then became serious again.
“If they take Sunday ice, where are we supposed to practice?”
Monique looked through the kitchen window.
Snow was beginning to fall.
