Matt unpacked his new running sneakers. At a quarter to five in the morning, it was still dark outside.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, he thought grimly. And then: This is going to hurt. He got winded walking up the stairs to the editing suite back in Brooklyn. He hadn’t slept last night. How was he going to jog miles on the boardwalk in hopes of “casually” bumping into Lauren?
It was a far cry from the days when he was running around tsunami-ravaged Southeast Asia, armed with only a camera. Back then, he didn’t need sleep, didn’t need food. Those weeks and months following his brother’s death, he was fueled by pure adrenaline and a youthful, reckless fury.
The tsunami hit the day after his brother’s death. Matt, reeling from his grief, felt the pull of something larger than his personal tragedy. He had to do something. So he got on a plane to Sri Lanka.
Thailand had been a landscape of utter devastation. His photos captured as much as the camera could capture, and ultimately that was never enough. Across the region, two hundred thousand people had been killed. So many dead—almost enough to make him forget his own loss. Almost.
Those photos started his career in journalism.
Surely he could run a few miles to convince a widow to talk to him. Her reticence was nothing compared to his resolve.
Sunrise caught Lauren by surprise; her precious darkness was slipping away faster day by day. She would have to start getting up earlier. Today, she dragged herself through the run, first sluggish, now fighting light-headedness.
Ride it like a wave, she told herself. If it got really bad, she had a protein bar in her pocket. But it always felt like a defeat to stop. No, she wouldn’t be sidelined by her body’s weakness. It was bad enough that she constantly had to fight her mind.
In her dreams last night, it was that sophomore-year party all over again. Except instead of looking upstairs for Stephanie, she was searching room to room for Rory, her panic mounting with each closed door. She woke up, heart pounding, at three in the morning and never fell back asleep.
Push through! She moved faster, her chest heavy with each intake of oxygen. A low-flying seagull swooshed past her. She loved the birds, envied the birds. Her legs were slow, but her thoughts raced with the questions from Matt’s interview with Stephanie.
Lauren remembered the days when she had been the one asking questions. God, she hadn’t thought about that Merionite article in so long. She’d spent so much time trying to forget the ending that she never let herself remember the beginning.
She’d enlisted Stephanie’s help.
“I don’t get it. You’re writing an article about him?” Stephanie, sitting cross-legged on her bed, barely glanced up from her phone. Just a few months earlier, Lauren had met Rory in the dark hallway outside that very bedroom. She shook the thought away.
“No! Not about him. It’s about the hockey team. But he’s the highest scorer. I have to get a quote from him.”
Stephanie sighed dramatically and tapped her phone before handing it over.
“That’s his number. But don’t expect too much. He’s kind of an arrogant asshole.”
Maybe so. But as she sat in the school library waiting for him to show up for the interview, her body hummed with anticipation. She had typed up her questions and printed them out, and now she unfolded the paper on the library table. She reread the list for the umpteenth time.
“Preparation. I like that,” a voice said behind her. She jumped and covered the questions with her hand, feeling kind of busted, though in what sense, she wasn’t exactly sure.
“Hi. I’m Lauren,” she said, standing and almost knocking over the chair.
“I know,” he said.
He pulled out a chair, sat next to her. She felt dwarfed by his size. She pulled the questions onto her lap.
“Okay, so like I said, I was assigned to write an article about the hockey team.”
“You like hockey?”
She nodded.
“Have you ever been to see one of the games?”
“Um, no.”
“I thought you just said you like hockey.”
“I do. I watch the Flyers. Do you mind if I tape this?” She positioned her mini–cassette recorder between them.
“Very professional.”
Was he teasing her? No. His expression was serious.
“So who’s your favorite player?” he asked.
“On your team?”
“No. The Flyers.”
She thought quickly. “Éric Desjardins.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Not a bad choice, though I’d have to go with Primeau.”
Lauren nodded. She needed to get control of this conversation. “Okay, well—we should get started because I know you don’t have much time.”
“What do you think their playoff chances are this year?”
She looked at him, his dark eyes and square jaw. Something deep inside of her twitched.
“They’ll make the playoffs,” she said. “I just don’t know if they can go all the way.”
He smiled. “I’m with you on that.”
She felt her heart might stop.
Focus.
“So what do you think is making your team successful this year?”
“Well, we haven’t succeeded yet.”
The comment threw her for a second. She recovered with “But you’re leading the division.”
“We are. Today. But success is winning the league championship, and real success is states.”
“Okay. So I’ll ask you what you asked me about the Flyers: What do you think of your chances?”
“Cutler’s been strong in net. Everyone’s working really hard. I think if we’re focused, we can do it.”
She checked the recorder, praying it was working. She glanced at her notes and said, “You have the most goals and most assists in the western division. You have to see that as some kind of success.”
“Doing your job isn’t success. It’s doing your job. Right? I mean, you’re going to write this article and it will run in the paper, but is that success?”
“It feels like success to me,” she said.
“All right, well. Maybe it’s different for writers.” He looked at her hard. “You sure you’re Stephanie’s sister?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just seem so much more serious.”
“I’m not that serious,” she said defensively.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m all for serious. If you’re not going to do something with intensity—with intent—why do it at all?”
His eyes met hers. She forgot her next question.
“We’re playing Radnor Friday night. You should come,” he said.
She nodded. “Yeah, I was planning to go to a game before I finished the article.”
“This will be a good one. We’re going to win.”
“That’s confident of you.”
He smiled. “I think when you want something badly enough, you make it happen.”
They won the game. Rory had a hat trick that night. Back then, Lauren had believed what he said, that personal will was strong enough to make something happen, to direct fate.
She wondered how long he himself had continued to believe it.