Page 64 of Oh, Puck!
Still 0-0. Late in the second.
"Okay—wait, wait—" I dig my phone out of my back pocket. "Before I forget, I need photos of this. The place ispacked, I need some photos for the socials—"
"Ooh, ooh, selfie first!" Rose snatches the phone right out of my hand. "Come here, get in, GET IN—"
She yanks both of us against her, the three of us mashing cheek to cheek.
"SayBEARS!" Rose crows.
I get one glorious glimpse of us in the screen and Rose starts clicking the button. Darcy is doing a peace sign with her champagne, and Rose is mid-laugh with fry crumbs on her chin.
I'm just smiling, and grinning like an idiot in my too-bigMORRISONjersey.
"BEARS!"
She taps the screen, clicking away as we change poses, eventually collapsing into a heap of laughter, the three of us a tangle of arms and cocktails and happiness.
This is it. This is the thing I came to Beachside for.
The thing my whole life was missing. People whogetit. Who scream at the ice and steal each other's fries and call each other sisters like it's nothing.
I'm still laughing when the screen in Rose's hand starts to buzz and flash.
A photo of a woman with a tight smile and a silver necklace fills the display.
MOM.
"Oh—Rose, no, don't—" I lunge for it, but it's too late.
Rose's thumb, still hammering the photo button, jabs right on the big green button at the side of the screen.
Sheanswersthe call without meaning to, her face crumpling in horror as she registers the name now filling the screen.
"Ohshit."Darcy's hand flies to her mouth.
Because theyknow. They both know. They sat with me in those empty stands and watched me confess that my mother doesn't have the faintest idea where I am. That she thinks I'm freelancing some vague marketing nonsense.
That she'd sooner believe I joined a cult than took a job in professional hockey.
Rose thrusts the phone at me like it's on fire. "Oh my God. Oh my God, Josie, I'm so sorry—"
"Josie? Hello? Are you there?"
And there it is. My mother's voice, tinny and clear, cutting through everything.
The arena chooses that exact moment to surge with noise—a near-miss down low, the crowd roaring up to a fever pitch—and I clamp the phone to my ear and spin away from the glass, pressing my free hand over my other ear.
"Mom! Hi! Hey!" My voice is at least three octaves too high. "I can barely hear you, it's a little loud where I am—"
"Where ARE you? It sounds like a stadium."
On the ice below, the Bears are setting up in the offensive zone, Declan cycling the puck behind the net to Spencer Holland.
"Mom? Can I maybe call you—"
"I've been trying to reach you fordays, Josie. You haven't answered any of my calls. I was starting to worry."
"Sorry, I've been busy. A lot going on. I can call you back—"
