The Dawning Light of Grey

On Friday morning, Ian strode through the lobby of their Galway hotel with a stack of toast in one hand and a phone in the other. Benson hadn't shown up to breakfast again and, by this stage, he was getting fed up chasing her down.

Didn't she want to come back to the team? Didn't they matter to her?

It's not like he cared. He didn't play on her line or anything, but this was their final year so she could at least try to make the effort to play in their last games.

He didn't know how this came to be his problem. Why weren't the rest of her so-called friends calling her out on her bullshit?

Clearly, he was the only responsible one left on the team, so it was up to him to make sure she didn't fade away to nothing.

He halted in front of the high wingback chairs dotted around the cosy fireplace in the lounge off the reception area where Amber sat, curled up, frantically scribbling on a yellow legal pad.

"Are you doing homework?!"

She jolted and scored a line down the page.

With a growl, she shoved her hair out of her face and scrunched up the page, throwing it to join a steadily growing pile beside her. "No! I have two weeks of detention to catch up on homework. Why would I do it here?"

The sun spilt in the tall glass window, deepening shadows in the corners. A phone rang shrilly at the reception desk, and guests passed by the arched entry drawing their suitcases along as they looked to book in or check out. Ian ignored the hubbub and set his plate of toast on the lacquered coffee table between them. He dropped into the armchair opposite Amber as she began to write again.

"Well, what's that then?"

"None of your beeswax," she said, but grabbed a slice of toast and took a greedy bite.

He snagged a slice and scrolled through the group chat from the night before, rolling his eyes at Kane's scolding. "Your rep will be in tatters. Benson doing her homework on spring break."

"It's not homework."

"Then what are you doing?"

She shoved the paper towards him. He took it with a sigh and settled in to read, but the first line had him shoving it back at her.

"I can't read a letter to your dad. Why are you even writing him a letter?"

"I don't know. Ozuma said to write down my feelings and Dad communicated the baby news to me by letter—"

"Which you hated, and it made you drop the team."

"Are you always going to toss that in my face?"

"Until you rejoin the team, yes. You haven't seen the dusters we got saddled with. Well, maybe not Anderson, because he can skate and he's built like a tank. The others? Total dusters. So yes, I will keep throwing that in your face until—"

"Fine, I'm working on coming back. You happy?"

He paused, tossing the last of his toast into his mouth and, chewing it, he thought through that nugget of information. "For real?"

"Yes." She sat up, setting her feet on the ground and resting her elbows on her knees so she could cradle her chin. "I miss the team too, you know. I miss being on the ice. But some things are out of our control. I have to clear it with Nicolai and I have to reach a certain weight, which isn't easy, even with all this eating I'm doing. Which is a lot, Ian. You need to cut me some slack."

"I'm trying to help."

"And I appreciate it. This"—she gestured to the plate of toast—"is fine. The barrage of croissants, not so much. If we can space out the food that would be better."

He exhaled loudly, conceding that maybe he had been a little heavy-handed with the food. He wasn't exactly comfortable helping people, especially not Amber. They spent more time antagonising each other, constantly attempting to one-up the other, but he liked to think he'd grown as a person in the past year, so he could put some of that behind him and continue his efforts to help.

Besides, if he didn't do it, no one else would.

"Okay, but if I happen to have extra food and you steal some of it, that won't be an issue, will it?"

"That works."

They fell into a comfortable silence as he watched more people pass the open archway. Amber began to scribble some more and Ian shifted in his seat, nodding his head to the legal pad. "So, a letter to your dad? Are you sure that's the right thing to do?"

"We'll still need to talk, but… I have to say a few things and I don't know if I'd say them to his face." She glanced around the lobby before leaning forward. "I just want to clear the air without it derailing to something else. I also don't want to overreact."

Ian groaned, about to snap back until he caught the wry smile on her lips that told him the words weren't as deeply hooked in her flesh. Maybe she'd finally made peace with that phrase and her own actions, and maybe he'd have to nudge Valkov into apologising to her. A nice guilt trip worked wonders on Tala these days, and Ian could always push him into the boards again if it didn't. He'd probably do that, anyway. Tala had a lot to make up for.

"Well, if it helps you get your thoughts out, I suppose a letter isn't the worst idea." He settled back in his seat and drew his foot to his opposite knee, drumming his fingers on the shoe as another thought occurred to him. "Enrique says he's taking you to prom."

"Hmm?" She looked up, and the confusion cleared to a laugh. "Oh yeah. Well, maybe. Ruin's insisting we all go, and I don't want to go on my own. Being dateless for Prom… it works for some, but I don't want to do that."

"I'm not going with a date." The idea of taking someone with him to prom? Having to entertain them and ensure they had a good night? No, thank you. He'd leave that misery to the others.

"Your body, your choice, Ian."

He flipped her the finger and snagged another piece of toast. "So, not like I care or anything, but…"

"Spit it out," she muttered, scratching out a word hard enough that it scored the paper. "Don't call him a numbskull. That won't get him onside."

Ian snorted. "Yeah, maybe leave the insults out of the letter." He paused, scraping his nail over a seam. "I'm just going to say it."

"Please do—what's another word for negligent but isn't as bad as negligent? I don't think he'll appreciate me calling him negligent."

"Absentee?"

"Hmm, but he wasn't exactly absent, just not present."

"That's absent."

She sighed loudly and shoved the page away. "Okay, what is it?"

"You're not gonna, you know, catch feelings for Enrique, are you? The fake dating trope's popular for a reason and you know Enrique's really good at making people feel special—"

"You don't have to worry about Enrique. His charm doesn't work on me. I know him too well and I'm not attracted to him. I love the guy, but not like that. Going to prom with him, as his friend, knowing there's no pressure for anything more is safe. I don't have to go on my own and there's no awkward feelings."

Ian stared at her for a long moment, trying to determine if she was lying to herself but he didn't sense anything more, so he relented with a nod and a warning. "Just be careful."

"I will. So, when I get back on the team, you'll stop being nice to me, right?"

"Obviously."

"Pass the ketchup."

Kai pushed the bottle into Luca's hand and grimaced as he dumped half the condiment onto his breakfast, consisting of four links of sausages, two eggs, two slices of toast, and a heaping pile of mushrooms. While cooked as healthily as possible, Kai's stomach churned at the sight. From the bemused expression of the others at the table, he gathered they were in much the same boat.

The Pool Crew had woken early, considering they hadn't gone out with Blue Team the night before, and with no early morning practice because of their game later, the boys had traipsed down to the dining hall to take advantage of the quiet. Now they sat together around a long walnut table and tried not to think too hard about their upcoming game.

Except Kai couldn't not think about it, even as he forced himself to take another bite of his less than appetising oatmeal. The game was scheduled for later that afternoon. They needed to play offensively and defensively strong. Red Team would take advantage of any mistakes and punish Grey Team for them. After all, this was a grudge match.

Red Team were ahead by two points: Grey needed at least two goals if they wanted their chance to take on Blue Team.

It wasn't impossible. They just needed to stop Red scoring—easier said than done, since Red were out to prove they belonged at the top and had the right to play Blue Team.

And Grey Team would rise to the challenge.

He hoped.

Looking around the table, he wasn't sure if he believed that. Nervous tension radiated around the table. Graham hadn't eaten a thing, his expression chalky and pale as he hunched in on himself miserably. Remi kept tapping his fingers against the table and Raul poked at his food, listlessly lifting a forkful to his mouth and chewing methodically. Mathias had arranged the yoghurt tubs into a variety of shapes throughout breakfast and they currently formed a pyramid in the middle of the table.

Kai seized the top one, ignoring Mathias's glare, to set it in front of Graham with a plain slice of toast.

"Try that."

"I'm not hungry."

"You can't play on an empty stomach. Start with that, stimulate your appetite and then see how you feel."

Graham wrinkled his nose but he lifted the slice of toast and nibbled on the corner.

"So how was dinner with Blue Team, Luca?"

Luca tore his attention away from his food to glance at Landon, then shook his head. "It was fine. We went for meal, Blue Team's treat." He muffled a yawn in the crook of his elbow and blinked tears from his eyes before continuing, "Thought you would have shown your face, Landon, networking opportunity like that. Miles spent the whole time up Alexey's ass and then Dean showed up with Red Team, so I left."

"You should have come to the Pool Hall with us."

Luca wrinkled his nose at Raul. "Why would I do that? Do you all think that by being friends you'll achieve something? This is an evaluation camp. You're evaluated on how well you play. We're all competing against each other not just against Red and Yellow."

"Hockey is a team sport," Mathias drawled, rearranging the yoghurt once more.

"I'll play with you on the ice. I have no problem doing that. But this—" he gestured with his fork to the table "—is redundant now. I'm not here to make anyone look better than me. It's nothing personal, but I've got my own ambitions."

"What, so now we're facing Red Team, it's every player for themselves?" Remi asked.

"It's always been so. Braxton will be watching, deciding which of us is good enough to play on his Blue Team. Even Blue Team watch us, wondering which of us will steal their spot."

Kai caught Raul's concerned look and jerked a shoulder. Some of the guys would never warm to the team mentality. They were too focused on the end goal and he couldn't blame them. He'd been much the same at one point and one week wouldn't change that mindset. Still, Luca might talk about being an island, yet here he sat without Conrad or Miles, something that wouldn't have occurred at the start of camp. They'd forged something here.

It would have to be enough for the game against Red Team.

As if summoned, Dean Masters entered, yawning widely and rubbing a hand over his hair. Carson Gregg and Emery Jones wandered in behind him.

Spying Grey Team, Carson nudged Dean and they changed direction to approach with Emery following at a slower pace. Kai focused on his breakfast, trying to eat as much as possible before he completely lost his appetite.

Raul pushed his plate away with a grimace while Mathias nudged Landon and rearranged his yoghurt rhombus into a wall.

Landon spread some jelly on his toast. "Don't let him get to you."

Clive looked around the table. "You talking to yourself or us?"

"Both."

Remi leaned back in his seat, hands clasped on his stomach. "Masters, to what do we owe the displeasure of your company so early?"

Dean stopped before them, a smarmy smile wrinkling at the corners of his mouth. Carson situated himself in front of the window so that the rising sun lit up his hair like a demonic halo. Mathias quickly snapped a picture and Kai ducked his head, gamely swallowing a smirk. Finally, Emery stopped just short of the table, cat-like eyes darting between the two groups.

"Good morning, boys," Dean said, bracing his hands on the back of an empty chair. "I just wanted to check in with you all, on your last morning as Grey Team. I assume you know that we won our match last night? All thanks to Emery's hat trick, a chip off the old block." He grinned at Raul, a pointed reminder of his own hat trick during their first match and Raul grimaced. "Anyway, I didn't see you out at the Blue Team meal last night, so wasn't sure if you got the memo."

"We know."

"Oh? Good. So, what happened last night, didn't Alexey invite you?"

"You know he did," Landon said, meeting Dean's gaze squarely.

"And yet you didn't go? That's rude. You missed a fantastic night, by the way. We all learnt a lot, didn't we, boys?"

"Mmhmm. Everyone's so social on a night out," Carson said with a tinge of smugness that made Kai's hair stand on air—there was an underlying meaning to this conversation but he couldn't translate it yet. Once Dean was gone, he'd examine it closer.

"Well, it can't be helped now. I suppose if you aren't expecting to stick around after today, and you won't be here in the summer, there's no point networking when it won't go anywhere." He patted Luca's shoulder as he turned to leave and swiped his hand back when a fork stabbed dangerously close. "Oh, yeah, tell Miles we were asking for him. He's a great guy. Real team player."

Clearly uncomfortable, Emery shuffled his feet. "Come on, man, let's eat."

Sensing the power play was ending, Kai pulled out his phone to scroll through the morning chat from his team regarding their day in Galway, skimming the pictures of cobbled stone streets and a canal with swans.

"Yeah, listen to the kid. Go eat. You're talking bullshit right now," Remi said.

And that extended it. Kai sighed, looking up from his phone.

A muscle ticked in Dean's cheek even as he kept that smile firmly in place. "Look, you guys have put up a good fight but, let's be honest, this is the end. Everyone knows that this camp is a formality. I appreciate the hard work you've put in but don't ply yourselves with false hope. You can't beat us: we've got more points than you do—"

Mathias stood up abruptly and began to collect his dishes. "Okay, this was fun. I'll catch you guys later."

He stalked off, Landon behind him, quickly joined by Clive, who at least murmured some semblance of a farewell.

Dean watched them leave, lips thinning, eyes darting to those left at the table.

"I'm not the villain here," he told them. "I'm giving you a dose of reality. You won't win this match, but, like I said, you can network and get something out of this camp if you're smart about it. From what I've seen you've all wasted your time here sticking to your little clique and not branching out. Last night was the perfect opportunity, and you squandered it." He inhaled and then shook his head. "Whatever, maybe you'll learn if you ever get invited back."

With that, Dean stalked off to join the rest of the gathered Red Team leaving the remnants of Grey Team simmering behind him. Kai tucked his tongue into his molar and felt the silence drape over them like a heavy blanket in summer, stifling and uncomfortable. Was Dean right? Had they squandered an opportunity by cleaving together? It had seemed right at the time but now… maybe they had wasted the potential of camp.

Luca had said it, this was an evaluation camp. They were all here to compete, not help each other out of the goodness of their hearts…

"I want a fucking shut out," Raul said, clenching his butter knife in a white knuckle grip, eyes glued to Dean's retreating back. "Score as much as you want but I'm shutting him, and his formality of a team, down."

"That's the spirit!" Remi said, slapping Raul on the shoulder.

Graham pushed away from the table, pocketing a cereal bar and an apple, and lifted his tray. "I'm in. We get two goals and that shut out, and we take on Blue. Prove that this wasn't a formality and we did learn something."

Kai took his own tray and followed the boys to the trolley by the door. "Maybe this camp isn't turning out to be the formality he thought it was."

Luca smirked. "He did sound a little desperate, didn't he?"

Kai snorted and his shoulders slumped in relief. Yes, Dean had sounded desperate and his little mind fuck had almost slipped under Kai's defences. Maybe they had squandered some opportunities, but they'd also formed a team capable of holding their own against Red Team. They were two points behind the camp favourites, that didn't seem like much of a formality to him.

"What do you think he meant about Miles? Do you think Miles fed them information? As a way to network?"

Luca shook his head at Graham's question. "Miles is a prick, yes. Maybe he spoke about our team, but what would he pass on? He does not know plays, he does not know team secrets. He spent yesterday saying Hiwatari stole his spot, that is not news. I took Kevin's place on the second line and no one cares. That is hockey. Besides, that would only hurt his chances. Braxton won't want a blabbermouth on the team. So no, more lies from Dean, I think."

"He does think he can manipulate people. Sowing seeds of discontent is his MO," Raul said. "He made last night sound fun, though. Maybe we should have gone."

Luca's expression turned troubled. "Yes. Might have been mistake to leave early."

"Only if you like singing."

They stopped in the empty hall to face Graham who swallowed his cereal bar and said, "Well, unless you were looking for an epic night of karaoke, you made the right choice staying here." At their blank stares, Graham sighed. "I told you, my cousin plays on Blue Team. All night outs with Blue Team end up with them either going to a bar or to Alexey's room to sing karaoke; he's a big fan and has a machine in his dorm."

Kai felt his soul wither and flee the building, viciously glad that he'd gone with Raul to play pool.

With a faint smile, Graham asked, "Sure you still want to join Blue Team?"

"Now I know why Garland came to the Pool Hall," Remi muttered.

Raul shot Kai a wicked grin. "You could have sung the balloon song!"

"Not happening. Now let's go, we've got videos to review with Antonio."

Time slipped like grains of sand through Brooklyn's fingers as he followed Mystel and Moses into the small ice cream parlour on Main Street. It was a treat, Mystel had claimed as they'd finished up at the gym—there was only so much exercise they could do at the lake house. Brooklyn figured it was just another way to avoid thoughts about returning to Clonmel.

Still, he thought as he paid for his drink and followed Moses outside while Mystel continued to browse the menu above the counter, it wasn't the worst way to spend a Friday afternoon.

It was almost normal. The kind of thing Brooklyn imagined most of his peers engaged in if they didn't have a tyrannical coach dictating their every move. So, Brooklyn was determined to enjoy it.

The small town, adjacent to the lake area where they were staying for the week, hummed with activity. Staff in prim uniforms cleared off the tables outside their cafes, while customers perused the shop fronts, stepping in and out of the stifling heat that continued to rise as the day reached its zenith. Kids milled around the arcade, with its bright lights and cheerful sounds, carrying tokens and slurping up rapidly melting ice pops.

It was nice.

Moses grabbed them a small metal table under the blue and white awning. Brooklyn slid into the empty seat across from him, his back to the shop so he could continue to people-watch deep within the shadows. Taking a sip from his juice, he made a face: too much ginger, but he'd drank worse, and with fewer health benefits, so he could suck it up. At least that would be one less thing for Balkov to harass him about; he hadn't strayed from his nutrition plan—much.

He wasn't dreading his return to Clonmel so much as resigned to his fate. He doubted Balkov was overjoyed by their impromptu trip, but it did surprise him that Balkov hadn't demanded his return. Silence from the old man rarely boded well. Even his mother had reached out to ask if he was looking after himself. Her polite code for: Are you still taking your meds? Not like Brooklyn would ever tell her if he stopped, but for the moment they performed as required, so he continued to refill his prescription every month.

Though, admittedly, his brief stint with alcoholism hadn't helped. His body still showed the effects of it. Stupid really. He knew better than to use any kind of substance as a crutch.

A car honked as a truck pulled out in front of it and Brooklyn watched, waiting to see if there would be any repercussions, but the truck driver waved a tanned hand out the window and both vehicles continued down the sun-bleached street. Drama averted.

"Did Mystel get lost?" Moses asked, breaking the silence, but didn't look up from his book, his long dark fingers splayed against the yellow paper as he devoured the finely printed words.

"No, he's still deciding on what he wants to order. He'll probably be a while. Apparently, there are three new flavours since his last trip here."

Moses nodded and sank back into his book again, turning a page every so often.

Brooklyn had never taken Moses for a reader. Not that he'd ever really thought about Moses. Before this trip, Moses only appeared on his radar when they were on the ice and, even then, it was on the peripheral: counting on him to provide defence while Brooklyn got the puck in the net.

Outside of the team, Moses was Mystel's friend, but Moses hadn't griped when Mystel invited Brooklyn on their trip, and he'd done nothing to make Brooklyn feel unwelcome. In fact, Moses accompanied Brooklyn on most of his activities at the lake house: it was Moses who rose at the crack of dawn to follow Brooklyn out to Dover Hill; it was Moses who came down to the lake to swim endless laps and laze about after; it was Moses who offered him breakfast after they were done showering.

Not to say that Mystel had been absent, but Mystel kept different hours. If he stayed up late, he slept in. He treated the week like the holiday it was. Brooklyn couldn't do that. As Balkov pointed out, Brooklyn had wasted enough days in the past few weeks. Now he had to play catch up, and that meant waking with the birds and putting his body through rigorous exercises.

After all, his actions deprived him of the chance to attend the Braxton clinic, and Garland went in his stead.

That was a bitter pill to swallow, but one he'd done without any alcoholic chasers.

Birds flew overhead and came to land in a crowd on a wire that crossed over the street above the traffic lights, like a small avian audience to his reflections.

Funnily, once he'd accepted his loss, he'd been relieved. A year ago he might have raged, might have blamed everyone but himself, and probably tossed a few accusations as to why Garland made the cut.

Now… well, now he had to re-examine what his future held. For his entire life, hockey helped him escape his problems. When his parents poked and prodded, when everyone's expectations threatened to crush him, he went to the arena. It was home and a hideaway combined. On the ice, he was the best. He didn't have to exert effort to naturally dominate others, he outshone them all. Then he joined the Sharks, and slowly the joy seeped from him—sucked away by Balkov.

The man used hockey like a ball and chain around his limbs and made Brooklyn consider quitting more than once.

What would happen if he gave it up?

It was a heady thought, popping into his head while he drank away his sorrows until Balkov called him to his office and explained the consequences of failing an alcohol or drug test. Not a slap on the wrist, or getting cut from the team, no Balkov would push for expulsion. Brooklyn would return to his parents where they'd try to treat him, to fix him, to make him less… broken was the term his father once used.

And that fate, in the cold light of the office, with its pristine white walls littered with Balkov's accomplishments and some waxy potted plant, while Balkov paced behind him—a caged monster coated in civility—had scared the rebellious notion of quitting out of him.

Because hockey was still his lifeline, if not his passion. The next team, the next opportunity enabled him to step further out of his parents' grasp. Hockey always offered an escape, whether that was in the barn, at the gym, or on the road for a week away with his teammates.

So he needed to keep his head down, keep playing until the summer started—get noticed, or die trying—and get out.

Simple.

Across from him, Moses sighed and closed the book firmly. "Should have seen that coming."

Brooklyn shook away the melancholy, made a sound of inquiry and took another drink, gamely swallowing the spicy concoction. "What are you reading?"

Moses held up the book with its dull green cover. "Animal Farm. I finally finished it. Guessed the ending. Thought it would be better."

"Is that for class?"

Brooklyn knew he'd been… absent the past few weeks, but he knew the curriculum, and Animal Farm was not on it.

"No. This is for my reading challenge. I'm trying to read the classics. I want to examine their views on society at that time and understand if anything has really changed. I read Frankenstein last month, Jekyll and Hyde the month before, and Dracula before that. After Frankenstein, I wanted something uplifting."

"So you chose Animal Farm?"

"It sounded better. Have you read it?"

"For class in sophomore year."

"Then you know the story? How it ends?"

Brooklyn rolled his shoulders, settling deeper into his chair, and clasping his fingers around the see-through plastic cup adorned with his name in neat green script.

"It's been a while, and I mostly skimmed." At that point in his life, he'd discovered how to do the bare minimum while still achieving the necessary output to get good grades. "I remember thinking it was depressing."

"It is. Not simply the story itself, but, also, how it resonates today. It feels like the farther we come the more we stay the same, because we shift those mindsets elsewhere. For example, Napoleon, the pig, is obviously based on Napoleon Bonaparte—you should never trust anyone named after a tyrant—"

"Ah well, I suppose we can safely trust you. Named after such an iconic saviour of the people."

Moses grinned, teeth flashing white against his dark brown skin, as he leaned forward warming to his topic. "If you need to part a sea I'm your guy. But back to the book: you have Napoleon, a bit of a cowardly pig, who rises to power on the same path as another pig who's heroic in battle, who Napoleon denounces as a war criminal. The other pig runs away and Napoleon becomes the leader. Plenty of political and historical inspiration there. And, like in all great moments in history, Napoleon's rise isn't achieved by his actions alone, but with the aid of the populace, whether they mean to or not, and that leads them to their fate. They're the ones I sympathise with, but also find so frustrating.

"The other animals brought their plight on themselves," he said, pressing a finger against the cover of the book. "And I understand they're not as learned so they blindly trust their leader has their best interests at heart, but when has anyone in a position of power cared for those beneath them?"

Brooklyn couldn't disagree with that. He'd studied enough history in his life to agree with Moses's point. Still, something about the words, the underlying message, made his stomach tighten, and he finished up his juice, checking over his shoulder for Mystel.

"It's the complacency that does it every single time," Moses continued, voice throbbing with frustration. "They went from the frying pan into the fire, because they stood back and did nothing. No one wanted to rock the boat so they allowed things to change because at the start it didn't affect them, and when it did it was too late.

"And that still happens every day. It's like we, as a people, never progress—we just continue the cycle."

"Maybe it's because we realise the futility of trying to stand up against a system that's designed to keep us down," Brooklyn said, picking at the label on the side of the plastic cup.

Moses absorbed those words, a line appearing across his brow as he frowned. "Maybe. Yeah, maybe. I just—"

They both jolted as Mystel dropped into the vacant chair at their table, his eyes bouncing between them. "What's up with you two? I leave you for a few minutes and it's like I've interrupted the most awkward date ever."

"We were discussing a book," Brooklyn said. "Where were you? Did you get lost between the counter and the door?"

Mystel brushed his braid over his shoulder and lifted his cup, filled with pink liquid, to his lips for a swallow, before setting it back down. "I ran into my old babysitter and her wife inside. They're expecting a baby soon, so I thought I'd give them some name suggestions with mine being the only choice. It's a criminally underutilised name. They weren't keen on it, but I think I can talk them around. I know it's a big name to live up to, but I have faith in their kid."

Brooklyn's gaze dropped to the sloppy green scrawl up the side of Mystel's cup and amusement bubbled. "Hmm, yeah, Myrtle would be a good name for a kid."

Mystel grimaced, brow crinkling in confusion. "What?"

"Your name," Brooklyn said, "Myrtle."

"No…?"

Moses choked, head dropping to the cool metal of the table as his trembling shoulders shook the surface.

Brooklyn's lips quivered, but he kept his expression straight. "Mm, says Myrtle."

Mystel stared down at his glass, lips mouthing the name, before his head snapped up to glower at the counter beyond the glass front of the cafe. "What the hell?! How'd they hear Myrtle? It's a completely different sound! Mys-tel! Myr-tle. Completely different."

Moses threw his head back and laughed loud enough to attract attention from across the street. Brooklyn rolled his lips together, swallowing his own humour at Mystel's indignation. Eventually, it quelled as Mystel huffed in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, sliding Brooklyn a dark look.

"You're never going to let this die, are you?"

"No, no, I'm not, Myrtle. I don't make the rules. No wonder your babysitter wasn't keen when you kept saying Myrtle wrong."

"Okay, fine." Mystel sniffed and took a greedy drink of his smoothie. "You'll get bored of it before I do."

"I'm sure I won't. Myrtle."

Moses tucked his head down, fingers against his lips, eyes bright with laughter.

"I hate you both," Mystel declared, then reached over to pick up the discarded book. "Animal Farm? Is this for class?"

"No." Brooklyn snorted. "That's Moses's light reading."

"Do either of you know what you're supposed to read for class?"

"It's Hamlet this semester, right?"

Brooklyn shrugged at Mystel's question. He didn't know. Most of the time before spring break was a blur—besides, he usually didn't need to read a book to write a good essay.

"Yes," Moses said. "Did you read it?"

"Not yet. There's weeks left."

"Mystel, we've a paper due next Friday."

"That's still a week away. Have you read it yet?" Mystel asked Brooklyn.

"I'll get the cliff notes. There's a ghost and a political conspiracy, and lots of people die." He knew that much from general osmosis.

"I've got a better idea," Mystel suggested, getting to his feet. "Let's grab some snacks—they can be healthy ones for you Brook-lyn—Lynn! Yes, okay, so you can get healthy snacks Lynn, and we can watch some Lion King, which is Disney-fied Hamlet with cute lion cubs and catchy songs. And Moses, since you've read the book, you can fill in the Shakespeare gaps."

Moses got to his feet as well, squashing his ice cream cup for the trash. "I feel like we're being used," he said, gesturing to himself and Brooklyn.

Mystel scoffed. "We're friends, that's how friendship works. We all bring something to the table, and I'm bringing snacks. So tell me about the Shakespeare version of The Lion King."

"Well, for one thing, the Lion King has a happy ending, probably because he had people who stood with him, supported him and weren't complacent, and he, in turn, was a good leader because of that support. You know, I'm sensing a theme with these stories. Many of them would have happier endings if people were nicer to each other and offered support."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about, but you can support me in getting snacks to watch The Lion King, and then we can support Broo—Lynn in making sure our essays make sense and have some of his natural pizazz. I really need an A."

Brooklyn dumped his own cup in the trash and fell into step behind Moses and Mystel as they travelled down Main Street past the arcade with its pings and cheerful music.

Even with their return to Clonmel looming on the horizon, and Balkov's wrath to face, Brooklyn didn't regret his time at the lake house. These moments, with these people, might get him through the rest of this year, and for the first time in his life, it was a shock to realise he had something other than hockey to depend on.

A.N Shorter chapter this time but I have the rest written, I'll just be updating in parts. It's easier for me, I figure it's easier for you guys too. I'm currently working full time, studying a BSc in my downtime, and I don't have the mental capacity to edit through 20,000-30,000 words for every chapter, 5-8k is much easier for me now.

I'm also cross-posting this now on AO3 because the fanfiction site had a break in September where it wasn't sending email alerts, (by the way you have to opt in for emails now every 60-90 days and it was universally turned off for everyone, rather than an opt-out option) and they still haven't fixed the stats page completely yet. So that delayed updating because stats telling writers if anyone is reading is kind of vital to keep us going. So I wanted to post some of SLTS over to AO3 just in case this site ever disappeared.

So hopefully there are still some readers left and as always reviews keep me coming back to this story! Even if it's just something as simple as a keyboard smash or emoji to let me know someone's reading.