"I didn't know."
"Didn't know what? Have you ever heard of privacy? Some things aren't part of your research project."
"That's not—" He stopped, took a breath, and tried again. "I wasn't researching anything. I was only looking around and saw them, and I..." His voice trailed off.
I turned to face him fully, and something in my expression made him take a half-step back. Maybe now he'd understand that this wasn't some friendly bed-and-breakfast where the host was happy to share his life story over coffee and blueberry muffins.
"Let me make something clear. I don't care about your research or its importance to the university. This is my home." I stepped closer. "Touch my things again without asking, and you can find somewhere else to sleep."
Eric nodded, his face pale. "I understand. I won't—"
"Good." I started walking again, aiming for the shed where I could lose myself in the mindless work of sorting tackle that didn't need sorting.
Eric was persistent. He followed me. "You were good, weren't you?"
I stopped walking but didn't turn around. "What?"
"Hockey. You were really good."
I turned and studied his face in the gray gloom. His expression had changed. It was more serious.
"Why do you care?"
He waited, composing his thoughts. His voice was so low I had to strain to hear it when he spoke.
"My best friend Ziggy—he plays college hockey now. University of Maine." Eric glanced at me, then away again. "He's excellent, but sometimes he gets this expression when he talks about it like he's carrying something heavy that he can't put down."
I said nothing, but a lump formed in my throat.
"And my dad, he was a football player in high school. He could have played in college, but he chose the fire department instead. He never talks about it, but sometimes I catch him watching games on TV with this expression..." He shrugged. "I don't know. It's like he's watching a life he might have had."
The fog thickened. Eric was becoming less solid, like a voice speaking from the mist.
"I'm not them."
"I know, but you kept the skates."
I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that the skates didn't mean anything, and I'd just never gotten around to throwing them away. The words wouldn't come.
"They're only skates." I knew how unconvincing that sounded.
Eric tilted his head. "Are they?"
"I don't owe you my history." This time, I did turn away, and I headed for the shed with deliberate steps that dared him to follow.
He didn't. When I reached for the door handle, his voice drifted through the fog one more time, soft and certain.
"No. You don't owe me anything, but maybe you owe yourself something."
The shed door closed behind me with a soft click, muffling the sound of the sea, the fog, and Eric's voice. The familiar smells of rope, oil, and tools didn't make me feel safe like usual.
A faded Ironhook Rink poster curled on the shed wall. I'd looked past it for years, and now it stood out like the letters were in flashing neon.
I'd been exposed. It was like someone had opened a window I'd thought was sealed shut. I turned back to the netting, hands suddenly clumsy on the rope.
People don't keep broken things unless they matter.
Maybe you owe yourself something.
