"You're late," I say, dropping my duffel and glancing at my watch.
"Two minutes," I tell my phone, which is buzzing with texts and strangers walking past with coffee and suitcases. I don't mean it to be dramatic. I mean it in the way people mean it when they expect someone who knows better to not mess up something small and sacred.
"Where are you?" my mom texts. "Do not let anyone carry those pastries."
"I won't," I type back and then change Gunnar's name in my phone to "stinky-unreliable" because that is what you do when the person who once saved your cat forgets to save your arrival window.
"Eliza Horn, Terminal B," I tell the taxi driver without looking up. He nods like he knows who I am, like everyone knows my name because my last interview popped up in his feed this morning.
"Big fan, huh?" he says.
"Ask me about my skates, not my social life," I say.
"Right, right. So, where to?"
"Home base. StreamWave. Drop me by the bakery first."
He gives me a sideways look. "Long day?"
"Long week," I say. I lift the phone and show him Gunnar's renamed contact. "He's bringing peach pastries. Important ritual."
The driver snorts. "You two are trouble."
I smile, which gets me nothing and everything. My feed pings. Fans, teammates, people who follow the skating club's Livestream, all asking about my return. My face goes public before my
