by Julie Cross
I chew the sandwich slowly, counting in my head. So far, so good. Longmeadow is only a couple of miles from Ricky’s club, so we’re at the rink in no time.
“You sure we can get away with this?” I ask. “I still have to play these guys this season.”
“You’ll be fine,” Leo promises.
It’s after midnight so I’m pretty tired, but I can’t pass up the chance for some more defensive help. Especially knowing that Leo and Jamie are taking off tomorrow. My bag is sitting in the back of Leo’s truck. I grab it, but Jamie tells me that I won’t need to suit up all the way.
“The goal is for you to outskate your larger counterparts. You don’t need to take any hits tonight.”
The rink is only half lit when we walk through a back entrance. But there are a few people on the ice. People I recognize right away. Tate Tanley, who is suited up in goalie gear, Claire O’Connor, Mike Steller—also in full goalie pads—and Haley. Gramp’s sandwiches churn in my stomach. I shouldn’t have eaten two.
Since the bathroom drama (that my name miraculously stayed out of), I haven’t sent Haley even so much as a single text, and she hasn’t sent me one, either. In class, we’ve just been polite acquaintances. She must know where I’m at with things. She’s perceptive; she may have guessed.
Mike Steller’s girlfriend, Jessie, is in the penalty box, baby car seat on her lap.
Jamie shoves me from behind. I hadn’t even realized I’d stopped walking.
“Dude, I get it. You like to keep your circle of friends tiny, so I had to improvise so we could play a real game.” He glances over at Claire, who is flipping her helmet around, trying to figure out how to put it on. “Well, sort of a real game.”
Haley’s got a tiny pair of beat-up hockey skates on and a helmet with a mask. Her stick is like half the length of Leo’s. She waves when she sees me. My whole body tenses, even more so when Haley skates over to the wall.
“Hey,” she says, her cheeks pink from the cold. “I’m here strictly on business, I promise.”
“Haley—” I start to say. I owe her some kind of explanation.
She holds her hands up. “It’s all good. We’re all good. Now get your skates on. Jamie promised me a chocolate shake from Benny’s if I played on his team.”
“Wait,” Claire jumps in. “You’re getting a milkshake?”
Jamie rolls his eyes and snatches the helmet from Claire before placing it correctly on her head. “Fine. You get one, too.”
I sit down and lace up my skates while Jamie and Leo give out assignments. I’m having a hard time believing this is a legit game. But I can’t exactly say that without possibly offending Haley and/or Claire.
Jamie takes both girls to his end of the goal with Tate, and it looks like he’s about to attempt passing drills. I shake my head. This is insanely weird.
Leo has me playing defense while he shoots at Mike’s goal. Despite our practice sessions, I’ve never actually gone one-on-one with Leo, not like this, and I’m surprised by how good he is.
“Take it out wider,” Mike suggests. “Whenever you’re behind the net, sweep it out wider. Puts you in a better position to pass to the outsides.” He draws a diagram in the ice using his skate blade.
The next time, I’m able to get around Leo after stealing the puck, and I sweep it behind the net.
“Yeah,” Mike says. “Like that, man! Nice one.”
On the other side of the ice, a puck bounces off the glass and flies toward the penalty box near us. Mike takes off, jumping up in the air like an outfielder instead of a goalie. He snatches the puck in his glove and lands hard on his side. Jessie stands slowly, having ducked at the sight of the flying object.
“Jesus Christ, Isaacs!” Mike shouts. “Are you trying to kill my kid?”
Haley puts her arms on top of her head. “Oh my God, oh my God…I can’t believe I did that. I’m done. I’m a baby killer.” She skates across the ice, twists to a stop in front of the penalty box, and leans over to look. “Andi, I’m so sorry. Are you okay, baby?”
“Haley, damn it,” Mike says. “You’ve got a wild slap shot.”
“I have an idea,” Jessie says, before an argument breaks out. She lifts up the baby car seat. “How about I move to those seats behind the glass wall.”
Mike nods and then hands her a spare glove. “Put this on, would you?”
Jessie gives him a bewildered look but agrees.
“I’m sorry,” Haley says again to Mike.
He finally smiles at her. “Yeah, I know.”
“Can we play now?” Claire says. “I want my milkshake.”
“Like my wingmen?” Jamie asks me when we’re lined up. “See, you’re not gonna check them. This’ll keep you from trying to play enforcer when you’re not. Even better than just having no pads, right?”
Maybe, but how hard is it gonna be for me to steal the puck from Claire or Haley? As if to prove my point, before Claire passes the puck, Tate shouts, “Other way, Claire. Flip your stick over.”
“Oh, right.” She turns her stick and then stares down at it like it’s a foreign object. “Are you sure? I like it better the other way.”
Tate laughs. “I’m pretty sure.”
“Put it however you want,” Haley tells her. “You’re not being graded.”
Sure enough, Claire passes to Haley with the stick backward. I intercept it easily and take a shot from the point. Tate stops it with such ease I’m almost embarrassed.
“Too predictable, man.” Jamie sends the puck back up toward Haley.
She’s flying down the ice—even faster than the day she and I raced—but I catch her and my instincts kick in, and I have to stop myself from attempting to plow her over. Instead, I get in front of her, working on those back crossovers Jamie and Leo have made me do millions of times. Haley fakes left and then sneaks around me, breaking away for the goal. She shoots, but Mike catches it in his glove.
I stand there stunned for several seconds. I look over at Jamie. “Did that just happen?”
“Yeah, we uh, hustled you.” Jamie grins. “She is a little rusty, though. All that cheerleading.”
“Shut up,” Haley snaps.
I refocus, and this time I don’t underestimate my opponent. Well, Claire mostly stays out of the way. Leo gets a goal past Tate, and I come close. Twice.
No one scores on Steller.
“Get low, Fletch!” Mike shouts from his end. “Take it and turn.”
I do what he says, and next thing I know, I’m spinning in a half circle, the puck in my possession, while Jamie is still moving forward, not yet aware of his loss.
“Yes!” Leo shouts. “That was awesome. Exactly what we’ve been talking about.”
Okay, so maybe Leo and Jamie are right. I’m not moving around in as many directions as I should be.
A few minutes later, I try the same move on Haley. It works, but she’s ready for me and quickly turns herself so she can steal the puck again.
“Take it wide,” Mike repeats. “Get it turned around and then move it toward the outsides.”
I steal the puck from Claire a little bit later, and she shouts after me, “At least I can do a sit spin in my skates.”
I try not to laugh and focus on moving past Jamie. When I do, Tate is distracted by Claire—she’s most likely sit spinning in her rental skates—and I take a shot. The hesitation on Tate’s part is enough to let the goal in.
Leo jumps up and cheers like this was done under normal conditions.
“Tanley, what the hell?” Jamie says. “This is why we don’t let our girlfriends play hockey.”
I’m high from my goal, regardless of the circumstances. Claire finishes her decent-looking sit spin and does a little curtsy after. “Fletch paid me to throw the game.”
“That was Steller,” I accuse. I glance at Claire and say, “Watch this.”
I skate backward in her direction and throw a double jump. I don’t know my axels from sal cows or whatever, but I spend a lot of tim
e on Grandpa’s lake in the winter trying shit like this. Always in hockey skates. I land on one skate, but I have to put the other one down right away to get my balance.
“Dude, what the hell was that?” Jamie says.
I shrug. “Don’t know. A jump-spin thing.”
“I think it was a double axel,” Claire suggests. “Maybe not because you didn’t face forward first…I don’t know. Do it again.”
I shake my head. “Just when I score a goal.”
“Which means we might never see it a second time,” Claire retorts, then she quickly realizes what she just said. “No, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“You don’t take back your trash talk, Claire,” Tate says.
“We don’t trash talk in theater,” she explains to me. “It’s all about saying something super nice and then jinxing them. Like ‘You’re going to be so great, I’m sure you’ll hit all the big notes.’”
“Nasty,” Jamie says, shaking his head.
“All right, next goal wins,” Mike says. “My baby is awake at two in the morning. She’s gonna revert back to up all night, and we just got that shit figured out. Mostly.”
“I rode with Mike,” Haley says. “I leave when they leave.”
“Okay,” Jamie agrees. “Last goal.”
It takes ten minutes for Leo to score on Tate. I think Claire distracted him again. Either that, or later activities with Claire motivated him to get the game over with quick.
Before Mike takes off, he says to me, “Bakowski is a dumb-ass if he doesn’t use you more this season. And we all know he’s not an idiot. So, I’d say your chances are looking good.”
I’m pretty much stunned by this, so all I can do is mumble thanks. Haley is quick to grab Jessie and race out the door, maybe to avoid an awkward good-bye with me. That weight presses down on me again, watching her leave. We only have a week of class left. Will I run into her much after that?
The baby worms around and fusses from her car seat. Mike quickly unbuckles her and holds her in one arm, the baby seat in the other. Andi snuggles against Mike’s shoulder, her fist in her mouth, drool running down her chin. Her blue eyes are wide open, staring at me and Jamie. A red rash around her mouth, chin, and cheeks catches my attention.
“She’s got hives or a rash or something?” I tell Mike.
“Yeah, I know.” He sighs. “She’s had it on and off since she was a few weeks old. The winter was terrible. Her doctor said it’s eczema.”
It takes me a second to shut off the panic that comes at the sight of hives. For me, it’s almost always sudden and emergency related. This is different, but still not something I’m unfamiliar with. I’ve practically become a dissertation of food-allergy knowledge. My mom is capable of writing an actual doctrine on the subject, and she has zero medical degrees or certificates. The diaper bag and can of formula flash in my head.
“Dairy can cause eczema,” I say, despite a large part of my brain protesting this out-of-character information sharing.
Mike looks at me, his forehead wrinkling. “Well, she’s barely started on baby food, so she hasn’t had dairy…”
“It can be passed through breast milk.” Did I just bring up breast milk to Mike Steller? “And regular formula is dairy based.”
“No shit?” Mike says, surprised. “Jessie asked the doctor like a dozen times if it was anything she was eating. I thought Jessie was nuts but…huh. Okay then.”
“General practitioners aren’t usually great with food reactions. They treat symptoms mostly and rarely dig for the cause.” I know this all too well.
“It got so bad they put her on steroids for a while,” Mike says. “Have you ever seen a baby juiced up on steroids? It’s like we put a double espresso in her bottle.”
Jamie is watching this exchange a little too closely. I shift around, uncomfortable with the topic, and Mike takes the hint.
“Thanks, man. I’m gonna look into that dairy shit.” He gives me a nod. “Good luck this season.”
He’s whispering something to Andi on his way out the door, words I can’t understand, but whatever he says, she seems to relax against him more, her eyes fluttering shut.
I’m still staring after them when Jamie says in a low, hesitant voice, “That’s your bully, Fletch.”
I snap around to face him. “What?”
“That’s who nearly killed you on the bus in grade school.”
“No way.” I’m shaking my head, but I don’t know why.
“You wanted to know, so I’m telling you.” Jamie gives me a shove from behind. “Go on, go kick his ass. I bet he’s not even to the car yet. Then it’ll take a minute to get the baby all strapped in…go on! Now’s your chance to get revenge.”
My mouth falls open. No words exit. I look at Jamie and then back at the propped-open door. But I don’t go anywhere. My feet stay rooted to their spot.
Chapter Thirty-Two
–Haley–
I thought this late-night activity was a terrible idea, and then it turned out okay and actually fun. But now I’m mourning its loss, reminding me why it was such a bad idea.
I’m smashed in the front seat of Mike’s SUV between him and Jessie. Tate, Claire, and Andi are in the back. Probably, my vacant stare and glazed-over eyes are cause for concern, but I’m not the only one silent and staring out a window at nothing on the drive back into town.
Mike is beside me—Jessie’s driving—and he’s leaning against the window, looking pensive. I’ve never had a good enough reason to use the word “pensive” until right now. Obviously, I’m going to assume his state of mind is due to Jamie and Leo leaving town, going off the play college hockey and become something Mike himself was set up to become. I feel a pang of regret for him, and then allow myself to sink back into my own confusion and pensiveness. But then Mike says something totally out of left field.
“I don’t care if Andi plays hockey or not,” he says.
“She has long fingers,” Claire points out. “I think you could have a musician on your hands.”
Mike shakes his head. “I don’t care if she’s good at anything. I just want her to be the nice kid, you know? The one who likes everyone, no matter what. I don’t ever want to worry about her hurting someone else.”
“So basically,” Tate says, trying to make light of the grim mood in the car, “you want us to tell you if your kid is giving people shit.”
Mike points a finger at him. “Yes.”
“Consider it done.”
“Think about it,” Mike says. “All these competitive sports, competitive-whatever shit we worship in our town…don’t you think it’s making us into monsters? How many of us in this car were pushed into something as a kid—sports, or music, or dance…?”
Everyone but Jessie lifts a hand.
“See?” Mike sits up, his face more animated and less blank. “And who in this car considered themselves the nice kid in school?”
“Define nice,” Claire says.
I’m racking my brain, trying to answer honestly. I did have all those nice-girl comments on my reports over the years, but I was a competitive trash-talker on the athletic fields, and don’t even get me started on the manipulation and backstabbing involved with Juniper Falls Princess nominations…
“Not jealous or vindictive, not wishing someone would keel over dead so you could have their spot.” Mike swallows and shakes his head. “Not wanting to give someone shit just to prove you have power over some aspect of your life.”
“I would raise my hand, but I had too many ‘let’s bash the stupid people’ sessions with Jody,” Claire admits. “We were pretty tactless and judgmental, though rarely to anyone’s face.”
“I’d raise my hand, but too many fights over the last year would disprove that,” Tate says.
I shake my head. “I’m out, too.”
“Me, too,” Mike says, quietly. “And that leaves…”
“Jessie,” we all say in unison.
“You were totally the nice gir
l,” Claire says.
Jessie smiles but keeps her eyes on the road. Mike reaches across me and gives her thigh a squeeze. I immediately feel in the way.
“She got my angry ass to mellow out,” Mike admits. “And she didn’t get to play hockey or anything like the rest of us. No one breathing down her neck to play better, no one beating the shit out of her when she didn’t meet expectations.”
“Well, the limits of trailer-park life do have their positives,” Jessie jokes. But I can tell by her wistful tone that she may have enjoyed a bit of that parent-breathing-down-her-neck stuff.
“Hey,” Mike says to her. “I’m not saying your shit life didn’t suck, but it did make you awesome, and that’s all I’m sayin’.”
“I know.” She flashes him another smile.
“We can’t go back and undo shit,” Mike adds. “All we can do is make sure that our kids are never like that.”
Silence falls over the car, and I grow more and more down. About me, about Fletch, about the pieces of my life that feel incomplete and undefined.
When we drive past city limits, Claire tugs on a strand of my hair. “Your parents are still gone, right?” I nod. “Want to stay over at my apartment?”
I turn around to look between Claire and Tate. Tate’s mouth opens, possibly in protest. I shake my head. “I don’t want to interfere—”
“It’s fine,” Claire says, throwing Tate a look.
“It’s fine,” he repeats.
I laugh. “You guys are such bad liars.”
“I need a girls’ night,” Claire says. “He’s got me hanging out with jocks all the time, playing hockey, I mean what’s next? Scratching my balls?”
Tate bursts out laughing. “You did not just say that.”
“Come on, Haley, please,” Claire says.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll stay over.” I glance at Tate. “Just note that I did turn down the offer initially.”
“Noted,” he says, giving Claire that I-would-have-made-it-all-worthwhile look.