Breaking the Ice (Juniper Falls)

by Julie Cross

  I shift closer until Fletch lifts me off the floor and onto his lap. “If you’re going to tell me that you can’t take credit for any of that, save it. You get all the credit.”

  He laughs, his breath tickling my neck. “I’ve learned my lesson regarding that topic.”

  “Also…just so you know…” I tangle my fingers in the back of his hair and comb through it. “If that happens again, I don’t plan on running away this time.”

  Fletch laughs. “If?”

  I smile at that, at the confidence in his voice. Then I kiss him again. “Whatever happens, I don’t plan on running away.”

  He cups my face in his hands. “Me, either.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise,” he repeats with a nod.

  And because Fletch has always offered me his most honest responses, I believe him.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  –Fletcher–

  I set a steaming bowl in front of Haley and then grab the second bowl for myself. I slide into the seat beside her on my living room couch and watch her carefully.

  After spending a couple of hours at her place, we were both starving. I suggested coming here—where else is it safe for me to eat?—but worried about the abrupt change in location ruining the mood. But Haley looks perfectly content. And perfectly gorgeous wrapped up in one of my sweatshirts, her hair tangled from us…well, being tangled together.

  She leans forward, sniffs the bowl, and then looks up at me. “Where’s the brown sugar? I can’t eat oatmeal without at least five cups of brown sugar.”

  I grin at that. I believe it, too. “Just try it.”

  “Fine.” She lifts her spoon to her lips, takes a bite, chews slowly, and then nods her approval. “Okay, so let’s talk contract terms.”

  My spoon hovers above the bowl, pausing its movement. “What contract?”

  “The contract. Of our relationship terms. Your list of Hard Nos and—”

  “Hard Yeses?” I suggest, hating the seriousness of this chat. “Because I’ve got dozens of those.”

  “Sure,” she offers. “All of that.”

  “For starters, my Hard Yes list includes anything and everything you and I could possibly do alone together.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Everything?”

  “I’m open-minded.” I shrug and return to eating.

  After taking a few bites, Haley says, “So I can tell people that you and I are—”

  “Yes,” I say quickly before I can get anxious about what that might mean for me. I want to be with her. Enough said.

  “What about your job?” she prompts. “Do you want people to know about that?”

  I’m pretty sure Tate and Claire already know. Haley says they aren’t gossips and won’t say anything unless I say it’s okay.

  My silence speaks volumes.

  “Okay, so that’s a hard no,” she confirms, no trace of disappointment in her voice. “So, I’ll say that you hang out there sometimes because your brother bartends.”

  She questions me for another ten minutes, going over each and every scenario—can I tell people not to bake you cookies with nuts? Are you opposed to all school dances? What about outdoor movies?

  My brain starts to hurt, and my chest aches just realizing all the things she has to think about that weren’t on her radar before me. I take the empty bowl from her hands, set it on the coffee table, and then stretch out on the couch, pulling her down beside me.

  Haley settles into the couch with me and lays her ear right over my heart. “You know what? I’m in charge of assigning locker buddies. So you’re mine. Nobody else is baking you any cookies.”

  We’re both quiet for a bit. I tug the quilt from the back of the couch and toss it over the two of us. Haley snuggles against me, her eyes closing. And I’m caught off guard for a second by how good this feels and how scary it is at the same time. I’m definitely past the point of no return. And I’m okay with that.

  Drowsiness sweeps over me. My own eyes start to close. But right before I drift off, Haley says, all sleepy and sexy, “The Longmeadow scrimmage is tomorrow, right?”

  A jolt of nerves rushes through me. “Right.”

  Haley must hear the uncertainty in my voice or else she felt me tense, because she lifts her head. “Nervous?”

  “It’s just a scrimmage, doesn’t even count,” I try, but even I know it sounds forced. I exhale and try again with more honesty this time. “It feels like Coach only gave me a varsity uniform to test me…like a sink-or-swim situation. Like he doesn’t want to waste his time on me during the real season if I’m not worth the trouble.”

  Saying it out loud, it sounds like athlete insecurity, but in reality, I know it’s true. Maybe not a consciously plotted plan on Bakowski’s part—because there’s no way he spends that much time thinking about me—but it is his plan, regardless.

  “I think the solution is simple.” Haley has this dead-serious look on her face. “Don’t sink.”

  For the length of a few heartbeats, I’m not sure if she’s for real, but then a grin spreads across her face. She leans down and kisses me. “I’m kidding.”

  “Funny.” I squeeze her tighter. “Thanks for the support.”

  “I’ll be there. Cheering you on.” She curls against me again. Her lips brushing my neck sends a spread of goose bumps across my skin. “I am a cheerleader, you know.”

  Warmth spreads over me. She’ll be there. For me. I can’t say that doesn’t feel amazing.

  Chapter Forty

  –Haley–

  Never in my life have I been this nervous at a hockey game. It’s not even a real game. Not for our town, only half of which showed up. The rest are waiting for November, when the season begins for real. But for Fletch, this game is completely real.

  Leslie holds out the nachos we’re supposed to be sharing, but I wave them away. My stomach is in knots; I can’t think about food. My gaze follows Fletch’s number seventy-six jersey around the rink while the team goes through warm-ups. His skating is smooth and easy, like all his movements, but his turns and stops are sharp and precise. He looks good. Really good. Jamie says, for Fletch, it will depend on whether or not he can keep his head clear and make smart choices in the game. His skills are all there.

  I watch him move from center ice toward the goal, skating backward while Jake attempts to maneuver the puck around him. Fletch nearly gets the puck from Jake but comes up empty-handed, and Jake pulls off a trick shot to the top corner pocket, surprising Tate, as well.

  Tate digs the puck out of the net, removes his helmet, and looks over at Jake, his hands lifted, a relaxed grin on his face. “What the hell, Hammond? Where did that come from?”

  “Senior year,” Jake says, as if that explains everything. Jake’s grin mirrors Tate’s, relaxed but excited.

  The difference in tone between those two and Fletch is likely apparent only to me. Tate and Jake are here to play, literally and figuratively, like a pickup game or a shooting match on the pond during the winter.

  On my left, Claire nudges me in the side. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say immediately and then turn to her and give a tiny nod in Leslie and Kayla’s direction.

  Claire lifts an eyebrow but says nothing more.

  I hear Kayla whisper to Leslie, “We’re really not allowed to ask her about…you know who?”

  After our public display of affection the other night at the party, news about me and Fletch is buzzing all over town. But when my friends press me for details, I just tell them I don’t know. It’s new. Too new.

  Coach Bakowski blows a whistle and gathers the guys up. My nerves go from a solid seven to a ten.

  And if I’m being honest, these feelings aren’t just about me caring for Fletch and wanting what he wants. Selfishly, I’m worried that if this game doesn’t go well, Fletch will retreat back to his isolated existence, surrounded only by women he can hook up with but never fall asleep together on the couch or watch the sunrise from the roof of
his family’s barn with. I’m scared I’ll lose him if he loses hockey.

  The pregame pep talk dissolves, and both JFH and Longmeadow’s starting lineup head back out on the ice.

  My heart sinks to my stomach. Paul Redman—aka Red—skates out onto the ice. And Fletch climbs over the wall and takes a seat on the bench.

  Chapter Forty-One

  –Fletcher–

  We’re halfway through the second period when Bakowski finally says my name, so quiet I nearly miss it. “Scott, you’re in.”

  Three guys. That’s how many have played what I’ve wanted all summer to be my position. And I’ve just sat on my ass and watched.

  Hammond, who’s red-faced and drenched in sweat, shoves me from behind, and I jump into action, tossing a leg off the wall and then a foot onto the ice. I barely have time to think about being nervous or the fact that my dad, Gramps, and Braden are here watching.

  And Haley.

  I make eye contact with the Longmeadow player currently handling the puck, preparing to break away for the goal and then skate quickly toward him, my stick in position. The clock above my head ticks down the seconds.

  4:33

  4:32

  4:31

  My heart pounds, threatening to tear itself out of my chest. Despite all the training and pep talks from Jamie and Leo, it’s hard fighting the instinct to back this guy against the wall, or to race over and check the teammate he’s likely planning to pass to.

  Don’t go there, I remind myself. You’re not an enforcer.

  I’m right with the guy, my gaze zeroed in on the puck shifting right to left under the direction of his stick. The goal is right behind me, too close. His gaze flits in the direction of a teammate to his left, and somehow, I know it’s a trick—he’s not passing anything.

  Behind me, I can practically feel Tanley tense up, preparing to block this shot. I wait a beat, let the guy fake his pass, and then when he’s about to shoot, I snag the puck right from under him.

  Turn it around. Take it outside.

  It’s Mike Steller’s voice that rings inside my head, offering a solution I’m fully prepared for. I spin around, the puck moving with me, and soon my opponent is behind me. I break away and then send the puck sailing along the right side of the rink, right to Cole, who takes control of it and heads for Longmeadow’s goal.

  “Nice one, Scott!” I hear Tate say from behind me.

  A weight lifts off me, and I dive head and feet into this game. Jamie and Leo are right. I have the tools, just need to quit being “so goddamn predictable” and take a little risk, try something new.

  Three more times, I follow Longmeadow’s best shooters and manage to surprise each of them. I’m dragging the puck around the back of our goal when I see an opportunity too big to not take a chance. Instead of passing right away, I head straight for center ice, where Longmeadow’s bulkiest defenders have gathered in my honor. Before I reach any of them, I make a sharp left turn, and luckily speed wins over bulk and I’m around them and only two feet from Cole. I loft the puck in the air, setting him up perfectly for one of his best trick shots. Cole is quick to respond and sinks the puck into Longmeadow’s net.

  The crowd erupts with cheers, the guys around me celebrate, clapping both me and Cole on the back.

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Clooney!” Bakowski shouts. “Keep ’em coming, just like that!”

  Cole lifts his face shield and grins at me. “Yeah, keep ’em coming,” he says to me. “It’d be nice if every goal was that easy for me.”

  I give him a little shove, but it feels good hearing that, even from my much-younger cousin. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said he’d been looking forward to us being teammates this season. There are advantages to family members playing together. We know each other so well.

  Cole and I both get into position again. Behind me, Tate says, “Keep it up, Scott. I didn’t really want to work hard today, anyway.”

  I refrain from looking over my shoulder at him, not wanting to take my eyes from the game, but I grin again. Before the puck is put back into play, Bakowski shouts, “Collins, Gordon, Scott…change up!”

  Red appears out of nowhere, his shoulder bumping into me. “Thanks for the breather. I’ll take it from here.”

  My gaze flits to the scoreboard displaying our 1-0 lead over Longmeadow and the time remaining in the second period.

  2:16.

  At least it was more than thirty seconds.

  With a sigh, I skate off the ice and toward the empty spot on the bench.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  –Haley–

  Four minutes and twenty-two seconds. That’s how long Fletch played during the scrimmage. Hardly shit. Jamie’s words, not mine. I texted him the moment the third period ended (final score 1-0, Otters). But God, he looked great. And I don’t mean his abs, which unfortunately remained concealed by all those ridiculous safety pads. I saw Fletch play during our midnight game, and he seemed good then, but damn, I didn’t know he had all that in him. The assist to Cole was unbelievably placed. I nearly strangled Bakowski for not saying anything to Fletch and then pulling him out right after.

  I’m wringing my hands now, staring out at the empty rink, wondering what Fletch is thinking, where his head is at. If Bakowski is going to tell him “Thanks but no thanks. I’d rather devote my time to developing younger players than a late-blooming senior.”

  “Hey, I’m gonna head across the parking lot and check on the bar,” Claire says, startling me. “Are you sticking around?”

  I glance up at the stands—only a couple dozen people remain—and then over my shoulder at the entrance to the locker room where the team disappeared twenty minutes ago. So far, I haven’t seen any guys exit.

  I turn to Claire. “Should I go? Is it pathetic to wait around?”

  As if on cue, Fletch exits the locker room, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair wet from the shower. I’m about to chicken out and make a run for it, but before I do, he spots me from the lobby. Our eyes lock, and I draw in a breath, holding it. His face is blank, unreadable, but there’s disappointment in his eyes.

  My insides clench, cold dread spreads over my limbs. He’s done. With this. With me.

  But slowly, his body turns, and he takes a step toward me. The defeat in his eyes vanishes, and he plants his feet right in front of me. From the corner of my eye, I see Claire turn quickly and head for the side entrance of the rink.

  “Hey…” I say to Fletch, unsure what else to offer besides that. Unsure where we stand.

  A smile spreads across his face, his fingers lifting to brush gently across my cheek, and all my worries and doubts scoot right out the door behind Claire.

  “Hey,” he says. “Thanks for waiting for me.”

  Without any hesitation or any checking to see who might be around to watch us, he leans down and kisses me. I’m so relieved I almost cry, but after pulling apart, it’s obvious that the defeat I saw moments ago is still there, not on his face but in the way he stands, in the weight he seems to be holding on his shoulders. He’s glad I’m here, but things definitely didn’t go how he wanted them to today.

  I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tight. “You were amazing,” I whisper right next to his ear. “Bakowski is an idiot for not playing you more.”

  Warm, strong arms wrap around me, and I feel his mouth rest against my temple.

  “Thanks,” Fletch says, holding me tighter. “You’re the perfect person for me to spend the rest of the day with. Want to get out of here?”

  Warm fuzzy feelings flood my insides, but I try not to let them get too big inside my head. Try not to let them mean more than they should. But it’s hard not to. “Yes, whatever you want to do, I’m in.”

  “Fletcher Scott?” an unfamiliar voice says from behind me.

  We break apart, and both Fletch and I turn to face an older man I don’t recognize. And I know everyone in town. My face heats up, and I put even more distance between me and
Fletch, but soon I feel Fletch’s fingertips tickle the inside of my palm, and then his fingers lace through mine.

  For some reason, I never pictured Fletch as a hand holder. Maybe to lead me through a crowd. Or to a dark dressing room at the club. But not just because.

  “Great game today,” the man says. “That little guy Longmeadow has facing off is something else, huh?”

  I glance at Fletch, and when he doesn’t respond, I give his hand a squeeze. All he does is offer a polite nod.

  “But not as fast as you,” the guy continues.

  Confusion fills Fletch’s face. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  I was thinking the same thing, but I’d never just blurt that out.

  “You’re fast,” he repeats, ignoring Fletch’s question. “Bakowski might be a top high school coach in this state, but he isn’t always the best judge of talent. A bit one-dimensional, if you ask me.”

  I’m confused now, too, but Fletch seems to loosen up hearing that last part.

  “One-dimensional as in wanting only giants for defenders?” Fletch says.

  The guy releases a short laugh. “How tall are you, son?”

  “Five ten,” Fletch says right away, and then after earning an eyebrow lift from Mystery Guy, he says, “Five nine.”

  “A third of my team is your size, some of them smaller.”

  “Yeah?” Fletch says. “What team is that? Girls’ Varsity at Longmeadow?”

  The man reaches into his jacket and holds out a business card. I read it quickly before it’s in Fletch’s free hand.

  SCANLAN CARUSO

  NAHL TEAM MANAGER

  DULUTH EAGLES

  “NAHL?” I say under my breath.

  Fletch stares at the card then looks up at the man. “Junior hockey?”

  “Tier two,” Coach Caruso says. “And I’d like you to come try out with us. If what I saw today is any indication of your potential, then I want you on my team. ’Course, I’m willing to wait for February if you want to finish out the high school season…”