by Mila Gray
“I’ve just gotten off the phone with an old contact at ESPN. He gave me a heads-up. Someone leaked the news to them. Who’d you tell? Who knew about it?”
I wrack my head. Who knew? The people at the party where I passed out, I guess. But they don’t know I failed the test. The only other people who knew about that were Em and . . .
“Lauren,” I say in a whisper into the phone.
“Your girlfriend?” Sarge asks.
“Ex-girlfriend,” I manage to say.
“She’s gone and dropped you right in it. She sent them the actual proof, too.”
“What?” I ask, my heart rate suddenly increasing. Then I remember. “Oh God, the letter was in my dorm room. In a drawer.”
“Genius, McCallister.”
“But what’s going to happen now?” I ask.
“Well,” he says with a sigh, “ESPN is running with the story. I tried to get them to drop it, but it ties into that big exposé they’ve been running on college sports—you know, the whole sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll lifestyle story.”
“But that’s not me,” I hear myself argue, and it sounds like someone else talking, pleading. I hop off the stool and start pacing, aware that Em is standing beside me, tensed, listening in on the conversation.
“I know,” Sarge says. “But you’re the poster child for hockey at the moment. It makes a good story.”
I run my hand through my hair. “What does this mean for my contract?” I ask—the question that’s been running through my head like a siren wail since the phone call this morning. “Are they going to drop me?”
“I don’t know,” says Sarge. “I need to speak with your agent. But, Jake, that’s the least of your worries right now.”
I collapse back onto the stool. I can’t even bring myself to ask the question.
“The college administrators are going to be on this.”
The room starts to spin. I hadn’t even considered that. My scholarship. My degree. It’s all in the balance. If I’m kicked out of college, then I’m out of the hockey leagues. I won’t even get my degree. My whole future will go up in smoke.
“But it was just some weed,” I start to protest. “Everyone in college smokes weed. I do it one time and suddenly I’m out?” I think of all the other stuff I know that goes on in college. How the hell can this make the news? How can it get me thrown out?
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Sarge says, trying to calm me.
“But it’s a possibility, right? That I’m not just booted off the team but I’m kicked out of school, too?”
Sarge doesn’t say anything. I feel Em’s hand on my back, squeezing my shoulder.
“Shit,” I say, suddenly seeing that the dark hole I’ve been staring into isn’t so much of a hole as it is a grave.
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” Sarge says, but I hear the note of uncertainty in his voice.
I laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation—at my own stupidity.
“I’m going to fight for you, McCallister. All the way. But you need to get yourself a lawyer.”
“What?” I say.
“The police are likely going to want to interview you.”
“What? Why?” I say.
“Standard procedure when drugs are involved.”
After a few more minutes of talk in which Sarge runs me through the rules and what he’s going to do next, I hang up and look at Em, unable to think or talk. She opens her arms and I take a step toward her. She catches me, holds me, hugging me tight, like she’s never going to let me go. “It’ll be okay,” I hear her say.
How can it be okay? I want to ask. I’ve just lost everything because of one stupid, reckless mistake.
“I need a lawyer,” I say, pulling back, my head still spinning with the crazy. “Where do I get a lawyer?”
“Shay’s mom,” Em says, reaching for the phone. “I’ll call her.”
Em
I can’t sit still. My foot is tapping. I jump up and start pacing the lobby of the police station.
“They’ve been ages,” I say, glancing through the glass doors that lead through to the interrogation rooms and cells. “What’s happening?”
Shay, sitting on a plastic seat by the door, gets up to join me. She puts her arm around me and hugs me. “It’s fine. Don’t worry. My mom will handle it.”
I squeeze her hand. Shay’s mom, who’s a lawyer at the National Women’s Law Center, came straight over on the ferry from work in Seattle as soon as she got the call about Jake.
“This is so absurd,” I say. “How could she do this to him?”
“Who?” Shay asks.
“His ex-girlfriend!” I shout. “How could she do this?”
Shay shrugs.
The door to the station bangs open and we turn around. I’m half expecting it to be one of the reporters—one from the local paper and another from a sports radio station—who were hanging around earlier, having caught wind of the story, but it isn’t. It’s worse. It’s Reid Walsh. His father, the chief of police, is the one interviewing Jake right now.
Reid double-takes when he sees Shay and me in the police station reception area but then quickly recovers and swaggers over to us.
“Yo,” he says.
I can hear Shay’s eyeballs roll. She ignores him. I try to, but he isn’t taking the hint. Vaguely it crosses my mind to confront him over the letter he never gave me, but right now I’ve got bigger things on my mind.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Waiting for someone,” I tell him.
“You get a ticket or something?” he asks.
“A what?” I ask.
“A parking ticket.” He nods at the reception desk. “ ’Cause if you did, I could talk to my dad for you and sort it out. You know, get them to tear it up. He does it for me all the time.”
Shay puts her hands on her hips, unable to keep up the facade of ignoring him any longer. “No, we didn’t get a parking ticket. Now get lost before I file a restraining order.”
Reid’s face contorts into a scowl, which makes him look constipated. “Jesus, I was only offering to help,” he snaps. “And I wasn’t even talking to you, Shay. I was talking to Emerson.”
“I think if Emerson ever needed help, you would be the last person on earth she’d turn to,” Shay counters.
Reid glances my way, and I see the angry stubble rash across his chin flare even redder. “Whatever,” he mumbles to Shay; then he bangs his shoulder against the door that leads through to the cells and interrogation rooms and disappears.
“Someone needs to ease off on the steroids,” Shay remarks.
“I can’t believe he just offered to do that.”
“Yeah, I know. Nice to see corruption at work.”
“No. I mean, why is he being nice to me? He’s never nice to me.”
Shay wrinkles her nose as though there’s a bad smell lingering around us. “I’m telling you,” she says, shaking her head, “it’s the steroids. They’re messing with his brain. And did you see the man boobs on him?”
“You think I should go after him and see if he can get his dad to let Jake go?”
“I don’t think getting caught smoking pot is the same as a parking ticket,” Shay mutters. “And do you really want to be beholden to Reid Walsh?”
She has a point, but I still can’t stop wondering if there’s something I could do to make this all go away.
Ten minutes later the door to one of the interrogation rooms finally opens and Rob’s dad exits, looking mildly irritated, his mouth pinched and his eyes flinty. I take that as a good sign. Behind him follow Jake and then Shay’s mom, who is dressed to kill in a black pantsuit and high heels. While she looks like an older, Good Wife version of Shay, Chief Walsh looks like an older, paunchier version of Reid, wearing a uniform that strains against his gut. He used to be a pro football player, but he’s “gone to seed,” as my mom puts it kindly.
Rob’s dad has always been aloof t
oward me—he was one of the cops who investigated my assault, and he made it very obvious from the start that he never believed me. He was also one of the cops who arrested my dad when he punched Coach Lee in the middle of the supermarket frozen foods aisle. That was four months after it happened, when the investigation had been shelved and the charges dropped. My dad had been livid with fury. We were lucky that Coach Lee didn’t press charges. We were lucky, my mom said, that my dad didn’t kill him and end up in prison for life.
I’ve always tried to avoid Chief Walsh, even when dating his son, because he always made it clear what he thought of me. A priest has more respect for Satan than Chief Walsh has for me. When he comes through the door and sees me, I catch the sneer of distaste that tugs up his top lip, as though he’s just stepped in dog crap. For the first time ever, though, it doesn’t affect me, doesn’t make my face go hot or my heart beat double time. His look bounces off me as though I’m wearing steel-plated armor.
Jake glances my way, but I can’t tell anything from his expression. He looks completely shell-shocked.
Shay’s mother stops and holds out her hand to shake Chief Walsh’s. I see his knuckles blanch white as he grips her hand. She squeezes back just as hard until I see the chief’s face tighten into a grimace and a muscle by his eye begin to twitch.
“If you need to contact my client, then you need to come through me,” Shay’s mother tells him coolly, offering him her card.
Walsh takes it, sneering at it in disdain. “Women’s rights?” Shay’s mom purses her lips.
I hear Shay grind her teeth behind me. “Neanderthal,” she whispers in my ear.
Walsh looks at Jake. “You need to check in with me if you plan on leaving the island. I need to know your whereabouts. We clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Jake says quietly.
Captain Walsh doesn’t even glance my way again. He just strides back inside the station, letting the door slam shut behind him.
“What happened? How did it go?” I ask Jake the moment he’s gone.
He shrugs, shaking his head, and looks at Shay’s mom.
“He’s lucky,” she says, and bustles toward the exit.
“Lucky?” I ask, following her as she walks outside.
We stop beside her car and Shay’s mom puts down her briefcase and takes out a sheaf of papers. “I think we can get the drug charge thrown out on a technicality,” she says.
“What technicality?” Shay asks.
“They didn’t give Jake due warning before the test.”
“Huh?” I ask. I glance at Jake and he takes my hand and squeezes it tight.
Shay’s mom holds out a piece of paper. “According to the rules, any random drug test administered to a college athletics student requires a minimum of twenty-four hours advance notice. They didn’t give it to him.”
“Really?” I ask Jake.
He nods.
“So, what does that mean?” I ask, a rush of relief building inside me.
“It means the test is inadmissible.”
I burst out laughing. “But that’s amazing news.” I look at Jake. “Why aren’t you smiling?”
“Because,” says Shay’s mom, “although it’s inadmissible and his place on the team and in the hockey league are hopefully not in danger, the police are still investigating him on charges of possession of marijuana.”
“But they don’t have proof, do they?” Shay asks. “I mean, he smoked it.”
Shay’s mother sighs. “It’s just Chief Walsh being an asshole.”
My eyes widen at the insult.
“It’s a power play, that’s all,” she explains. “He knows it’s unlikely they’ll be able to charge Jake, but he wants to show us he’s the man. And”—she turns to Jake now—“don’t forget that your college is bound by their own statute to investigate the cover-up. They’ll be asking questions, especially about your coach and how and why he covered up the test.”
Jake frowns down at the sidewalk and starts chewing on his lip.
“I don’t think you’re in danger of being kicked out of college,” Shay’s mom goes on, “but it’s going to get a lot of press. You need to ready yourself for that and prepare a statement. I’ll meet with you tomorrow morning to draft something, but until then don’t say a word to anyone.”
“Okay,” Jake says. “What about my contract with the Red Wings?”
Shay’s mother shakes her head. “That I don’t know about. You’ll need to talk to your agent.” She holds up another piece of paper. “You’ve also broken the terms of your modeling contract. There’s a clause in here about bringing the brand into disrepute. It’s likely they’ll drop you. Just hope they don’t sue you too.”
“What do you mean? There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Shay scoffs.
Jake frowns darkly at the ground.
Shay’s mom stuffs her papers back into the briefcase and unlocks her car. “You were lucky this time, Jake,” she says. “Don’t do anything stupid from now on. There’s too much on the line.”
“I won’t,” he says, finally cracking a weak smile. “I promise.”
She smiles back at him and pecks him on the cheek.
“Thanks, Mrs. Donovan,” he says.
“You’re welcome, Jake.”
Jake and I watch as she and Shay drive off.
“Come on,” I say, taking Jake’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.” But just as we start walking, Reid Walsh strides out of the police station. He sees Jake and me, and his expression darkens.
Jake sighs under his breath. I grip his hand tighter.
“Hear you got arrested.” Reid smirks, sauntering over to us with that stupid prison swagger walk of his.
“You heard wrong,” I snap back. “They were just questioning him.”
It’s Jake’s turn to squeeze my hand. He’s right. I shouldn’t even engage.
“Heard you’re going to get kicked out of college,” he says to Jake.
“Yeah?” Jake asks with a sigh. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Guess you’ll lose your place in the draft, too.”
That gets to Jake. His jaw sets. A ripple of tension runs up his arm as though he’s holding on to an electrified fence. I start to pull him away. I can see where this is headed, and it’s nowhere good.
“Come on,” I say quietly. “Let’s go.”
Jake won’t budge, though. He’s glaring at Reid, who’s glaring right back at him, as though he’s trying to telepathically challenge him to a fight. I wonder who would win? Reid looks like he supplements six meals a day with steroid protein shakes.
Finally, Jake lets me tug him away. I don’t loosen my grip on him until we’ve walked a block, and then, when I glance over my shoulder, I see Reid still standing in the same spot, watching us with narrowed eyes.
Jake
(Then)
My mom is standing with her hands on her hips, ordering me back upstairs to pack a bag.
“Jake! Come on. We don’t have time for this. We’re going to miss our flight. Move it!”
I glance down the driveway, clutching the letter to Em in my hand. I need to find a way to get it to her. My mom moves to shut the front door, but as she does, I spot Reid Walsh riding by the house on his bike.
“Hold up!” I yell, pushing past my mom and racing down the driveway, waving the envelope in my hand like a flag. “Reid! Wait!”
Reid screeches to a halt and stares at me, suspicious.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
He sneers and starts to pedal off, and I leap in front of his bike.
“Jake!”
It’s my mom. She’s standing in the driveway and, judging by the tone of her voice, she’s going to lose it any second.
“Can you give this to Em?” I say to Reid, shoving the letter at him.
Reid looks at the crumpled piece of paper. “Why?” he asks.
“Just . . . please? It’s important.”
“Jake!” my mom yells, really angry now.
“Thank you.”
He cycles off and I watch him, realizing too late that I should have put the letter in an envelope. But it’s too late now. I can’t chase after him. The important thing is that she gets it.
I turn and dash past my mom, ignoring her flared nostrils. “I’ll be one minute,” I say.
“Hurry up!” my mom yells after me as I race up the stairs to my bedroom.
I grab a bag and hastily stuff it with a sweater, a pair of jeans, some clean socks, and my toothbrush and toothpaste. I raid my piggy bank, taking all 312 dollars and shoving it into my wallet.
Then I sneak back down the stairs, check that my mom is outside packing the car up, and hurry to open the closet under the stairs.
The tent my dad bought last year is in there. It’s lightweight, folds up small, and sleeps two in close quarters. I pick up it and the sleeping bag and shove them into my rucksack, and then run into the kitchen and raid the cupboards for snacks. Noodles. Crackers. A bag of marshmallows.
“They have food on the plane, you know,” my mom says, making me startle.
I nod, grab the bag, and dart past her into the hallway.
“Get in the car!” she shouts after me. “I’m just setting the alarm.”
“Okay!” I shout back, but I don’t get in the car. I run past it, past my sister, who is sitting in the back, ignoring her surprised look, and sprint down the street, taking the path that cuts past the Hollingsworths’ house and into the woods.
I don’t stop running until I make it all the way to the tree house.
Jake
We sit on the ledge of the tree house. Em’s head is in my lap and I’m stroking her hair, watching as she scribbles in the notebook I gave her last week—a not-so-subtle hint for her to pursue her journalism dream—though frankly journalists aren’t my favorite people at the moment. She’s filled pages and pages already, and I’m glad that she’s finding a way to process things. For me it’s the ice. That’s where I work out my shit. And the thought of losing that, of not being able to skate pro, is killing me inside.