by Mila Gray
“We?” I ask.
“Jake, me, Aaron,” Toby says, giving me an apologetic shrug. He knows I never want to hear Jake’s name ever again. “Your parents, too. Shay helped with the decorating.”
My head snaps up. Shay was in on it as well? How did they do all this without me noticing? I know the shed is hidden behind a wall of trees and that I’ve been completely out of it this last week, but this has to have taken them months. I stare at the exposed beams in the roof, the cast-iron wood burner on the deck, the crisp white comforter on the bed.
“Jake wanted it to be a surprise.”
Another gut wrench. Every second of every day, all I can do is think about him. I’ve tried to banish the memories—the silk on skin, the look in his eye when he pulled me to him that first time across the bed, his whispered I’m in love with you.
Clearly. So, so in love with me. He rebounded faster than a yo-yo on an elastic string. I haven’t told anyone the details of the breakup because I’m too embarrassed for anyone to know what a fool I was. Everyone assumes we broke up because I didn’t want a long-distance relationship and because of the bar brawl.
“I think he wanted to be the one to surprise you with it . . . ,” Toby says. He breaks off and scratches behind one ear, looking away embarrassed. “Your mom’s already taking bookings.”
“Who’s paying for it all?” I ask, staring at the flat-screen TV screwed to the wall. I know my parents can’t afford all this—the fixtures and fittings alone look like they cost thousands.
Toby shrugs again and starts studying the floor.
“Is Jake paying for it?”
Toby glances up. “I think he’s loaning the money, but your dad has cut some deal with him.”
We’ll see about that. I don’t care if I have to take a loan or another job, there is no way that I’m letting Jake pay for all this. I turn on my heel and storm back toward the house.
“Does Jake know you still sleep in his T-shirt?” Toby calls out after me.
Jake
The door to the locker room flies open, smacking against the breeze-block wall. The rest of the team shove their way to their lockers in high spirits. The tension is trip-wire taut, though, beneath the joshing. This is a big game for us—the opening one of the season, against the University of Michigan. I pull on my sweater and reach for my skates and helmet, ignoring the clang of lockers slamming shut and friendly insults being traded all around me.
“Hey, Jake. Who’re the girls? Did you bone them?”
I turn to Steve Tong, one of my teammates. He’s half-dressed and holding a magazine, which he now shoves in my face. “They’re hot, bro.”
The others crowd around and start making comments about the girl in the photograph with me.
“How much they pay you for this?” Tong asks, leering over the photo. “ ’Cause I would have done it for free.”
I don’t answer. I just pull on my skates. The truth is they paid me a lot. And I’m due to earn a lot more. After I was arrested for punching Rob, the offers flowed in faster than Usain Bolt, which is so messed up I can’t even get my head around it. My first impulse was to turn them all down, but then I thought about something Shay said. I can’t give the money to Em, but I can do some good with it. I’ve been donating every cent to medical research for MS.
The magazine rips in half as the guys fight over it, and Tong starts yelling, but then the door swings open and everyone falls silent. Sarge strides into the middle of the locker room. He’s got his Vietnam War look on his face, eyes lasering in on each of us in turn. Everyone gathers around him, ready for the prematch pep talk. He catches me still sitting on the bench and shoots me a death glare. I get up with a sigh and join them, but I barely hear his words.
It’s been two weeks since I saw Em, since I last talked to her, but I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve thrown myself back into the game—putting in four, five hours straight at the gym after class, training on the ice until past midnight every night—but it’s not enough. I can’t get her out of my head.
I’ve stopped checking my phone for messages, stopped trying to call. Not even Shay has managed to speak to her or get her to answer an e-mail. Toby says she’s okay but won’t talk to him about anything. He did let me know that she’s found out about the rental unit. But still not a word. It’s driving me fucking crazy.
“McCallister?”
I startle. Sarge is looking at me, his mouth screwed up.
“Yeah?” I say.
“What’d I just say?”
I feel everyone’s eyes on me. “Um . . .”
“I said we all need to be focused!” he barks.
I nod.
“This is an important game. All eyes are on you. Especially on you, McCallister.”
I hold his gaze, hearing the snickers from my teammates. Does he think he’s telling me something I don’t know? All eyes have been on me since I got back; the media keep hounding me, and the college administration is watching my every move, scrutinizing my grade average and issuing me a warning that if one more toe steps out of line, I’m out. Sarge has been keeping me on the tightest leash imaginable—banning me from any parties or from leaving campus—which is fine because I’ve got zero interest in being social. The only thing keeping me sane is hockey. When I’m on the ice is the only time I can push away the thoughts of Em.
“Okay,” Sarge shouts. “Let’s win this game!”
Everyone roars their agreement. Except me. I’m channeling it all inward. Lockers slam shut. Everyone grabs their stick, their mouth guard, their helmet, and makes in a rush for the door. I can hear the screams of the crowd already assembled around the rink. I pick up my stick and go to follow the others.
“McCallister!” Sarge grabs my shoulder and stops me.
“Yeah?” I say, pulling out my mouth guard.
“Where’s your head at?”
“In the game,” I say, but even I hear the lack of conviction in my voice.
“Watch Koskela, okay?” Sarge grunts.
I nod. Koskela is a Finnish player who thinks the rules were made to be ignored—the player who once used his stick to block me and gave me the scar through my eyebrow.
“Don’t sink to his level, Jake.”
I nod again.
“I mean it. I see any sign of you losing it out there and I’m benching you.”
“I won’t.” I start to turn, but his hand is still on my shoulder, gripping me in place.
“Why do you think you made it to the top of the draft?” he asks.
I shrug and stare at the ground. He shakes my shoulder, forcing me to look up at him. “Because you’re a great player, Jake. When you rein in the impulsiveness. You don’t quit. You play smart. Most of the time. You take risks, but normally they’re calculated. And you give it your all.”
I nod.
“Are you going to give it your all out there tonight?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Okay.” He slaps me on the back. “Get out there, then, and win this game.”
Emerson
I wheel my dad into the bar. He got it into his head that he wanted to get out of the house, and because it was the first time in nearly a year he’d wanted to go out, I couldn’t exactly say no.
I park my dad’s wheelchair at the table I sat at with Jake and the others before remembering and moving us to another spot. The barman recognizes me and nods his head, but I see his glance linger on my dad. My dad used to be a regular here—it’s about the only place in Bainbridge that serves both a good coffee and a good beer. When I walk over, he smiles at me.
“What can I get you?”
“Um, just two Cokes,” I say.
“You here to watch the game?” he asks.
“The what?”
“The game,” the barman says, nodding at the TV screen at the end of the bar, around which a half-dozen people are crowded.
“Jake McCallister’s playing. It’s Michigan versus Boston College.”
I
turn to glare at my dad, who conveniently is looking elsewhere. This is a total setup. Gripping the two glasses of Coke like they’re grenades, I march back over to him. “You wanted to get out the house? You felt, suddenly, after a year of being stuck inside, like being social?” I ask, setting the Cokes down.
He looks guiltily up at me and then at the screen. “It’s just about to start,” he comments.
I shake my head at him and slump down in a stool with my back to the TV. The knowledge that I could turn my head and see Jake is pure torture. Now I have to sit here and listen to the crowd behind me yell and curse and comment on the players and the action.
“And McCallister, always first on the puck, has scored the first goal of the first period,” the presenter announces.
My stomach flips at the sound of Jake’s name.
“You don’t want to watch?” my dad asks.
“No!”
“Why?”
He and my mom know I broke up with Jake but don’t know the real reason—or real reasons. I shrug. I don’t want to talk about it. And luckily, I don’t have to, because the noise level in the bar is now too loud for us to have a conversation.
Though I keep my back resolutely to the screen and sip my drink, acting oblivious, my hearing is acutely tuned to the shouts and yells. I’m trying to zone in on the voice of the sports presenter, frustrated when the volume in the bar makes it impossible to hear the playbacks. I hear Jake’s name several times, though, and from the shouts and cheers I can tell Boston is winning. Is Jake scoring?
I drain my drink and sit there for twenty minutes, foot tapping, wishing we could leave. My dad has no idea how hard this is; how every time I think about Jake or hear his name, all I can think about is Lauren answering his phone. Was she lying naked in his bed? Is she there at the rink in a front-row seat, watching him play? Will it be her he celebrates or commiserates with after the game? I grind my teeth and loudly suck up the last of my Coke, trying to drown out the latest round of cheering.
“And McCallister scores his third goal of this playoff game. . . .”
I can’t bear it any longer. I get up and push my way through to the bathrooms, locking myself in a cubicle. I’ll stay in here until it’s safe to come out.
Jake
Koskela is trying to shut me down. He keeps back-checking me—trying to steal the puck from me every time I’ve got possession. He’s playing aggressive like always, not afraid to throw his whole weight onto a player or dive to stop someone taking a shot on the goal. I’ve already had a half-dozen collisions with him, one that sent me headfirst into the boards. He’s had one two-minute penalty for elbowing me, but the referee has missed or chosen to ignore the other cross-checking. He reminds me of Reid, and the unwelcome reminder of Walsh when I’m concentrating on my game injects me with a pure shot of anger.
I try to focus it on the game. I want to win. I want to show everyone I’m still the best player on the ice. I can’t react to Koskela, no matter how much he’s riling me. Everyone’s watching: my parents in the stands, the university chairman, Sarge, my agent, the Red Wings coach. Is Em watching? The thought makes me play harder, pouring all I’ve got into the game.
Koskela appears suddenly on my left, slamming hard into my shoulder. He mutters something under his breath. He’s trying to antagonize me. It’s his play. He knows the minute I react I’ll get benched by my coach, and that’s what he wants. But then he’s got possession of the puck, slicing it out from one of my players. I back-check him at full speed, putting my head down and driving down the middle of the ice toward our goal. I’m not letting him get a pass. He glares at me, swearing under his breath. Our sticks clash, his weight against mine. I can hear the deafening roar of the crowd as I manage to lift his stick, nudge the puck out of his control, and flick it across the ice to one of our defensemen.
I skate out of his way, throwing myself back in the play, putting myself between my teammate, who’s driving toward the net, and one of the Michigan players, who’s trying to check him.
But then suddenly I’m hit from behind by the weight of a freight train. I’m off the ice, in the air—a split second, an eternity, the thunder of the crowd filling my ears—and then the scarred, concrete-hard ice is flying up to meet me.
Emerson
I’m walking out of the bathroom, driven out by the knowledge that I can’t leave my dad just sitting by himself in a wheelchair while I sulk for another twenty minutes, when a deafening roar goes up.
People are on their feet, blocking the TV screen. A man in front of me has his hands on his head and is wincing.
“And McCallister’s on the ice,” the presenter is saying. “He’s not moving.”
I push through the crowd, listening to the gasps all around me, and when I get to the front, all I can see is a scrum of referees and players crowded around a figure lying on the ice, motionless.
“Michigan defenseman Koskela just earned himself a total season ban, I’d say. It looks serious. McCallister’s not moving.”
The picture jumps to a replay. It’s Jake, recognizable even behind the helmet and face guard. He’s intercepting a Michigan player, helping his teammate line up a shot at the goal. Then, from out of nowhere, another player is on him. Stick raised high, the guy leaves his feet and delivers a hard check, smashing what looks like both his stick as well as his whole weight onto Jake’s back.
Behind me, I hear a woman let out a cry as Jake goes hurtling into the barrier before landing facedown on the ice, Koskela diving on top of him. I swear I hear the crunch of bones. The gasps around me are audible.
“Jesus,” a man beside me whispers.
“What the hell?”
The playback stops and cuts back to the present moment. I can’t see Jake anymore. He’s surrounded by a team of paramedics. Panic shuts down my legs. I can’t breathe. The view pans back across the ice, and I see Koskela buried beneath a scrum of Boston players who’ve launched themselves on him. Referees and coaches are trying to pull the opposing players off each other as fists and legs and skates fly and slash through the air.
“And they’re bringing in a stretcher,” the presenter announces. With my hands over my mouth I watch as the paramedics strap a neck collar to Jake and lift him carefully onto a stretcher. The paramedics are all over him. I want to push through the screen, force my way through the crowd to his side. A scream ratchets up inside me, trying to spring loose.
“The guy should be arrested!” someone behind me shouts.
Hand covering my mouth, I watch as Jake is carried off the ice. Someone puts their hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
I blink. It’s the barman. All I can do is stare at him. I don’t have any words. Then I remember my dad. He’s looking at me, anguished. He can’t move, can’t get over to me. I rush toward him.
“Go,” he says, his arm jerking out toward the door.
I move in a daze behind him, ready to wheel him out the door, my heart thumping, my gaze falling back to the screen. They’ve cut back to the fight. Koskela, bloodied and limping, is being helped off the ice.
GAME SUSPENDED flashes up at the bottom. BOSTON COLLEGE FORWARD JAKE McCALLISTER CRITICALLY INJURED.
I fumble for my phone. I need to call someone. I need to find out if Jake’s okay and where they’re taking him. But who do I call? I look at the phone’s screen. There are three missed calls from Shay. She must have been watching the game too. My mom. My brain unfreezes. I need to call her. She needs to come and collect us.
“Go,” my dad slurs angrily.
“I’m trying,” I say, and I realize that I’m crying. I can’t hit the right buttons to call my mom. My hands are shaking too much.
“No. Go to Jake,” my dad says.
Jake
Voices cut in and out as if someone’s playing with a TV remote, flipping the channel and messing with the volume. A panicked high note—someone yelling—blends with a screaming wail that rises and falls in pitch.
“Head trauma. Possi
ble spinal injury. We need an MRI and a CT scan.”
Who are they talking about?
Is it Koskela? Wait . . . What about the game? Am I still on the ice? I try to turn my head. I can’t. I can’t move anything. Can’t feel my legs.
Where’s Em? There’s a ton of weight lying on top of me. Am I buried beneath a mountain of players? Is that why I can’t move? Is that why I can’t breathe? I try to suck in air, panicking, disco lights flashing in rhythmic bursts at the edges of the darkness, but it hurts too much to breathe.
I’m spiraling downward, slipping through ice, into the murky cold depths below. The voices grow fainter. The pressure in my lungs eases. The pain draws back.
In the solid blackness that I’m encased in, I try to turn my head. Where is she? I can’t see anything.
Em?
Emerson
Koskela has been given a twenty-six-match ban and is likely to face charges of criminal assault.”
It’s the same woman from ESPN who ran the story of Jake’s drug test fail—what’s her name? Jo Furness. It’s right there on the screen beneath her heavily made-up face. She’s standing in front of the emergency room entrance, talking direct to camera, wearing a coat and scarf and a maniacal gleam in her eye. Ticker tape scrolls along the bottom of the screen: NEWS ALERT: JAKE McCALLISTER TAKEN TO UNI. MICHIGAN HOSPITAL . . . STAR NHL PROSPECT UNDERGOING EMERGENCY SURGERY . . .
“There’s a real irony,” she intones to screen, “to McCallister, Boston College’s star forward and the ice hockey world’s most feted star, being called the victim of assault.”
I glare at the screen.
“It was only six weeks ago McCallister himself was arrested for aggravated assault after an unprovoked attack left an innocent man scarred for life.”
I leap to my feet. “What the—” I yell at the TV.
My mom grabs my arm. “Calm down,” she says, shushing me.
“McCallister, who is pleading not guilty to the charge, is due in court in less than a month, though it’s looking like the trial date may now have to be pushed back given the severity of the injuries he sustained today in the match against the University of Michigan.”