by Elle Kennedy
“I told you so. He’s the one who helped me rescue Eric.”
“Speaking of that, have you heard from Eric since then?”
“No, and I have a feeling I won’t.”
“Good. Is there a way to forward all his calls to you to my phone? So I can give him a piece of my mind?”
“Dad.” The murderous glint in his eyes is a tad worrisome. “You’re not allowed to give him the Liam Neeson speech. Let’s just hope his mom convinced him to go to rehab. Maybe winding up in someone’s bushes was the wakeup call he needed.”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
I’m not, either. It’s been five years since high school and Eric still hasn’t even acknowledged that he has a problem.
“But I am sorry about Connelly,” Dad says, steering the subject back to Jake.
“Me too.”
He lifts a brow. “Thought you said it wouldn’t go anywhere.”
“I did. That’s what I told him, anyway. He dumped me and I pretended not to care,” I confess. “I didn’t want him to see how upset I was. But I was upset. He’s the first guy I’ve met in a long time who I could see myself being in a relationship with. He was good for me, and he was good to me. Like, when I was nervous about coming home to talk to you, he lent me his—oh my fucking God!”
“Language,” Dad scolds.
I’m already flying out of my seat. I forgot about Jake’s bracelet. I forgot to give it back to him, dammit.
After my talk with Dad the other night, I went upstairs to take a shower and I remember shoving the bracelet in my nightstand. And I spent most of Thursday and Friday at Summer’s, because even though my basement is ready, I haven’t moved back in yet because I didn’t want to be alone. I’m afraid that if I’m alone I’ll just be thinking about Jake all the time. I completely pushed him out of my head these past few days. And since he wasn’t on my mind, neither was his good-luck charm.
He’s playing Michigan today. Crap. Why hasn’t he called or texted? Hasn’t he noticed he doesn’t have his bracelet?
“I have Jake’s good-luck charm,” I blurt out. “He gave it to me before we broke up and I totally forgot to give it back, and he’s playing today in Worcester!”
Coaching hockey players for more than two decades, my father has undoubtedly encountered a crapload of superstitions, charms, and rituals. So I’m not surprised when his expression turns grave. “That’s not good.”
“No, it’s not.” I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “What should I do?”
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.” He sets down his cup and scrapes his chair back.
“What are you doing?”
“You don’t mess with a man’s ritual, Brenna.” Dad checks his watch. “What time does the game start?”
I’m already looking it up on my phone. “One thirty,” I say a moment later.
Right now it’s eleven. It’ll take an hour or so to get to Worcester. Relief fills my chest. I can make it there long before the game starts.
Dad confirms my thoughts. “If we leave now, we’ll get there with plenty of time to spare.”
“We?”
“You think I’m really going to let you drive the Jeep in a panic? Christ. I shudder just thinking about the mailbox destruction you’d be leaving in your wake.” My father snorts. “I’m driving.”
Jake’s not answering his phone or responding to my texts. It occurs to me that maybe he blocked my number, but that would be a total dick move. He’s the one who broke up with me. He has no reason to block my number. Unless he thought I’d be one of those girls who called him five hundred times begging for a second chance? If so, then I guess he didn’t know me at all.
The alternative is that he’s too focused on his game-day rituals and isn’t checking his phone.
There’s a light drizzle outside, lazily sliding down the Jeep’s windshield. In the passenger seat, I wonder if there’s another way to get in touch with Jake. I don’t have Brooks’s number, and I deleted McCarthy’s. I suppose I could do some online investigating and track down their social media accounts, but that requires a level of panic I’m not feeling right now.
There’s lots of time, and when we get there, I’ll be bound to run into a Harvard player or someone who could send a message to a Harvard player. Hopefully, I can simply give the bracelet to someone who’ll pass it on to Jake, without me ever having to see him. I’m not sure what I would say if I saw him. Plus, he’s already accused me of being a distraction. Seeing me right before a crucial game might mess with his head.
When we pull into the arena, Dad bypasses the parking lot and drives directly to the entrance. “Get out here,” he orders. “I’ll park the car and meet you inside. Keep your phone on.”
A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Oh no,” I say in dismay. “We don’t have tickets.”
“Sure we do. I called Steve Llewellyn when you were getting dressed. Told him I needed a favor. There’ll be two tickets waiting for us at the box office under your name. Standing room only, though. It was too last minute for anything better.”
Llewellyn is the head coach of Michigan. I guess it helps to have a father with connections. “You’re the best.”
I hop out of the car and dart toward the entrance. As I pick up the tickets, I call Jake again. He doesn’t answer.
Although the game doesn’t start for nearly an hour and a half, tons of people are already streaming inside the arena and filling up the stands. I glimpse a sea of Harvard fans, along with the gold and blue Michigan colors. I scan the Crimson portion of the crowd for anyone who looks familiar. Nada. Then I search for any signs that might tell me where the locker rooms are. I spot one and take off in that direction.
I’m approaching the corridor when I finally encounter a face I recognize.
It’s Jake’s friend Hazel.
Lovely. “Hey,” I greet her. “I’m looking for Jake.”
After a cool appraisal, a flicker of displeasure flares in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I just told you—I’m looking for Jake.” I fidget with one of the beads on his bracelet. I wore it on my wrist for safekeeping. “Is the Harvard bus here yet?”
“No.”
“Do you know when they’re showing up? Have you spoken to him at all today?”
“No.” She frowns slightly. “He’s not answering his phone. I’m here with his parents—”
My stomach twists. Nope. Not jealous. I am not jealous.
“—and none of us can get in touch with him. Maybe his phone’s dead. Sometimes when he goes into hockey mode, he forgets to do basic things, like charge his tech.”
I hate this girl. I don’t know if she does it intentionally, these I-know-him-better-than-you-do jabs. Maybe I’m just feeling insecure, though. Or maybe she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Maybe she knows him so well that it comes out instinctively.
Either way, it’s a good thing Jake isn’t here yet. Now I won’t have to see him, and he won’t see me. He wants to focus on hockey? Congrats, he can focus on hockey.
“When he gets here can you give him this?” I clumsily slide the bracelet off my wrist. Removing it brings a pang of sorrow. It’s like saying goodbye to the last piece of Jake that I have left.
Hazel’s gaze darkens with suspicion. “Where did you get that?”
I set my jaw. I don’t appreciate the not-so-veiled accusation. “If you think I stole it, relax. Jake loaned it to me the other day. I was nervous about something and he said it would bring me good luck.” I have to smile, because something good did come out of it. Dad and I got our fresh start, after all. “Anyway, I forgot to return it, and I drove all the way here, so…” I thrust out my hand. “Could you please give this to him when he gets here?”
“Jake let you borrow his good-luck charm.” Her tone has a dull note to it.
“Yes.” I’m starting to get annoyed. And I’m still holding my arm out like a moron. “Look, I get that you don’t like me—fo
r no good reason, by the way. You don’t even know me. But I care about Jake, same as you. This—” I wave the bracelet at her. “—is important to him. He’ll hate me forever if this bracelet isn’t on his wrist when the puck drops. So can you please just take it already?”
After a moment of hesitation, Hazel accepts the bracelet. She slips it around her wrist and says, “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
39
Jake
I’m alone in the locker room, me versus my thoughts. Voices echo beyond the door, laughter and chatter and the general hum of activity, but I’m good at blocking all of it out. My ritual of silence doesn’t require actual silence. I just need to quiet my brain. Meditate on what needs to be done.
Coach gave me permission to make my own way to Worcester today. It’s unheard of, but I think my less-than-stellar performance at practice these last three days genuinely shook him up. He’s worried I might lose us this game. And he’s right to worry. My concentration is shot. Breaking up with Brenna wrecked me.
I made a mistake.
I made a mistake, and I knew it the moment she left my apartment. Ending it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I acted out of fear, not logic, and it backfired on me, because now my head is even further away from where it’s supposed to be.
It’s ironic. All that bullshit I spewed about needing to rid myself of distractions—which was a total lie to begin with—resulted in creating an even bigger disruption in my brain. Brenna wasn’t a distraction, but this breakup sure as hell is.
So Coach gave me a pass and I drove to Worcester on my own. I found a diner and fueled up with a big, greasy breakfast. At some point I realized I forgot my phone at home, but I don’t need it. Nothing is allowed to exist today beyond this one game. We win this, we progress to the Frozen Four. It’s enough pressure to make a weaker man choke, but I’m not that man. I might’ve been weak about my relationship with Brenna, but I’m not weak about hockey. Never have been, never will be.
Loud footsteps thud out in the hall. For a second I think the rest of the team has arrived early, until I hear evidence of a scuffle. More footsteps, a thump, and an outraged male shout.
“I told you, you can’t go in there!”
“We just need a minute,” someone insists. “Seriously, what the hell do you think we’re gonna do in there? Murder the guy?”
I don’t recognize the second voice. I assume the first one is security.
“Sorry, not happening, kid. I can’t let you in there.”
“Come on, Hollis,” urges a third voice. “We’ll track him down later.”
Hollis? As in Mike Hollis?
I jump up from the bench and sprint to the door. “Wait,” I say, flinging it open. “It’s cool. I know them.”
The security guard’s hawk-like gaze sweeps over me. “Nobody else is supposed to be in here.”
“We’ll keep it quick,” I assure him. “Two minutes, tops.”
He steps aside.
A few seconds later, I’m in the locker room with the last two people I expected to see today. Mike Hollis has his arms crossed tight to his broad chest. Colin Fitzgerald is more relaxed, with his arms at his sides. He’s wearing a V-neck sweater with the sleeves rolled up, and there’s ink peeking out from under his collar and his cuffs. Dude’s totally tatted up, I realize.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask the Briar players.
“The goon told us,” Hollis says.
“The goon?”
“Weston,” Fitzgerald supplies, grinning. “My girlfriend Summer texted him.”
“Ah.”
“Are we done with the small talk?” Hollis asks politely.
I fight a laugh. I wonder if they’re going for a good cop, bad cop approach. “Sure, I guess we’re done.” I make a gracious gesture toward him. “Why are you here?”
“Because we wanted to beat some sense into you.”
“Please don’t we this,” Fitzgerald objects. “I just drove you here.”
Hollis glares at his teammate. “You’re saying you don’t give a shit that he broke Jensen’s heart?”
I suck in a breath. I broke her heart? Did she tell them that?
Hollis spins toward me again. “You are such a dumbass, Connelly. You made the biggest mistake of your dumbass life when you broke up with Brenna.”
“I know.”
“First of all, she’s gorgeous. It’s almost disgusting how gorgeous she is. She’s smart and witty and hilarious and—wait, what do you mean, ‘you know’?”
Shrugging, I lower myself onto the bench. They remain standing, and I suddenly feel like I’m a kid being scolded by my two dads.
“I mean I know,” I say unhappily. “It was a huge mistake. One I’m going to rectify the second we beat Michigan.”
“If you knew it was a mistake, then why didn’t you rectify it days ago?” Hollis demands.
“Because I have a game to play.”
Because I’m fucking terrified of facing her.
There’s no way I’m admitting that to these two boneheads, but it’s the truth, the real truth.
I suppose I could take the easy way out and blame Hazel for my actions. She was the one who induced my panic by hammering me with all those questions, asking if I was ready, warning how hard it was going to be, how impossible long-distance relationships are. Every point she’d raised created more and more pressure inside my chest until I couldn’t breathe. The walls started closing in on me, and I felt like I was suffocating.
I know she wasn’t doing it on purpose. Those were all things I should’ve already been thinking about, issues I should’ve been anticipating.
But I wasn’t, because I was still living my Solo Jake life. In that life, I get to be selfish. I get to blow off dates for hockey. I get to concentrate on kicking ass in the NHL. I get to have one priority: myself.
Relationship Jake is required to be there for someone other than himself. Or rather, to be there for someone along with himself. The realization scared the shit out of me. I’ve never had to be there for anybody else. What if I’m bad at it? What if I let Brenna down in some way? I can’t promise to be there for her every second of the day, and the way Hazel was going on about it, it was like I wouldn’t have a single second to myself ever again.
I’m really not blaming Hazel. But the anxiety attack that began at the diner followed me all the way home. When I saw Brenna, the panic spilled over.
I found myself grasping for the first excuse that came to mind, the tried-and-true reason I used to give girls who demanded more of my time: hockey. I told her I needed to be there for my team, because in that moment I was terrified of the responsibility of being there for her.
It only took an hour, maybe two, before my anxiety passed and I was able to clearly process my thoughts. I am capable of being there for Brenna. Haven’t I already done that for more than a month now? I was there for her with the Ed Mulder charade, rescuing her ex-boyfriend, advising her about her issues with Coach Jensen. She was staying at my house, and other than one late practice—which makes a total of three in the past seventeen years—I was perfectly capable of balancing hockey and a girlfriend.
I don’t expect next season to be a breeze. I’ll be traveling a lot, I’ll be exhausted from working my butt off, and I won’t get to see Brenna half as much as I’d like to. But it’s only one year. We can survive that. Then she’ll graduate, and maybe consider moving to Edmonton, if I’m still playing there.
Annnd I’m getting way ahead of myself right now. First I need to convince her to take me back, and then we can worry about her moving to another country for me.
“Are you gonna talk to her after the game?” Hollis asks expectantly. “Or do we need to bring out a shotgun and—”
“Relax, you don’t have to make me talk to her at gunpoint,” I say with a chuckle.
“What?” His expression is puzzled. “I was going to say we’d clock you in the back of the head with the shotgun, knock some sense into you.”
I turn to Fitzgerald, who shrugs and says, “His brain operates on a level us mortals can’t comprehend.”
Hollis looks pleased. “Dude, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
The unexpected visit from the Briar guys is nothing compared to the shock I receive when I leave the locker room to find a vending machine and instead find my parents standing in the corridor. For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, until my mom blurts out my name.
“Jake!” Relief floods her face. “You’re here? Rory, he’s already here.”
“I can see that,” Dad says dryly.
I shake my head in confusion, then glance over at Hazel, who’s next to my mother. She offers a slight smile, as if to say, Look what the cat dragged in, right?
“Yeah. I’m here. I showed up early.”
“Why weren’t you answering your phone?” Mom asks.
“I forgot it at home.” I stare at my parents. “Why are you guys here?”
“We came to support you,” Mom replies.
Dad claps me on the shoulder. “This is a big game for you. And if I’m being honest, your mother and I felt bad about not making more of an effort to attend your games. Now that you’ll be in the pros, your parents will be expected to make an appearance, right?”
“I don’t think anybody cares if some random rookie’s parents are in the box or not, Dad.”
“Random rookie?” he echoes. “No way!”
“You’re going to be a superstar,” Mom reminds me, a big smile on her face. “And we’re so very proud of you.”
My eyes suddenly feel hot. Damn it, I can’t tear up right now. Got a game to concentrate on.
“Thank you,” I say, and, yeah, my voice is a bit hoarse. I clear my throat. “I know you guys don’t care about hockey much, but I appreciate that you came today.”
“We might not be hockey fanatics, but we’re Jake fanatics,” Mom declares.
Hazel snorts. “That was so lame, Mrs. C.”
“We should take our seats,” Dad says. “It’s really filling up in there.”