“No one else at home knows him,” I pointed out. “How are they going to—”
“You know what I mean. He could be busy that weekend. I’d ask him, like, today,” Emma said.
“How about now?” Jones suggested. Emma and Jones tried pushing me out onto the ice, but I pushed back, holding my ground.
Suddenly I spotted Conor. The teams were taking breaks, and he had slid his goalie mask up on his head and was looking over at us. He reached onto the top of the net for his water bottle. I waved at him, but he either didn’t see me, or just wanted to act as if he didn’t know me. Whatever. He was being strange, which for him, was acting in character.
“That’s Conor,” I explained.
“Man, you’ve been working hard since you got here. How many other guys do you know?” Emma asked. I’d actually managed to impress her.
“No, the question is: How many other brothers do they have, and are they our age?” Jones asked.
“Ha!” I laughed. “No, it’s just the two of them.”
“Okay, well, how about if you choose one and I’ll take the other,” Jones said.
“What about you? You invited anyone to the cabin yet?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“I may have hinted at it,” she said. “I may have suggested that Christopher think about leaving that weekend open, just in case something comes up.”
“Jones! You’re mean,” I said. “You shouldn’t lead him on.”
“I’m not leading him on,” she said. “I may be leading him astray, but I’m not leading him on.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“I don’t imply anything. See, I’m inviting him as my friend, not my boyfriend. He just hasn’t realized that yet.”
“Well, tell him. Because I don’t want to spend the whole weekend trying to cheer him up,” I said.
“Of course not. You’ll be busy with Mr. Wonderful.”
I looked out at the ice and watched Sean skate. “February second,” I murmured. “Darn. That’s getting close, isn’t it?”
We stood in silence, sipping our coffee and watching the game for a few minutes. I couldn’t get over how good both Sean and Conor were. Sean was skating at top speed, and he made some incredibly great passes. But whenever he or his teammates made a shot on goal, Conor blocked it. Conor’s team wasn’t quite as good, so the puck ended up in his end of the rink more often than not.
Sean got a pass from the right wing and tried to flick the puck into the upper corner of the goal. It hit the post and bounced back, without going in. Sean jammed at it with his skates, then took a shot, his hockey stick nearly colliding right with Conor’s head.
It was a goal.
It was also bloody murder.
Conor dropped his stick and they started to wrestle, pushing and shoving against each other. Conor whipped off his big, thick goalie gloves and punched Sean, just as Sean was trying to slug him.
Pretty soon the rest of the guys were involved, either fighting and punching, too, or trying to pull Sean and Conor off of each other before anyone got too badly hurt.
Watching players fight during a hockey game is not unusual. My dad always says, “We went to a fight and a hockey game broke out.”
Most of the time, we’d probably applaud loudly and cheer them on—that’s what we do at our high school games, especially if someone on the opposing team ends up getting both pummeled and also time in the penalty box for it.
But this was Sean. Someone was trying to punch Sean’s face. His very nice, very good-looking face. Before my friends could get another really good look at it and be suitably impressed.
And Conor—I thought I could see that he was bleeding. And yelling. And Sean was yelling back and trying to take another swing.
“Come on, guys. Break it up, break it up!” One of the adult refs finally managed to get them apart. There was a short, official timeout, and Emma, Jones and I looked at each other uneasily.
“As I said, they’re just a tiny bit competitive,” I said.
“Typical,” Jones sighed.
I watched Sean sitting in the makeshift penalty box (a couple of folding chairs), holding ice to his eye. Near the goal, a friend of Conor’s was handing him a towel to clean off his face. Then he skated off and had to sit next to Sean. They’d both gotten penalties for fighting.
The game continued after a brief intermission to reset the goal posts, but we spent most of the time talking, and not watching. Sean didn’t score another goal, but one of his teammates did, making the final score 3-1.
“Would you guys mind going on ahead?” I asked when the final whistle blew. “I want to go talk to Sean for a sec. And I kind of want to do it in private.”
“Are you going to ask him about the cabin weekend?” Jones said excitedly.
I shook my head. “Not right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because—he’s totally injured and I want to see if he’s okay and—I’m just not.” Also, because I’m petrified. Because I’m all about procrastination.
“Do it,” Emma urged, giving my arm a squeeze. “We’ll be waiting in the car, which is way over there.” She pointed across the parking lot. “So don’t sweat it, we won’t be watching you and making you nervous. Take your time.”
Should I ask him now? I wondered as I started to walk over to the warming hut, where Sean had headed after the game. Maybe this was the perfect time, and not a bad time after all. He’d be extra vulnerable, what with the stitches he might need. I could drive him to the hospital. Those kinds of bonds—emotional ones, not stitches—lasted forever.
I was all smiles as I started to open the door and saw Sean sitting on the bench where he’d removed my skates when my feet were frozen solid.
Before I could step into the building, I saw a short girl with long, brown hair come up to Sean. She put her hands on his legs and leaned against him, practically crawling onto his lap. “Are you okay?” I heard her coo. And Sean smiled at her, and then she moved even closer.
Before he could see me, I let the door slam and turned around as quickly as I could.
Oh, God. “New city, new year, new Kirsten.” Yeah, right. No, same old Kirsten, perpetually single. Cursed. I wasn’t going to have a date for the cabin weekend. I wasn’t going to have a real boyfriend, period. Ever. I started running, keeping my head down to hide how upset I was, and crashed right into someone.
“What’s wrong?” Conor held my arm to keep me from falling.
“Nothing,” I said.
My eyes filled with tears, which I willed to stop because I didn’t want Conor to see, and I didn’t want them to freeze in my eyes or on my cheeks, either. The thing that really sucks about crying in the winter is that when your tears fall, they form little icicles on your cheeks.
“Are you okay? You look weird,” he said.
“Thanks. Great compliment,” I said, hating my voice for being so shaky. “It’s the wind, that’s all. My eyes always water when it’s cold and windy.”
Conor hadn’t let go of me yet. The next thing I knew, he leaned down from his skates-height to brush a tear from my cheek. There was a big spark when his hand touched my face, from the static electricity.
“Don’t—what—” I sputtered, pulling away from him.
“I—I’m sorry. You just—you looked so sad.”
“What is with you? You hate me. You do nothing but make fun of me. Now you’re done beating up Sean, and you try to kiss me?”
“What are you talking about? I wasn’t going to kiss you,” he said. “God, you can be so vain.”
“Then what were you doing?” I asked.
“You looked upset. I was trying to, like—I don’t know,” he said.
“Well, I don’t know either. But whatever it was, forget it,” I said.
“Fine. Don’t feel better.”
“Good. I won’t!” I said. Then I wondered what I was bragging about. �
�See you later. No, wait. On second thought, maybe not.” I darted around him and ran for Emma’s waiting SUV.
Now what? The only good thing about my encounter with Conor was that it had distracted me for a second from feeling as awful as I had when I saw Sean with that girl.
The sight of the two of them came back into my mind. They’d been too close—way too close—to have been just friends. So did he have a girlfriend? Why hadn’t he told me, if he did? God, how awful. No wonder he’d looked surprised when I kissed him.
“So? What happened?” Emma asked as I climbed into the front passenger seat. Jones was sprawled on the back seat, her feet up.
“Nothing,” I said. This could potentially have been the biggest day of all time in my love life, I was thinking. And it was, but not the way I wanted or expected.
“Kirst? You okay?” Jones asked.
“Oh, sure. Fine.” I managed a small smile.
“Did you ask him?” Emma said.
“No, I—I didn’t get a chance. Too many people were around,” I said. Especially the pretty one with long brown hair.
If I’d had anything to tell them about, beforehand, about me and Sean, now I wasn’t sure what was going on with us. Did I have a prospect, or didn’t I?
Jones leaned forward and rested her chin on the back of my seat. “I thought I saw you with goalie boy just now.”
I glared at her over my shoulder. “You said you weren’t going to spy.”
“Sorry,” she apologized.
“We were just talking. It was nothing,” I said.
“Oh. Okay. Well, who’s up for lunch?” Jones asked.
Somehow I couldn’t imagine summoning much of an appetite.
Chapter 11
“Sean called while you were gone,” Gretchen announced when I got home from lunch, and hanging out shopping with Emma and Jones. It was about five o’clock and they’d already left to go back home. “I told him you’d be home tonight, so he’s coming over around six.”
“He is?” I asked. The house seemed strangely empty without Brett around; he’d gone to his father’s for the weekend.
“Yes. Why do you sound so surprised?” Gretchen asked.
“Because…I don’t know,” I said. I wondered if it would be possible for me to hide in my room when he came over. Probably not. What if I ran to the bathroom and pretended to be violently ill?
I just couldn’t stand the thought of talking to him, after seeing him with that girl, in the warming—very warming—hut.
I’d completely made a move on him Friday night when we went sledding. Now it was Saturday night and I had no idea where we stood.
Did he want to be with me?
Or was he coming over to tell me he already had a girlfriend?
Maybe I wouldn’t have to fake being sick. I was getting nauseous just thinking about seeing him.
When I finally focused on Gretchen again, she was staring at me. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Tired, that’s all.”
“Come on. Let me freshen your look before he gets here.” She took my arm and started to pull me toward the bathroom, where she kept a tower of beauty products. She was using one crutch to balance herself as she walked.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You look tired. I don’t know what’s going on with you guys, but you seem stressed about it. The last thing you want to do is actually let him know you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I said.
“What are you, then?” she asked.
I didn’t want to tell her, but I had to tell someone. She knew Sean; maybe she could tell me something that made me feel better. Or maybe she knew something and wasn’t telling. Either way, I had to let her know what was bothering me.
“Confused,” I said.
She grabbed a compact of foundation powder and then some blush and gave me a mini-makeover while we talked. “Don’t make me look too made up,” I said.
“I won’t,” she said. “Don’t worry. Now spill.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not that big a deal, I guess.” I told her about the girl I’d seen with Sean, how she was all over him and how he could easily have been all over her, except that I closed the door and stopped looking.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Gretchen said as she leaned over to select a lipstick color for me. “That doesn’t sound like much.”
“It doesn’t?” I said. “What if he’s already seeing someone?”
“Well…are you seeing him? Technically?”
“Technically? I don’t know about that,” I said. “No. I guess not. I mean, we haven’t known each other that long. But I felt like…” I didn’t want to tell her about the kiss. “Like we were sort of moving that way.”
“So maybe you still are,” Gretchen said cheerfully. “That girl might be nothing to him. You could have interpreted the situation all wrong.”
How many ways were there to interpret someone crawling on someone else’s lap?
“Come on, Kirsten. Cheer up. Don’t be so negative. Whatever happened, you two will work it out.”
Why had I confided in her, anyway? Now she’d be giving me advice, and coordinating makeovers, on a daily basis.
“You know, you can really sound like Mom sometimes,” I told her.
“I do not! God, don’t ever say that again.”
“Why not? You said the same thing she always used to say to me when I got in fights with Tyler, or with my friends. You’ll work it out. Did we ever work it out? No. It didn’t work out then, and it’s not going to work out now—”
“I do not sound like Mom!”
“Fine. You don’t sound like Mom.”
“And you are being sickeningly pessimistic,” she said. “How do you know what’s going on with Sean and that bimbo? You don’t.”
“Bimbo?” I giggled.
“Whatever. Just ask him. Give him a chance to explain.”
Right. Just ask him. She made it sound so easy.
I thought about what I wanted to say to Sean about what I’d seen, or whether I’d say anything. For example, I could say: How could you do that to me, you pig? But he hadn’t really done anything, except let some other girl play Florence Nightingale, instead of me. Still, I didn’t like it.
The doorbell rang about half an hour later, as Gretchen and I were watching TV. I wished her leg wasn’t broken so that she could get the door. But no, it had to be me.
I took a deep breath and walked over to the door.
Everything I wanted to say, or even thought about uttering, vanished completely when I saw Sean, when he smiled at me as I opened the door.
His right eye was half purple, half black and entirely puffy. He looked terrible—well, as terrible as someone as good-looking as Sean could look.
“Hey!” he said. “Where’d you go after the game? I looked for you but—”
“Oh my gosh—your eye. Does it hurt? Did you get stitches?” I asked.
“No, it’s not that bad,” he said. “I mean, it’s not pretty. I’ll give you that.”
“But do you want to be pretty?” I asked. “Anyway, this will make everyone scared of you. They won’t mess with you because they know you’ll fight.”
“Actually, this was kinda weak as far as hockey fights go. A lot of the guys have some kind of cut or missing tooth—this is nothing.” Sean shrugged.
“Nothing, huh?” I stepped a little closer to him, wanting so much to kiss his cut and make it all better—or make me all better, anyway. But no. That couldn’t happen until I found out what was really going on.
“So where did you go?” Sean asked. “One minute you were there, with your friends at the game, and then like—you were gone.”
“Well, after the fight broke out…” Let’s see, what should I tell him. I had to escape because I saw you with someone else? And then your brother started acting strange, so…that was pretty much a full day?
“My friends and I went
to lunch,” I explained instead. “They were kind of in a hurry, so we didn’t get a chance to talk to you.”
“You should have called me,” he said. “I could have met you guys for lunch.”
He had a point. “I would have, but…” I was afraid you’d be out with what’s-her-name hockey nurse. “We had some private stuff to talk about. Girl stuff.” Normally I hate that expression, but in this case I thought it would make the topic just go away, which it did.
Sean leaned closer to me and asked softly, “Look, do you want to go somewhere?”
Yes…and no, I thought. I so much wanted to be close to him like this…but not if I wasn’t the only one who got to be. “I don’t know,” I said.
“Just for a walk.” Sean gestured to Gretchen on the sofa, watching TV. “Just for a couple minutes, so we can talk.”
I nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.” I grabbed my jacket from the closet by the door, and turned to Gretchen with a wave. “Be back soon!”
She smiled and gave me a thumbs-up sign. I really, really hoped Sean hadn’t been able to see that.
He put his arm around my waist as we walked down the sidewalk. I could just picture us walking past his house, and Conor pelting us with snowballs.
“So. Is, um, Conor working tonight?” I asked, just to make conversation. I wasn’t ready to ask the Big Question yet. Why would he have his arm around me if he wasn’t into me, though?
“Probably. He’s always working somewhere,” Sean said.
“I noticed.”
“Ever since he got cut from hockey, it’s like all he does is work,” Sean added.
“He got cut? Really? I thought he was so good.”
“He is. But, you know. Dan is better. Trey is better. We only need two goalies.”
I thought about how much that would suck, not making the team your younger brother was the star of. I knew Conor and Sean were competitive with each other. “So he plays club hockey instead?”
“Like today? Yeah.” Sean nodded and gave me a little squeeze, pulling me closer. “That was some fight, huh?”
“Yeah. Does that happen a lot?” I asked.
“No. Not usually,” Sean said. “Conor kept getting in my face. I was sick of it.”
Icing on the Lake Page 10