Hard Stick

by Paige North

  His face is, as always, stony and emotionless when I enter. He motions for me to sit in the chair as he finishes his writing, then turns around. “Shaw, I’m sure you have no idea why I asked you here.”

  Oh, I’ve had plenty of ideas. All of them bad. I nod, running my sweaty palms on my thighs.

  “I won’t keep you in suspense anymore.” He reaches over and pulls out a familiar file. It’s the manila folder where I’d compiled all my research. “I’ve had a chance to go over some of your findings that you were compiling for your thesis, as well as your initial work, and I have to say . . . this is some of the best work I’ve ever seen in all my years at this school.”

  I blink. Is he actually . . . complimenting me?

  “It’s a shame that we can’t use it, because I think it would have been very well received. Very well received, indeed,” he says, then presses his lips together and sets it aside. “But here’s something I can use. That boyfriend of yours came to me last week.”

  I stare at him. “Boyfriend?” I murmur. “He’s not . . .” I stop. I’m sure Professor Morgan doesn’t want to hear the intimate details of my pathetic love life “Wait, Flynn came to see you?”

  He nods. “He told me he would do anything he could to help so that this semester’s work wasn’t a waste of time, even if it meant significant, invasive testing to derive the data we needed.” He clears his throat. “I told him that it would do nothing to help you get your job back, but he still wanted to contribute. His contribution has helped me tremendously, so I can’t say this semester’s work has been a total waste.”

  He reaches for his desk and hands me one of those small, hopelessly outdated cassette recorders, as well as a shoebox full of tiny cassettes.

  “It’s all on there. Fifteen hours of interviews. I know it can’t replace the original work you were doing, but it’s all objective, untainted, and usable data. I think you should be able to come up with a strong thesis based on it, don’t you think?”

  I nod, hardly able to believe this. “But I didn’t—“

  “You put in enough hours, I think, with the other players. Deliver it to me before the end of the term,” he says, “And we’ll see about your degree.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I murmur breathlessly, taking the shoebox in my hands. “Thank you.”

  “Thank that boyfriend of yours,” he says. “Or maybe he should be thanking you.”

  I stare at him, confused. “Why?”

  “He said that it was you who helped him realize that he needed to change his mindset if he was ever going to get into the NHL. Have you seen him on the ice lately? He’s quite reformed.”

  Dazed, I collect my things, stand up and walk to the door. It doesn’t really hit me until I’m outside, sucking the cold air into my lungs. Flynn did this for me. My Psychology degree isn’t impossible, and it’s all because of Flynn.

  So if he doesn’t hate me, why hasn’t he called me?

  I will myself not to think about that, now. I have fifteen hours of interviews to listen to and fifty pages of a thesis to write, but if Flynn could brave the man he thinks is an idiot for fifteen hours, then I sure as hell am not giving this up without a fight.

  Chapter 23

  I force myself to concentrate on work. Flynn doesn’t call or text, as much as I want him to, and I guess that’s a blessing, or else I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to think of anything but him.

  Not that I don’t already spend a huge chunk of time thinking of him.

  The city is in full-holiday mode, and though I’ve managed to buy the requisite Boston souvenirs as gifts for my mom and dad, I’ve stayed out of the Christmas rush, sinking myself fully into the thesis and studying for exams. As I’m putting the finishing touches on my thesis, it starts to snow and doesn’t stop. It seems to make everyone more excited for the holidays, except me. Whenever I think of holidays, now, I think of the Thanksgiving dinner I had with Flynn’s family, and get a pang of longing in my chest.

  On the second-to-last day before the semester ends, I have to tramp over two feet of snow in order to deliver my thesis to Professor Morgan. I slip it through the mail slot on his door at an hour I know he won’t be there, feeling nervous, but proud. It’s definitely the best piece of work I’ve ever written.

  Then I get back home and start to pile up my books, so I can pack them into my suitcase for the trip back to Ohio.

  “Two exams down,” Jen says, triumphantly, shaking snowflakes off her coat as she comes inside with a fresh box of donuts. She opens them for me—Boston crème in festive red and green. “Two to go. This is my mid-exam celebration.”

  “I like the way you think,” I say, even though her way of thinking has made my pants plenty tight the past week. I always eat under stress, and the thesis qualified. I pull more books off the bookshelf in the living room and take a big bite of a green donut, oozing cream all over my chin.

  She starts to hum a little bit of Rudolph as she pulls books out of her backpack and tosses them in a pile suitable for burning. She’s managed to decorate the room with colored lights and a little fake Christmas tree. I may be moving out in under a week, when the semester ends, but she still has another semester at Cambridge before she graduates. Supposedly she already has a new roommate lined up, which makes me sad. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I have a reason to stay, but part of me still hopes Flynn would come by, like he used to, completely unannounced. Also, I’m going to miss Jen. We’ve already made plans to meet up again after her graduation during summer vacation.

  “Have you seen this?” she asks me, tossing me a newspaper opened to the sports section.

  I unfold it and read. It’s a whole feature on Flynn. I don’t feel completely lost whenever I see him mentioned anymore. I get that pang of longing and sadness still, yes, but it’s different now because I know he at least doesn’t hate me.

  I’ve heard snippets of news broadcasts that have said the Argonauts winning streak is continuing and that Flynn is responsible. They say he’s on a fast-track to the NHL, and I can’t help but feel proud for him. Like maybe I played a small part in that. I caught a few of his games on the television, too, and he hasn’t gotten in half as many fights as he used to. The headline on the top of the article says, FLYNN TAYLOR, HOCKEY’S BAD-BOY, REFORMED: Taylor Called Up to NHL for a Second Shot at Victory.

  “Why don’t you just text him?” Jen asks me.

  “Because,” I say, as if the answer is obvious. “He’s doing so well. He doesn’t need me.”

  She shakes her head. “You think because he’s on a winning streak he doesn’t want to hear from you?”

  “Well, what if he doesn’t?” I say. “Athletes are so weird about things. Maybe if I text him, I’ll jinx him, and he’ll hate me for that.”

  “If he doesn’t want to talk to you, he won’t answer your text. But if you don’t put it out there, you’ll never know.”

  I contemplate that as I scan the paper. Maybe I’d go through my entire life wondering what if, and that would really suck. I have one exam left, tomorrow, and a flight booked from Logan to Columbus, Saturday night. If I’m going to do this, I should do it now.

  My eyes stop at a bolded question from the interviewer: So all of Boston wants to know. What made you change your ways? Did you have a religious moment? Because everyone who knows you best can’t understand why you’re suddenly acting like a saint.

  Underneath, it says:

  FT (laughing): I fell in love.

  I grab the paper in my hands and study the words so closely my nose hits newsprint.

  Well many females in Boston will probably read this and weep. Are you saying you’re off the market?

  FT: Well, as it turns out, I lost her. I acted like selfish idiot and said some things I shouldn’t have. But she made me realize what kind of player I want to be.

  I stare at the paper so long and so quietly, my mouth slightly open, that eventually Jen comes along and waves a hand in my face. “What?”

>   “He fell in love,” I murmur, my eyes starting to tear up a little.

  She rips the paper out of my hands and studies it. “With you.”

  “Not with me. It can’t be. I—I mean . . . I didn’t even know Flynn did the love thing.”

  “Well he obviously does,” she says, swatting me on the head with the paper. “You have to text him now.”

  I reach down and grab my phone, thinking of what I should say. Then I gnaw on my lip. I have no idea what to start with. Finally, I set it down. “If he loves me, why didn’t he just text me?”

  Jen sighs and reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a small envelope. “Look,” she says, “I was going to give this to you when we did our formal gift exchange tomorrow, but it looks like you need it now.”

  “What . . .” I smile at her. “I have your gift upstairs!”

  “Okay, forget that for a second,” she says, tapping on the envelope. “Open, open, open.”

  I lift the flap and look inside. It’s two tickets to the Boston Bobcats game this weekend . . . Flynn’s first NHL game. My jaw drops. I look up at her.

  She points to the ticket. “Good seats,” she says with a grin. “Right behind the bench, supposedly. So if you can’t text him, maybe you can tell him in person?”

  I push my laptop aside, jump to my feet, and hug her, feeling tears sliding down my cheeks. “Maybe. But what if being there, I mess with his concentration?”

  She laughs. “Well, maybe then he’ll realize he should’ve texted you. Seriously, Savannah, he wants you there. He wants you, period. But he loves you so much that he’s putting your happiness first. He’s willing to stay away from you, because he thinks that’s what you want . . . to further your career. You need to set him straight and tell him exactly what you want. Simple as that.”

  “All right,” I murmur to her, staring at the tickets. “All right.”

  Chapter 24

  I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans as Jen orders a beer and a hot dog at the concession stand.

  She glances at me. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

  I shake my head, looking around the crowded concourse. Two giggling girls in Taylor 9 Argonaut jerseys walk past me, making me feel even sicker. I try to tell myself to stop. This is Flynn’s day. Likely, he’s in the locker room right now, feeling just as queasy as I am, but for an entirely different reason. He has his second NHL game of his career to think about.

  Jen takes her food and we go into the arena, which is already full, since the game starts in five minutes. We climb down the steps, stopping at row A, almost directly behind the bench. We squeeze into our seats, and wow, they’re good seats. I’ve never had seats this amazing before. It’s so close I could almost reach out and touch the players, if it weren’t for the glass in the way.

  I shred the program in my hands, and by the time the music starts to blast and the spotlights begin to swirl on the ice, I’m a ball of nerves. You’re happy for him, I tell myself. You’ve just come to wish him well. That’s all.

  The opposing team skates out onto the ice. “Oh, look,” Jen says, grabbing my arm. She points up at the giant screen above the ice, and there’s his name, TAYLOR, in the list of players. Just as she does that, the announcer booms, “And here are your Bobcats!”

  Everyone around me erupts into cheers as the men skate out. I scan the ice, looking for him. Jen must see him at the same time, because she jiggles my arm. “Oh, my God! There he is! Is he growing a beard?”

  I squint and the next time he loops around, I see a little more facial hair than usual. My heart jumps into my throat; he’s even handsomer than the last time I saw him. He doesn’t raise his head to the audience at all, so I don’t have to worry about him noticing me. He’s entirely focused on the game, confident and relaxed, like he’s played a hundred NHL games. Not nervous, like me. He looks like he belongs out there.

  Something swells inside me. Pride. Even if he doesn’t care about me anymore, I am so proud of him and happy that he’s finally found where he belongs.

  Shortly after the first face-off, I almost forget that that man out on the ice is the Flynn I’m in love with. That Flynn was the angry man who was unsure, afraid that he’d choke in the NHL. This one plays hard, and fiercely, and seems to know instinctively where the puck will be at all times. He is constantly in the center of the action, so much so that his name is nearly a permanent fixture on the screens above. He makes hard hits, takes no prisoners, and owns the ice like a veteran player. How could someone like him—so talented and superhuman—be in love with me? It all seems like a dream.

  No, this is Flynn, living his dream. Being the player he was always meant to be.

  Jen looks over at me and grabs my hand, and it’s then I realize I’m crying.

  “Are you okay? Do you want to leave?”

  I shake my head. If anything, I could stay here forever, watching him. Watching him be this amazing, god-like, incredible man who I love.

  And at that moment, I know it’s true. I love him. And even if he never looks my way and I don’t get a chance to speak to him ever again, I know my heart will always carry a piece of him.

  I lean forward, sitting on my hands, as Flynn skates down the ice with the puck. Every time he has it, I find myself holding my breath. I know he’s barely ever played with these men before, but he seems to anticipate their movements before they happen. He dodges a hit from an opposing player, spins around behind the goal, then volleys the puck to the center, who drives a shot right into the goal. Instantly, we’re on our feet, jumping up and down like kids at a birthday party as the siren blares and the Bobcats’ victory music starts to play.

  Flynn and the center embrace. The announcer says Flynn’s name, calling him “our hometown hero, in what is only the second NHL game of his career.” His first assist in the national league! Someone behind me shouts, “Go Taylor! Way to give ‘em hell!” and I find myself screaming and wolf-whistling for him, too. I catch someone holding a GO TAYLOR! GO BEAST! Sign on the other side of the ice. Soon, everyone is chanting Beast! Beast! Beast! In a low, almost guttural way, trying to psych the other team out.

  They loved him as the irreverent bad boy in the minors, maybe, but I think this city will love him even more as a Bobcat.

  The other team scores at the end of the first period, leaving the game tied. After a nail-biting second period where Flynn makes several close calls, I look over at Jen and mutter, “The opposing goalie is good. Scumbag. Flynn should’ve had three goals by now.”

  “Four,” she says in agreement. “He’s playing phenomenally.”

  At the intermissions, the players file off the ice, and Flynn still doesn’t come close to looking up at me. I can’t even bear to get up to get myself a measly pretzel, I’m so wound up. He’s already playing better than any other player on the ice, but knowing the way Flynn beat himself up over one lousy play, I’m sure he doesn’t think it’s good enough.

  I need the Bobcats to win this game, more than anything else I’ve ever needed in my life. After the Zamboni does its magic and the players filter back onto the ice, I stand up and rattle the glass. “GO BOBCATS!” Jen and I scream like the most manic, rabid fans in the world, not even worrying now if Flynn will notice me. He doesn’t. He hasn’t lost that focus.

  “Does he even know you’re here, I wonder?” she asks.

  “I don’t think so. His mind is too set on the game,” I tell her. “That’s okay. Even if he doesn’t know I’m here . . .this is the best present, ever, Jen. Just to be here to see this, with you, before I go back to Ohio . . . I’m so happy.”

  I’m getting tears in my eyes again. She wraps an arm around me and hugs me. “It’ll be an even better present if they win,” she says. “And so it’s going to happen. I can feel it.”

  But as the twenty minutes tick down to the two minute-warning, still no goal, on either side. My vision goes blurry as my eyes rapidly alternate between checking the seconds ticking down on the overhead clock and watchin
g the game. Finally, Flynn skates out for what’s his last shift on the ice in regulation time. All the people in the entire arena are on their feet, jumping up and down, cheering for the final goal to win this game. I lean forward, licking my lips in anticipation as Flynn and another player hit the boards, hard, not two yards away from me. They start to grapple, sticks click-clacking together, trying to free the puck and take it down the ice.

  In the middle of the tussle, his eyes suddenly shift up . . . higher, higher . . . and they meet mine.

  He pushes off the opposing player, and maybe I imagine it, but I could swear I see a small smile there. Maybe one only I could see.

  And then he’s off, puck glued to his stick, heading for the opposing team’s goal, before his opponent even realizes where he’s gone.

  The seconds tick away, but I can feel it more than I can see it. I know that the buzzer is coming. Just as the final seconds tick down, Flynn aims, pulls his stick back, and delivers a parting shot that cracks through the arena like a whip.

  The goalie dives, too far.

  The puck sails over his head.

  The crowd roars louder than ever, shattering eardrums. My jaw drops and I hug Jen tight, still jumping and screaming at the same time. Then we hug the strangers next to us. All of Boston is just one, big hug-fest, everyone screaming and chanting Beast! Beast! Beast! At the top of their lungs. On the ice, the players are hugging Flynn. Flynn, who is somewhere in the center of his own hug-fest, getting the adoration he’s always deserved.

  Moments later, he breaks away from his teammates, and just like that, hops the part of the wall that’s shortest and lands in the stands not ten feet away from us.

  I turn around, and there he is, standing over me, still wearing his skates, which make me have to raise my eyes ever higher to meet his. My heart skitters in my chest as I take him in, still breathless, sweating, exhausted. And despite all that, he’s left the ice, for me. I can barely look at him, I’m so shocked. I wait for him to say something, but I suppose he wants me to speak first. So I do.