Cold Hard Truth

by Brown, Anne Greenwood;

  A flutter ran across Emmie’s stomach. Confide in her only friend, or save her from the ugly truth? Emmie shrugged. “There’s really not that much to tell.”

  “Right,” Marissa deadpanned.

  When they finally reached the building, Marissa held the door open and Emmie practically leaped across the threshold, eager for the promise of heat. The faint smell of chlorine from the school’s swimming pool met her nose. Physically, the place hadn’t changed. The clock on the wall. The posters. The crowd of people. The din of easy conversations. The cloud of drugstore cologne. And yet, despite its familiarity, she might as well have landed on an alien planet.

  Keep cool, she thought. Be inconspicuous. And that’s when the worn heel of her wet boot hit the newly polished tile.

  Emmie’s ankle turned. Her foot shot out in front of her while her arms clawed at the air. Shit! She was airborne.

  For just a second, she would have sworn she was in suspended animation—frozen cartoonlike in space, staring up at the ceiling. Mentally, she prepared for impact.

  Instead, what followed was a flash of blue-and-white, the glimpse of a wristwatch with a cracked face, and finally the strange scent of cloves and…laundry soap? Then something solid caught her from behind, and the world was right side up again.

  She should have said thanks. She knew she was supposed to say thanks. But the feeling of a stranger’s fingers wrapped tightly around her hips made the thank-you come out as “Don’t touch me!” And then a second later as “Seriously, please. Let go of me.”

  But whoever had caught her didn’t let go. At least not immediately. “Steady now,” a low, rich voice said just behind her ear. The breath that came with it was warm and tickled the edge of her ear.

  “I got it,” Emmie said as she twisted violently in the stranger’s hold. Nick is going to see. He’ll make me pay. Of course, there was no Nick. Nick was in prison.

  The hands released her, and when Emmie turned, her eyes landed on a blue-and-white hockey jersey covering broad, muscled shoulders. Oh God. It was worse than she’d thought.

  White Prairie High School had been in the hockey state tournament—both guys’ and girls’ teams—for at least a decade, and usually they won the trophy. The players were an exclusive group, and Emmie remembered people acting like there was a force field around them. They all walked around like God’s gifts to the world.

  The last thing any of them needed was a hero complex. This one in particular because he was tall and ridiculously built for a high school guy. He probably went through his day throwing his muscle around. His dark, uncombed hair fell over his eyes as he reached down and handed Emmie her backpack.

  “You’re welcome,” he said with a playful bit of sarcasm, which sucked. Emmie’d always admired people who could pull off sarcasm without sounding like a dick. She didn’t want to like anything about this guy.

  He said, “Try to be more careful next time,” and then he was on his way, yelling, “Jordy! Wait up!” In all likelihood, Emmie was already a distant memory.

  Emmie watched him go, realizing she’d never really looked at his face. She’d been too distracted by the rest of him (not to mention her humiliation). The guy high-fived his teammate, who wore dark-rimmed glasses and had his hair shaved into a curly top fade.

  The two of them wore the same blue jersey and had similar swaggers, but there was definitely something different about the guy who’d caught her. Maybe it was the way he held his body, as if he was carrying a very heavy weight. It was a posture Emmie was used to seeing. Like every time she looked in a mirror.

  “Wow,” Marissa said. “Max Shepherd! That was cuh-razy. You okay?”

  Emmie didn’t know if Marissa was commenting on her near-concussion or the fact that a hockey player had just spoken to her like they were of the same species. Before Emmie could respond, Marissa was waving at two girls who were quickly approaching.

  “Sarah,” Marissa said, addressing a girl with a light brown braid and circular tan lines around her eyes, “remember I told you about my friend Emmie? Emmie, this is Sarah. She just got back from Vail. She doesn’t usually look like a raccoon. And this is Olivia,” she said, indicating a tall black girl with natural hair and mascara smudged under her eyes.

  “Looks like there’s a hockey game tonight,” Olivia said.

  “Yeah,” Sarah said. “I noticed their matching costumes.”

  “We should go,” Marissa said. “Everyone’s going. What do you think, Em? Want to go? It would be a good opportunity for you to reintroduce yourself to the fascinating world of White Prairie High.”

  “I don’t know.” Emmie didn’t feel the need to support a bunch of egomaniacs. In fact, the whole thing seemed so trivial. Not like the real world. In the real world, people didn’t care about sports. They cared about having enough money for their next fix, even if they didn’t have cab fare to get to their probation hearing.

  In the real world, B. J. Aldrich OD’d ten months ago. Right on Nick’s kitchen floor. Emmie looked down at the tiles beneath her feet, shuddering, as if she could see B. J. lying there facedown. Shirtless. Faded, threadbare jeans. Track-marked arms lying awkwardly by his sides.

  “You got to go, girl. Everybody goes,” Olivia said.

  “I’d have to check with my dad,” Emmie said. With a little luck, he’d say she should stay home until she was more settled, except…Hmmm. What was with the smile of victory playing across Marissa’s mouth? Ah, shit. “My dad’s already okay’d it, hasn’t he?”

  Marissa laughed. “Talked about it last night with my mom. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GAME FACE

  THAT EVENING

  Max Shepherd hauled his hockey bag out of the jeep and wheeled it through the ice-rutted parking lot toward the rink. The ground was slippery, which made him think about the girl in the hallway. Actually, a lot of things had brought her to mind today. He couldn’t shake the sensation of her hip bones pressed beneath his fingertips or the fear in her eyes.

  “Dude,” Chris said, holding the door for him. Chris Daniels had a lion’s mane of thick blond hair, and he shook it back from his face. “Did you see the sign on Jefferson’s bus back there? Let’s whup their asses.”

  Max checked the door with his hip and wheeled his bag through the entry. “No problem. We got this.”

  Jordy slipped his glasses into his coat pocket and gave Max a nod. When you were the White Prairie Jackrabbits, you had to put up with a lot of crap signs from opposing teams. Tonight, Jefferson boasted one of the longest signs Max had ever seen. It stretched the entire length of their bus: Awwwwwww. LOOK AT THE CUTE LIL’ BUNNY WABBITS.

  Regardless, the Jackrabbits held their chins high and swaggered their way to the home-team locker room. Their record made any teasing easier to take. These cute lil’ bunnies had won the state championship seven of the last ten years, and Jefferson hadn’t even made the tournament last year. Besides, what was Jefferson even talking about? They were the freakin’ Mariners. Oooo. Scary.

  Jordy held the locker room door open. Inside, it smelled like stale sweat, feet, and burned rubber. The seven juniors on the team were already there. The twins, Brock and Brady, too. While Chris and Jordy unzipped their bags, Max sat beside them on the bench and bowed his head, visualizing the game—visualizing himself pushing against the ice with his blades, trapping an opponent against the boards, definitely not visualizing himself in the penalty box.

  He grabbed his phone and reread his dad’s text from earlier that morning: Play clean. Love, Dad. Play clean, play clean, play clean. This time, please, play clean.

  His meditation was interrupted by the arrival of their team captain, John “Tack” Tackenberg. “Boys ready? Suit up!”

  Nut cup, shin pads, navy-and-white-striped socks, breezers. Max shoved his feet into his skates. He was feeling good. Better than good. Shoulder pads, elbow pads, jersey. It still smelled like his mom’s laundry soap.

  Some of the guys were
superstitious and wore the same socks—unwashed—to every game. By this halfway point in the season, you knew exactly who those guys were. Max was of the opposite mind. Fresh clothes meant a fresh start. Forget the mistakes of the last game. Start clean. Play clean.

  Coach Polzinski came in and looked around the room, doing a head count. “I want you to keep your heads in the game. You can beat Jefferson, but not if you think you’ve already beat ’em. Skate hard. Give it one hundred and ten percent. Now, Shepherd—”

  “Yes, Coach!” The muscles in Max’s legs bunched with anticipation for the ice.

  “Find the middle, Shepherd.” Max knew what he meant. It was a metaphor Coach had used with him ever since last year. Ever since…

  They both knew that Max’s emotions swung like a pendulum, and somewhere in the middle was the sweet spot. If Max played too hot, he’d be in the penalty box in no time. But if he played too cool, he wouldn’t have an impact on the ice.

  “I’ll find the middle,” Max said. “I promise.”

  “All right.” Coach grabbed Max’s shoulder and gave him a shake. “Finish up. Let’s hit the ice.”

  Max grabbed his phone from his cubby and read his dad’s text one more time for good measure. Play clean. Clean but hard. Clean, but not cautious. Win.

  He shoved his hands into his gloves, pushed his helmet down over his head and grabbed his stick, then one by one, they hopped through the swinging door and BAM! Max hit the ice. And he was alive. So very alive.

  Taking three running steps, he found his stride. He carved the ice, pushing it behind him with long, powerful strokes that made him feel a little high. The crowd roared, leaping to its feet and stomping on the metal bleachers until it sounded like they’d collapse.

  The band played, and classmates hoisted at least a dozen hand-painted signs into the air: SINK THE MARINERS. BOARD THE MARINERS. SPANK THE MARINERS’ BOOTY. Max grinned at that one and pointed his gloved hand at the girl holding it. She screamed and jumped up and down, waving the sign even higher.

  The team skated the perimeter, twice around in warm-up laps that made Max’s muscles burn, priming them for more. He breathed deeply. Rink air. Cold and heady. He spotted his parents in their usual second-row spots, and beside them…a girl in a pink beanie, the knit cap slouched over dark curly hair.

  He would never have noticed her except that she looked completely bored while everyone around her was cheering. She looked like she was waiting in a dentist’s office. This was his life, and she acted like it was nothing. How could anyone be so calm and unaffected?

  And then he recognized her. It was the girl. The girl he’d caught in the hallway. He couldn’t really see her eyes, but he remembered her hair and that hat. Her lips were set in a firm straight line. Yep. She was definitely bored. Ha, he thought. I’ll get you on your feet before the end of the game.

  The puck dropped, and Max was in the zone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KNOW NOTHING

  Emmie knew very little about hockey. As in she knew nothing about hockey. The whole game seemed like a clumsy dance routine with bulky bodies randomly climbing over the boards to skate around in circles before trading off with the next round of clowns. A freakin’ worthless circus if there ever was one.

  For a second, she wished she’d brought a book, but then, sometime in the middle of the third period, she could feel the tension grow. The players were doing a lot less skating and a lot more punching, especially when the ref wasn’t looking. Marissa and the other girls were leaning forward. The crowd on both sides of the ice was yelling and pointing and groaning at calls that should have been made.

  “Put your glasses on, ref!”

  “Can you believe that call?”

  Hockey sticks spanked the ice. The plexiglass rattled as players were checked into the boards, and the players who weren’t on the ice pounded their gloves against the wood. The whole place was thunderous.

  That’s when one of the other team’s players—Number Sixteen—came up alongside one of the White Prairie guys and slashed the back of his knees with his stick. The White Prairie player’s head jerked up, and his legs crumbled. Emmie could hear him howling in agony even from where she sat. It was bad. Really bad. You didn’t have to know anything about hockey to know that had been a vicious cheap shot.

  Everyone in the stands was pointing and yelling in protest. The whole White Prairie bench was leaning over the boards yelling, but still the clock didn’t stop.

  “He’s in,” said the man sitting to Emmie’s right. “Come on, son.” He and his wife leaned forward. “Play clean,” they both said softly under their breath.

  Whoever their son was, he was “in” all right. He didn’t go for his position or for the puck; he went for Jefferson’s Number Sixteen. Emmie hoped the Jefferson player liked pain, because it was clear this couple’s son wanted him to hurt.

  The couple clutched each other’s hands as if that could stop what was about to happen, but their son was like a cement truck at full speed hitting a concrete wall. When he slammed Sixteen’s body against the boards from behind, he laid him out. Holy hell, he laid him out.

  Everyone in the stands, including Emmie, jumped to their feet.

  Number Sixteen’s skates went out in front of him and his head snapped back, yanking his body into a backward arch. He landed faceup on the ice with a sickening thud.

  The whistle blew.

  “No!” the man next to Emmie cried out in dismay.

  The Jefferson kid lay on the ice. He didn’t move. Emmie couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. She’d seen people lie still like that, and the image sucked all the air out of her.

  The crowd slowly sank onto the bleachers in horror and disbelief. The White Prairie coach was yelling. “Shep! You can’t keep doing this! What were you thinking?”

  The couple’s son skated to the penalty box, ripped off his helmet, and hung his head.

  The Jefferson trainers shuffled onto the ice in their shoes, crouching beside their player who was still flat on his back. A long moment passed before they slowly helped the kid to sit. The crowd started to slow clap. Only then did the kid in the penalty box lift his head.

  The Jefferson player put his hands against his helmet. The trainers leaned in, talking to him. He nodded, and they pulled him up to his feet.

  The White Prairie player’s eyes went to his parents next to Emmie, but then they slid over and up to her. That was then Emmie realized she was the only one still on her feet, watching the circus with both hands covering her mouth.

  CHAPTER SIX

  RECKONING

  THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL

  After the final bell, Emmie and her father entered Mrs. Henderson’s tidy counselor’s office. The last time Emmie had been here was freshman year when she’d been trying to get moved into the advanced English class. Since then, Mrs. Henderson had redecorated with ceramic figures of frogs, seals, and baby bunnies.

  “I made them in a summer art class,” Mrs. Henderson said when she noticed Emmie looking. She closed the case file she was reading—presumably Emmie’s—and pushed her multicolored reading glasses to the top of her head. “Welcome, Mr. O’Brien. You two have a seat.”

  Emmie wondered how much of her file’s thickness had been created in the last year. And what did it say about her mom? Did it say divorced, or was there a special check box for addict?

  Five years ago, before the divorce, her mom had been totally normal. Clean. She and Emmie’s father had made sense as a couple. But after her mom hurt her back skiing, then gained a few pounds, things started to change.

  Not that Emmie’s father cared about the extra pounds, but her mom had a tendency toward addiction. First with dieting, then with exercise, then with Botox. When she lost the weight, the addictions turned darker: drinking late into the night with her girlfriends, then smoking weed as if they were still in high school or something.

  It just got worse after the divorce, but she hid it well.

  Emmie’s
chest constricted at the thought of what her mother was likely going through right now. Emmie had witnessed some of the horrible withdrawal symptoms once before, back when Nick had withheld what her mother needed. Withheld it until Emmie struck whatever bargain her mom needed her to strike.

  “Dan McDonald stepped out a few minutes ago,” Mrs. Henderson said, referencing Emmie’s probation officer. “He should be back soon. While we wait, why don’t we talk about what we can do to keep Emmie safe.”

  “Yes,” Emmie said, turning to her father. “Let’s talk about what we can do to keep Emmie safe.”

  Mr. O’Brien shot his daughter a stern look, and Mrs. Henderson pinched her lips together in disapproval. Emmie rolled her eyes and swiveled her chair to look at the cinder-block wall. She could take care of herself. She had been for over a year. Why did they insist on treating her like she was incompetent?

  “Emmie’s mother is in a residential treatment center,” Mr. O’Brien said, and Emmie cringed.

  She always hated it when he referred to her mother as “Emmie’s mother” or as “your mum” when he was speaking to Emmie. Not that it wasn’t accurate, but it felt so removed. Yes, her mom had made some bad choices, but she still had a name. She’d still been his wife. Emmie remembered, and there were pictures to prove it. She was even sure her mother loved them—both of them. She just loved meth more.

  “And we have a no-contact order in place,” he said. “Nick Peters is in prison. We’ve changed Emmie’s cell phone number. I’ve been briefed on the school’s security system. We’ve done everything we can to keep Emmie safe.”

  Mrs. Henderson turned to Emmie. “You understand that your mother’s no-contact order extends to school, right? Do you also understand that you are not to initiate contact with her?”