by Sara Biren
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I needed to talk to Showbiz.”
Not my business. Ha. That’s rich coming from someone who thinks it’s his job to get in everybody else’s business.
“You want to know who else you’ve displaced? You’re in my spot.” I make a point of knocking my elbow into his ribs.
“That’ll get you two minutes in the penalty box,” he says, and for one second, I think there’s some hidden meaning to his words. It sounds dirty. But then: “I’d be happy to trade places with you if you aren’t capable of basic table manners.”
“Yes, let’s,” I say and stand up.
He follows, and the strangest thing happens as we switch spots. As I lower myself onto my rightful seat, he puts his hand on my back to steady me, pressing his strong fingers against me, warm and confident. I feel the heat through my Hanson jersey, a zing that courses all the way down to my toes.
I twist my arm behind me to smack his hand away.
He continues his conversation with Showbiz, but I ignore him and focus on my food until he nudges me.
“What?”
“Your hair,” he says so quietly that I wonder if anyone else can hear him.
“What about it?” I can hardly get the words out, he’s so close.
“The blue. I think it’s my favorite so far, although the violet is a close second.”
Violet? I haven’t had a violet stripe since sophomore year.
I swallow and reach for my water bottle. Empty.
“Hawks blue,” he says. “It’s awesome.”
My exact words.
“You ready for your interview?” he asks. I’m glad he changed the subject.
“Don’t worry about the interview,” I grumble. “I won’t let anyone down.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says quietly, and he stands up so quickly that I startle. “I have to go. See you at practice.”
“See ya,” Showbiz calls, then stands up himself. “I gotta take a leak.” He leans over to kiss the top of Morgan’s head.
“Hmmm,” Cora says after Showbiz leaves, and I turn to look at her.
“Don’t start,” I warn.
“I’m telling you, Holland, that Hot Stuff Millard is cute.”
“Hot Sauce,” I mumble.
“No, he’s definitely hot stuff.”
“You think everyone is hot stuff, Cora,” Morgan says.
“Seems to me that he was flirting with Holland, though, don’t you think, Morgs?” Cora says.
“No way.” I shake my head.
“He was!”
“No, not possible. Didn’t you hear us? We were arguing. Like always.”
“Mm-hmm,” Cora says. “Arguing. You know it’s not too late to ask him to the Snow Ball. Get in there before Jo Mama does!”
“Cora,” I say with warning in my voice.
She ignores me. “You know why they call him Hot Sauce, right? He’s gonna make you sweat.”
“God, Cora. It’s because he puts Cholula on everything. You saw it.”
“No, no, it’s because he’s hot, fresh, and ready,” Cora shoots back. “He’ll spice up your life. He’s the spice on the ice. He’ll bring the zing.”
I roll my eyes as the bell rings. We dump our trays and head out of the cafeteria.
“You’re creative,” I tell Cora. “I’ll give you that.”
Chapter Nine
At practice, Coach works us hard. By the time he’s got us doing the 15–10 Breakaway—this complicated passing and shooting drill that has the forwards trying to score fifteen goals in ten minutes—I’m feeling it. After my shot (the twelfth goal, right through the five-hole, wide enough for a watermelon to pass through Nik’s legs), I skate over to the bench, grab a water bottle, and try to catch my breath as I lean against the boards. My calves already ache.
Hot Sauce skates up beside me, takes the water bottle, and squirts some into his mouth. “Nice goal,” he says, and I snort, but before I can dispute it with evidence that Nik must have temporarily lost his mind to keep his legs that far apart, Hot Sauce launches into me. “What the fuck are you doing out there? What is this, some Sunday walk in the fucking park?”
Oh, that “nice goal” must have been sarcasm.
“I scored, didn’t I?”
“You scored because the goalie had his head up his ass. You were sloppy. This isn’t fucking amateur hour. Get out there and skate like I know you can. Do better. Be better.”
Before I can say anything else, he skates off and is yelling at Josh, the youngest of the Swenson brothers, for slacking off and missing his turn. “You’ve got thirty seconds!” Hot Sauce yells. “We need one more goal. Don’t be the guy who misses!”
I roll my eyes. I look forward to the day he calls me a guy so I can give him a piece of my mind.
Oh, I hate him.
But he’s right. I was sloppy. And I get what he’s saying to Josh. You don’t want to be the guy who misses the shot and screws it up for everyone. Because if we don’t get those fifteen goals in ten minutes, everybody hits the indoor track above the second sheet of ice and runs three miles.
After a two-hour practice.
When seven of us need to go home and clean up for Coronation.
But he’s also being a grade-A asswipe.
Please make this shot, I silently will Josh, and by some miracle, he does.
Hunter: Whatcha doin
Me: omw to Coronation with M & C
Me: U?
Hunter: @ library.
Me: Are you coming home soon?
Hunter: Yeah Friday.
Me: THIS Friday? Like, Snow Week Friday? In two days?
Hunter: Y
Me: Don’t you have a game Saturday night?
Hunter: Going back Sat morning.
Me: I don’t get it. Why are you coming home for 1 night?
Hunter: Why not. R u going to Macks party after the dance?
Me: Wasn’t planning on it. I’ve got that Fink at the Rink interview Sat.
Hunter: Fuck it. Go to the party. YOLO and all that shit.
Me: Are u coming home to go to the party?
Hunter: going to see a band in baxter. U shd tho
Hunter: Go to the party Holly
Hunter: U there?
Me: We’re here. Gotta go.
I slip my phone into my backpack. T.J.’s parties are historically pretty chill, but I don’t know if I can even handle chill right now. We have a game Saturday night, too, so it’s not like any of us are going to get shitfaced.
Let me rephrase that. It’s not like any of us should get shitfaced. Plenty of us will, but I won’t be one of them.
I’m going to be sharp Saturday. I have to be sharp. I can’t screw up. That Fink at the Rink interview has to be good, or the guys will be so pissed. If we don’t make it to state this year, the HockeyFest game is the last shot for the seniors to get this kind of exposure.
No pressure.
Morgan parks and we hurry through the cold into school. The girls drop me off at the choir room, aka the Coronation green room. My dress—long black chiffon with a full skirt, formfitting bodice, and cap sleeves—belongs to Cora’s older sister Marisol, who graduated last year and bought it when she was voted Junior Royalty. No sense in spending money when I already shelled out too much for my dress for the Snow Ball. I refused to wear her stilettos, though, so instead, I’m wearing my Van Halen striped Converse high-tops. No one can see my shoes under the skirt, anyway.
I’m one of the last to arrive. Twelve guys in suits, twelve girls in long black dresses, a Halcyon Lake tradition that dates back to the ’60s.
“Hey, Holland,” Carter calls from across the room, where he’s standing with the other guys from the team. “What took you so long?”
I walk up to the group, relieved that I don’t have to make small talk with the other girls on the junior court, girls I don’t know well. “Um, a dress?”
“You look nice, Holls,” Showbiz says.
My six teammates are wearing dark suits, white shirts, and blue or yellow ties, Halcyon Lake colors. There are two juniors, Nik Swenson and Luke Abbott, and the four seniors up for Snow King: Carter, Showbiz, T.J., and Hot Sauce.
“You all clean up pretty good yourselves,” I say. I make an extra effort not to look at the grade-A asswipe.
The conversation turns to tomorrow night’s game and, of course, the Fink at the Rink interview.
“You’re not going to fuck this up for us, are you, Holls?” T.J. says, poking me in the shoulder.
“Really, Macks?” I say.
“She won’t,” Hot Sauce says. “She’s your teammate, T.J. Have a little faith in her.”
“Oh, that’s rich.” I turn to face him, my hands on my hips. “How about you have a little faith in me on the ice once in a while, Hot Sauce?”
“Ohhhhh!” T.J. whoops. “It is on!”
“No, it’s not on.”
“What’s wrong with expecting you to always do your best, Dutch?” Hot Sauce asks. He crosses his arms, a tiny smile playing on his lips. He’s not even ruffled by my outburst.
“Do not call me that,” I say in a low—and what I hope to be menacing—voice.
“OK, you two,” Carter says. “Break it up. We have to go out there in five minutes.”
Even if I’d wanted to continue this conversation, Jo “Mama” Manson walks up to our group with a nervous, twitchy smile on her face, her eyebrows knitted together. She must have realized that time’s ticking and now is the perfect opportunity to ask Hot Sauce to the Snow Ball.
“Hey, Wes?” She reaches out and puts a well-manicured hand on his sleeve. She’s got that svelte figure-skater look about her, blond hair in a flawless bun, skintight dress bedazzled with rhinestones, which is clearly against the “plain black gown” requirement. “Could I talk to you for a sec? Um, privately?”
T.J. sniggers and the other guys turn away, uncomfortable.
Not me. I watch as Jo and Hot Sauce step over to the piano, Jo’s back to me. She must have a lot to say, because Hot Sauce watches her, that little smile gone from his face, for what feels like a very long time.
And then suddenly, he’s not looking at her anymore, he’s looking at me. His eyes lock onto mine from across the room for one, two, three, four seconds, before he turns back to her with a shake of his head and a shrug.
He turned her down. An unexpected, tiny thrill passes through me. I’m glad he turned her down.
More seconds pass as she straightens her shoulders and he shakes his head again. I can’t tell what he’s saying from this distance, but I shouldn’t be watching this. I turn back to the group and wait for Mrs. Sommers, the choir director, to pair us up and lead us to the auditorium.
I feel sort of bad for Jo, even worse when Mrs. Sommers pairs us up and Jo has to walk in with Hot Sauce. She should have waited until after Coronation. What if they get crowned King and Queen? Awkward.
I’m paired up with Luke. “Ready?” he asks as he holds out his elbow to me.
“Let’s do this, Liney.”
If I have to humiliate myself in front of the entire town, at least it’s with a teammate.
The twelve of us stand in pairs on the stage, seniors in the middle, sophomores and juniors on either side, as Mrs. Ziegler, our principal, steps up to the microphone and motions for the crowd to quiet down. After a few attempts and a few random whoops and a female voice that might belong to Cora yelling, “We love you, Hot Sauce,” she succeeds. The pep band plays the national anthem and then the school rouser, a catchy little ditty called “Fly High, Hawks,” a title that provides numerous opportunities for inappropriate lyrical liberties.
It’s hot on this stage, and the lights blind me enough that I can’t even tell where Cora and Morgan and Miracle are sitting out in the audience.
I can, however, see Hot Sauce, who stands to my right and slightly upstage. His stance is casual, one hand in the pocket of his tailored, perfectly fitting black suit pants. OK, fine, yes, he is hot stuff, as Cora would say, but my constant irritation with him overrides any hotness.
He turns his head to look at me as though he knew I was staring. My cheeks warm, and I hope he can’t tell under these glaring bright lights. I peel my eyes away from him and instead focus on Mrs. Ziegler at the microphone.
“Thank you for joining us for tonight’s Snow Week Coronation,” she says. “We hope that you’ll attend additional Snow Week events, including tomorrow night’s home girls’ basketball game versus St. Vincent’s and Saturday night’s boys’ home hockey game against Little Falls. Friday is School Spirit Day, so be sure to wear blue and gold, and then join us Friday night at the Halcyon Days Ballroom for our semiformal Snow Ball. Tickets are still available.”
She goes on to talk about school spirit, the history of Snow Week, and the value of continuing timeless, beloved traditions even as times change.
“Get on with it already,” I mutter. “This dress is too tight.”
Luke laughs.
“And now, without further ado, it’s time to crown the Snow King and Queen, as voted by the student population of Halcyon Lake High School.”
The athletic director, Mr. Handshaw, joins Mrs. Ziegler onstage and lifts the King’s gigantic crown off a plush royal blue pillow on a stand. “Congratulations to Carter Delviss, this year’s Snow King!”
The crowd goes wild. I haven’t heard this much cheering since the pep fest for the football team when they made it to state two years ago. I mean, I knew Carter was popular, but this is sort of over-the-top. These people are way more enthusiastic than they were a year ago when Hunter was crowned King.
My brother looks a little embarrassed as Mr. Handshaw places the giant gold crown with fake plastic sapphires on his head.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Ziegler says. “And now for our Snow Queen, Miss Livvie MacMillan!”
I knew it.
The crowd explodes as Mr. Handshaw crowns Liv with a sparkly rhinestone tiara.
And as my brother turns toward the newly crowned queen, puts his arm around her waist, pulls her close, and kisses her? Like, kisses the hell out of her? On stage, in front of God and Mrs. Ziegler, the entire student body, most of their parents, our parents, and quite a lot of siblings? The place goes absolutely berserk.
Apparently, my brother has a girlfriend. And it’s Livvie MacMillan.
“Whoa, what is going on there?” Luke says. “That’s kinda hot.”
“Uh, gross,” I say. “That’s my brother up there.”
At Mrs. Ziegler’s frantic arm movements and pleas into the microphone, the noise dies down. She says a few words, something about tomorrow night’s basketball game, blah blah blah. She spins on her heel toward the Royal Court, her face red and splotchy.
Carter stands with his right arm around Liv’s waist. She’s tucked up under him like she’s always fit there. Mrs. Ziegler lays into them and stomps off the stage. A photographer from the newspaper takes some photos and then it’s over.
We file off the stage and go back to the choir room. Everyone wants to talk to Carter and Livvie—not about their new royal titles but about how they’ve been sneaking around behind everyone’s backs. Eventually, Mrs. Sommers kicks us all out. My parents meet us in the cafeteria for even more photos.
“Come on, Mom,” I whine. “How many more pictures do you need? I have to get out of this dress.”
“One more of you and Carter, OK?”
I stand next to my brother. “So, when were you going to tell us that you have a girlfriend?”
“Oh, I would have gotten around to it eventually.”
“When did you start dating?”
“Right before Christmas.”
“You’ve been dating Livvie MacMillan since before Christmas and I didn’t know this? How could I not know this?”
“Come on, Holls, it’s not that big a deal.”
“Mrs. Ziegler seemed to think that you shoving your tongue down Livvie’s throat in front of the entire
town was a big deal.”
Carter laughs. “Who cares what she thinks? Mom, are you done yet?” he asks as Mom swipes through the photos.
“Oh, no!” Mom says. “I forgot. One more. Holland and all the boys. Holland, you get in the middle.”
Mom makes a big deal about posing me and my six teammates, with Hot Sauce and Carter on either side of me.
“Mom, really?” Carter says. “I told Liv I’d take her out for pie.”
“I promise this is the last one. Boys, can you at least pretend that you’re having a good time? Holland?”
I’m about to say something snarky when Hot Sauce slides his arm around my waist, his fingers pressing lightly into the space just above my hip bone. I suck in a breath at the sudden warmth of his touch. I feel his mouth against my hair, his breath hot as he whispers, “I like your shoes, Dutch,” and the sensation that courses down my spine nearly sends me into orbit. I shiver, and his grip tightens.
As soon as Mom lowers her phone, I step out of his hold and sprint across the cafeteria, telling my parents I’ll get a ride home with Morgan.
I can’t catch my breath. I tell myself it’s because Marisol’s dress fits too snugly across my ribs, but I know it’s more than that. Way more.
Wasting Light: A Blog About Music, Hockey, and Life
January 17 11:54 p.m.
By HardRock_Hockey
Sometimes All You Need Is a Little Flip
Now Spinning: Soundtrack from The Cutting Edge
Hello, Hard Rockers.
Confession: I love The Cutting Edge. Yes, that cheesy movie from the early 90s about a bitchy pairs figure skater without a partner and the former hockey player from Minnesota. And yes, I know in last week’s post, I talked about how I don’t need happy endings, etc., but I do have my favorite rom-coms. And there’s something about The Cutting Edge.
Of course, I love it because of the hockey angle and the Minnesota connection. Doug Dorsey’s cute and has some awesome one-liners and comebacks. Some of the music is awful and dated (best song on the soundtrack, hands down: “It Ain’t Over ’Til It’s Over” by Lenny Kravitz), but I’ve watched this movie so many times, those songs have earwormed their way into my heart.