by Sara Biren
He pulls into the driveway and puts the truck in park but doesn’t switch off the engine.
“Well,” I say, like we didn’t just have the most awkward conversation ever, “thanks for everything. I’m staying at Morgan’s tonight, so you don’t have to give me a ride home or anything.”
I’m out of the cab and walking as fast as I can in these stupid heels toward the MacMillan house and a crowd I can hopefully disappear into.
Chapter Fifteen
My plan is to walk into the party and find Morgan and Cora, hang out and socialize with our classmates without incident or drama, have some snacks and a Coke, and avoid Wes. After a little while, Cora and Morgan and I will go to Morgan’s, where we’ll eat popcorn and ice cream and scare ourselves shitless with episodes of Ghost Adventures.
I find Morgan and Cora right away, in a room off the kitchen watching Friends, the one when Ross wears leather pants. Miracle and Poppy sit on the couch in the living room, holding hands. They’ve changed out of their fancy dresses and are wearing matchy-matchy Gophers women’s hockey jerseys. Carter and Jesse are probably here somewhere, and Hunter said he might stop by after his concert.
Luke’s in the kitchen. “Hey, Liney,” he says, “you want a drink?” He rubs a hand over his chest. There’s a dark, damp blob across the front of his gray Hawks hockey T-shirt.
I shake my head. “Um, no? Are you drunk?” I lean in close and sniff. He smells like sweat and some sort of sweet, boozy cocktail.
“Maybe. What can I get for you? Livvie said me and my friends can have the good stuff, and you, Holland, are my friend.” He throws his arm around me and pulls me into the kitchen.
“My friends and I.”
“Not your friends. My friends. C’mon.”
“No, really, I’m good.”
“C’mon,” he says again. “Lighten up a little.”
I shrug off his arm. “I don’t really drink. Plus, I’ve got that interview tomorrow.”
“Oh, God, the fucking interview. I wondered how long it would take you to bring that up.”
“Well, you don’t have to be such an asshole about it!”
He laughs. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. I’m trying to get you to loosen up and stop worrying about that interview. It’s all over your face.”
I raise my eyebrows at him.
“Yep. You look like you just got kicked in the cojones.”
“I don’t have cojones, Luke.”
“Of course you don’t have cojones, although you play like you do.”
I shake my head. Luke is pretty crocked, but that’s no excuse.
“Luke, you can’t say shit like that. It’s sexist.”
He ignores me. He opens the fridge and rummages around, bottles clanking together. “Liv’s got some girly wine coolers or some shit in here.”
Oh my God. I cannot allow this. “Girly? What the fuck, Luke? Are you saying that men can’t drink wine coolers? Only women? Or that women only—”
“Are you talking to me?” He cuts me off as he emerges triumphant with a bottle of something orange. “I heard you were hanging out with Hot Sauce tonight. No wonder you’re stressed out. This’ll take the edge off, I promise. Just have one. It’s cool.”
I groan.
“What’s up with that, anyway?” Luke asks. “He putting his biscuit in your basket or what?”
“Luke!”
He lifts my hand, opens my fingers, puts the bottle against my palm, and closes my fingers around it. “I’m just giving you shit. I know you hate the guy. It’s a party. Chill the fuck out.”
“‘Chill the fuck out,’” I mutter as he walks out of the kitchen.
I haven’t seen Wes since I left him in the truck in Morgan’s driveway. For all I know, he didn’t bother to come in after all. But I don’t care, right? I can’t let it bother me. My decision. Good decision.
I look down at the bottle in my hand. Harding’s Classic Screwdriver. Natural Orange Flavor.
To drink or not to drink—also my decision. Why not? Maybe if I drink this, I’ll forget that I left the dance with Wes and people are talking shit about it. Exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Can’t hurt to try. The interview isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, and besides, what’s one screwdriver in the grand scheme of things?
I twist open the bottle, take a sip, toss the cap in a nearby trash can. Not bad. I can handle this. I take another long swallow—OK, maybe a third of the bottle—and feel a rush of warmth deep in my belly. I let the sense of calm wash over me and walk out into the living room. And right into Wes.
“Dutch. What the fuck. I leave you alone for twenty minutes—” He takes hold of my arm and tugs me around the corner into an empty alcove lined with bookshelves.
“Hey! Cool your jets! I had one sip—”
We both stop, and he looks at me with those damn gorgeous chocolatey eyes, and I want to step into them, the deep, rich pools. I want to get out of this house where I have to share the same space as him, because that space is shrinking, making it hard to breathe. Because the space isn’t small enough, we’re not close enough.
He takes the bottle out of my hand and holds it up. “One sip, huh?”
OK, nearly gone. There’s maybe, uh, one sip left.
“I should take you home,” he says.
First, I think, Like hell you should, and then I think, Yes, please.
And then I think that I would like Wes to touch me, and I remember the warmth that coursed through me, the electricity, and I close my eyes to capture it again. I think again about what it would have felt like to kiss him, and I bite my lower lip.
Wes makes a strangled, choking sound and my eyes fly open.
“Great,” he says. “You’ve got a pretty good buzz going.”
“No, I’m not buzzed,” I say, but when I think hard about it, I might be. There might be a bit of fuzz around the edges. I laugh. One drink. One drink and I’m buzzed. What a lightweight. I try to remember the last time I had a drink. I’m not much of a drinker. My training is too important. So, let’s see. Last summer, Hunter’s going away party. At T.J.’s house. This house.
I straighten my spine. “I’m not buzzed. Don’t you ever drink, Hot Sauce?”
“Not during the season.”
I sigh. “Me, neither.”
Wes snorts. “Is that right? What made tonight different?”
You. You made tonight different.
I shrug. That’s the only answer he’ll get. “I was just on my way to find Morgan and Cora. I’m staying over at Morgan’s house, remember?”
“Fine. It’s late. Find them and go home. The interview is tomorrow and—”
“That fucking interview!” I yell, cutting him off. Now I sound like Luke. “I can handle the fucking interview.”
Wes grits his teeth. Then he takes a deep breath. “You are the most frustrating, argumentative—”
“Oh, really? You should talk!”
He groans. “Just go to Morgan’s. And promise me you won’t drink again this season, OK? You’re too important to the team, Dutch.”
“Half the team is completely shitfaced. Why aren’t you getting on anybody else’s case? What a load of double standard bullshit.”
“How do you know I haven’t?”
I huff. “Speaking of shitfaced teammates, Luke just asked me if you were putting your biscuit in my basket. That kind of shit is exactly what I don’t need!”
He rubs a hand over his face. “Take some ibuprofen and drink a ton of water. You can’t be hungover for that interview tomorrow.”
“There you go again, telling me what to do.”
“You are impossible,” he says.
“You are impossible,” I bite back.
A senior volleyball player named Logan walks past the alcove and glances in. I’m about to sigh in relief that she didn’t acknowledge us when she doubles back and throws her arms around Wes’s neck. “Wes! I haven’t seen you in forever!” She smiles and squeezes him closer.
Uh-uh. No way.
“Um, excuse me?” I say, and she looks at me with surprise before stepping away from him and out of the alcove.
“That’s not fair,” Wes says in a low voice, his frustration with me dissipated.
“What’s not fair?”
He leans in close, and I can smell his wintry, smoky, delicious scent. “You. Acting like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you . . . like you . . .”
“What, Wes? Spit it out.”
“Like you like me. Like you have some claim on me. You don’t want me to be your boyfriend because I’m your captain, but you get pissed when another girl gives me a hug. You can’t have it both ways.”
That stops me. He’s right, of course. I can’t have it both ways. My decision. Good decision.
He’s so close. Close enough that I could move a fraction of an inch forward and find his lips with mine, pull him down to me, my palms pressed against his cheeks.
“I wish—I wish I’d kissed you at the record store,” I whisper.
He shudders, and a rush of breath escapes him.
Oh, fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.
“Dutch,” he says, and nothing more.
No, I shouldn’t have said it.
“I’ll go,” I whisper, but I don’t move right away, not yet, breathing him in, not ready to leave this tiny pocket of what might have been.
Chapter Sixteen
Cora and I are already settled in on the huge sectional in the Fillmores’ living room, Ghost Adventures on the giant TV, when Morgan brings in bowls of microwave popcorn.
“So,” Cora says, “Holland. Hot Sauce. Spill.”
I roll my eyes and turn my attention to the show. “Which episode is this?”
“Nice try,” Cora says. “Twin Bridges Orphanage. Now spill.”
“Oh, that’s a creepy one.”
“All the episodes are creepy,” Morgan says as she sits down, her face twisted in a grimace. Last time we watched this episode, she cried when she heard about the cruelty those kids endured. She yawns.
“You will not fall asleep,” Cora yells at her. “Look at Zak’s biceps. That will keep you awake.”
I snort. Cora loves the host of this show, Zak Bagans. If she could drop out of school and join the Ghost Adventures crew, she would. Morgan’s more of a Zac Efron girl. We saw The Greatest Showman three times in its two-week run at the little theater downtown. Zach Parise of the Minnesota Wild is more my style.
“Tell us!” Cora cries.
“Fine. Wes and I bailed on the dance, we ate at the Full Loon, we looked at some used records, and we ended up at the party. End of story.”
“Ha!” Cora bursts out. “Bullshit, end of story! I saw how he was looking at you!”
“Yeah,” I said, “if looks could kill, right? Same old, same old.”
“No.” Cora shakes her head. “Something happened.”
“You called him Wes,” Morgan says quietly.
“Ohmygod, you’re right!” Cora leans forward and spills a few kernels of popcorn. Morgan’s fuzzy cockapoo, Cosmo, appears out of nowhere to scarf it up, then shakes his whole body, head to toe, tags jingling.
“Come here, Cosmo,” I call in a high voice, holding out my hand. He comes over to sniff me but sticks his nose in the air and leaves when he realizes I’m not offering popcorn.
“Don’t use the dog as a distraction,” Cora says. “You’ve never once called that boy by his real name before.”
“Where were you looking at used records? There’s no record store around here,” Morgan adds.
“Um, the A-Frame? Up near Settlers’ Corner?”
Morgan’s eyes go wide and Cora shrieks.
“Skip to the good part! Did you kiss him?” Cora yells, and Morgan shushes her.
“No.”
“But you wanted to!”
I shake my head a little, but a jalapeño-like heat crawls up my face from my neck.
“Why didn’t you kiss him?” Morgan asks.
I can only shake my head again, my voice trapped in a tight little ball.
“Oh, sweet child o’ mine,” Cora singsongs, “you do like him.”
I throw up my hands and find my voice again. “So what if I do? It’s not like I’m going to do anything about it. I can’t go out with one of my teammates, especially the captain. That’s my rule. Plus, I mean, it’s not like it’s official or anything, but when I made the team, Coach sort of—well, he sort of suggested that I don’t get involved with any of the guys. It could get really weird, you know?”
“Your rule is stupid,” Cora says, “no matter what Coach says. He can’t tell you who to love.”
“I don’t love him, Cora. Drama, much?”
“But, Holland,” Morgan says in her gentle way, “you like him. And he likes you back, right?”
“Yeah.” The word swooshes out of me.
“So why don’t you go for it?” Cora asks. “Who cares about your stupid rule?”
“It’s not a stupid rule. Enough people already say I shouldn’t be allowed to play on the boys’ team. What would they think if I started dating the captain? I can’t let anyone think I’m getting special treatment.”
“Anyone who thinks you’re getting special treatment doesn’t have eyes in their head. Or doesn’t know anything about hockey,” Cora says. “I don’t know anything about hockey, and I can tell that you skate circles around those goons.”
“Why don’t you at least give it a chance?” Morgan asks softly.
I shake my head. “Nope. No way. Not with HockeyFest coming up. The interview’s tomorrow—”
“Stop with the interview!” Cora yells. “Look, your little rule is admirable. Whatever. However, when’s the last time you went on a date? Sweaty Chevy? What, two years ago?”
“Longer,” Morgan says. “It was right after Showbiz and I started dating. Two and a half years ago.”
“Christ. That’s a long time. Little chicken, you need to go get your man.”
“People are already saying stuff. Well, one person.”
“So take a page out of Carter’s book and keep it a secret. Don’t tell Coach or your teammates or anyone. Well, tell us, of course.”
“Cora!” Morgan cries. “That’s dishonest.”
“Is it, though?”
I sigh. “Look, it’s just not a good idea right now. Can we drop it?”
“She said ‘right now,’ Morgan,” Cora says. “There’s hope!”
She may believe there’s hope, but I do not.
“I want to hear what’s going on with you and Matt. Enough about Wes.”
“Wes,” Cora says, and shakes her head. “She keeps calling him Wes.”
HARDROCK_HOCKEY: WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN PLAYLIST
1. “Every Rose Has Its Thorn”—Poison
2. “Love Song”—Tesla
3.“Short Skirt/Long Jacket”—Cake
4. “The Pretender”—Foo Fighters
5. “My Own Worst Enemy”—Lit
6. “Blurry”—Puddle of Mudd
7. “Through Glass”—Stone Sour
8. “Little One”—Highly Suspect
9. “Everlong”—Foo Fighters
10. “Angels/Losing/Sleep”—Our Lady Peace
Bonus: “Spice Up Your Life”—Spice Girls
Chapter Seventeen
My head hurts.
From one screwdriver, five-point-nine percent alcohol by volume.
It could be worse, I guess. While Cora and Morgan and I watched Ghost Adventures, I drank bottle after bottle of water. I didn’t sleep much, thinking about every single time Wes touched me. Remembering the weight of his hand on my leg, my waist, my hips. Through my clothes. I’m branded.
We wake early, and Morgan’s mom makes us breakfast—raspberry and cream cheese–stuffed French toast (a Top Shelf recipe, of course) and bacon—and that helps, too. And coffee. Lots of coffee.
At home, I take the longest shower in the history of showers. I shave my legs and pits, because, hey, I’m going to be on TV, not that anyone will see anything other than my uniform and gear. I dry my hair and use this weird torture device Cora sent home with me to create wavy curls. “The wave maker is the new flat iron,” she’d told me, assuring me of its no-fail operation. I have to admit, she was right. I suppose, then, since my hair looks so good—especially the stripe—I shouldn’t skip makeup.
Someone knocks on my door as I’m blotting my pale pink, shimmery lip gloss. Hunter pokes his head in.
“What happened to your face?” he asks, and I throw a used cotton ball at him. It lands several feet short of the target. He bursts out laughing.
Hunter’s got hockey hair for days. Chestnut like mine, but with a natural, regal wave that sweeps back from his face and touches the tops of his shoulders. The epitome of flow. The envy of his teammates.
“How was the show?” I ask.
“Killer. You’d love these guys. Kinda reminded me of Chevelle. I picked up their vinyl and the lead guitarist came out to the merch table after the show and signed it for me.”
“Cool.”
“I went to T.J.’s party after but Hot Sauce told me you’d already left. He seemed pretty cheesed about something.
What’s his deal?”
“How should I know?” I snap.
“Settle,” Hunter says. “I didn’t come in here to get bitched at. I came in to tell you good luck on your interview.”
My irritation deflates. “Sorry.”
“I wish I could be there for it, but I’ve got to get on the road. Coach wasn’t super happy that I was coming down here last night, so I can’t be late.”
“Thanks.”
“So, if you can’t tell me what’s up Wes’s craw, why don’t you tell me what’s up yours?”
“Nothing is up my craw, thank you very much.”
“Bullshit.” Hunter comes into the room and shuts the door behind him, then moves a stack of books and my team jacket off my desk chair and sits down. “Come on, Holls, I wasn’t born yesterday. You’ve got that look.”
I snort. “Which one?”
“The one you get when your brain won’t shut off and somebody needs to remind you to breathe.”