by Sara Biren
Where we then have to dig out the vehicles that are buried by wet, heavy snow. Carter clears the snow from the driver’s side door and climbs in while I take the scraper and begin to shovel the snow off the windshield and hood.
“Jess, start clearing off the back window,” I tell my brother, who’s standing around doing what he does best—nothing.
“You have the scraper,” he whines.
“Use your glove. It’s freezing out here and I’m getting pelted in the eyeballs by ice chunks falling sideways in the sky. Get your ass moving!”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles and shuffles through the drifts of icy snow, some up to his knees.
Carter turns the key and the engine makes the sickest, weakest weoah weoah sound I’ve ever heard. “Oh, shit,” he says.
Beside us, Wes fires up his big, shiny, new black truck (covered in snow, but still). The truck rumbles to life, and for a moment, I let myself think of the night of the Snow Ball and the A-Frame, those tenuous moments in his truck, listening to the Barn Burner Mix, and I wonder how things could have been different between us.
Good decision, I assure myself for the four hundredth time.
A gust of wind shoots icy snow into my face. I swipe at it with a wet mitten as Wes steps so close to me, I can almost feel the heat and energy pouring off him.
“Hey,” he says and takes the scraper from me. “No sense in doing that if the truck won’t start. Why don’t you and Jesse go inside while Carter and I try to figure this out? Send Archie out to help, would you?”
I should give him some shit about the big tough men solving the problem while the women and children go inside, but I’m too damn cold. I nod, teeth chattering. Jesse speeds toward the building, but I’m careful as I shuffle my way across the parking lot, slipping in some places, the ground covered with a thin layer of ice underneath the snow.
If they ever get the Suburban started, it’s going to be a fun drive home.
I stand in the arena vestibule and peer out through the smoky windows. The snow’s coming down so hard, I can barely see the streetlamps, let alone the Suburban or Carter and Wes. Jesse’s behind me, pacing, his headphones on as usual.
“Will you stop?” I say. “You’re making me nervous.” Now I know how my teammates must have felt with my jitters tonight.
This day keeps getting longer and longer. I take a deep breath. I’ll be fine once we get home and I’m in my pajamas, safely snuggled under heavy quilts in front of the fire with a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of monster cookies. Until then, I’ll white-knuckle the trip home, if County Road 27’s even open.
My phone rings. I walk over to the closed concession stand and lean on the counter.
“Hey, Mom.” I called her earlier to let her know we’d gotten back safely—and to report the dead Suburban. She and Dad had left the game early and made it home before the worst of the storm hit.
“Hi, sweetie. Are you still at the arena?”
“Yeah. Carter and Wes are out in the parking lot with Archie, trying to jump the Suburban. Might be a losing battle, though. I can’t even see them from the front door.”
Mom sighs. “I called the Lakeside Inn and the Halcyon House. They’re full. Could you stay at Cora’s?”
“They’re out of town this weekend.”
“Do you want Dad to drive back into town to pick you up?”
“The roads are terrible. No way is he driving back into town tonight. But I don’t think the truck is going to start. Maybe Archie will let us crash here.”
“You are not staying at the arena,” Mom says.
I’m hearing it in stereo.
Wes stands next to me, completely covered in wet, icy snow, even his eyelashes. The cold air radiates off him and I shiver. He peels off his balaclava and blinks a few times. Before I know what I’m doing, I reach a hand to one of his red, damp cheeks, like ice to my touch.
What am I doing? I start to pull my hand away, but Wes is too quick. He latches on to my wrist. Now I’m sure my cheeks are as red as his.
“The Suburban’s toast,” he says. “But you’re not staying here tonight. You can crash with me. Come on. My truck should be warmed up by now.”
He releases my wrist and walks away. “Who was that?” Mom is saying through the phone. I’d forgotten about her. Shoot. “Someone who lives in town?”
“Wes Millard. He said we can stay with him. I have to go. I’ll call you when we get there, OK?”
Archie and Carter have come inside now, too.
“You kids got a place to stay tonight?” Archie asks, the s on the end of “kids” more like a c than a z. Archie’s in his late fifties, with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair and cheeks permanently red from the cold. He’s worked at the arena as long as I can remember.
“They’re coming home with me,” Wes says, and I feel like a stray.
I grab my gear and follow Jesse and Carter out to Wes’s truck, the heater blowing warm air, the snow cleared away. He’s careful as he maneuvers around the few cars left in the parking lot, including the dead Suburban, and makes his way across downtown.
Wes seems to be in complete control of his truck, of the road, of the snow coming at the windshield horizontally. But still, I’m relieved when we pull into the driveway of the little blue rambler fifteen minutes later.
Wes’s mom, Debbie, has frozen pizza ready for us when we walk in the door. Basic toppings, pepperoni and sausage, that my brothers and I scarf down like we’ve never seen food before. Mom’s most-pinned pizza recipe on Pinterest is chicken, artichoke, and blue cheese, and she makes it at least twice a month. I’m sure that someday I’ll appreciate her gourmet tendencies and the fact that she taught me how to properly use all kinds of knives when I was five, but tonight, I’m all about the cardboard crust, the cheesy goodness, and the grease.
A yellow Lab walks into the kitchen while we’re eating, makes the rounds to sniff at our legs, and plunks down on my feet. The dog is warm and heavy and solid.
“Oh, nice doggie,” I murmur. “What’s your name?”
“Tallie,” Wes replies for the dog. “Short for Metallica.”
I look across the table at Wes and grin. “That is—that is adorable.”
“Adorable?” he scoffs. “There’s nothing adorable about the greatest metal band ever.”
“Except that you named your adorable dog after them.” I reach down to scratch behind Tallie’s ear, and she makes the cutest growly sound. “Ducking adorable.”
Wes coughs. “She likes you,” he says after he recovers, pride lacing his words. I’m not sure who he’s proud of, the dog or me.
“Could you two please shut up?” Jesse asks. “I’m trying to eat here, and this conversation makes me want to barf.”
“Your playlists make me want to barf, Bieber,” I volley back, and Wes laughs.
Our jeans are soaked. Wes finds the guys sweatpants to change into, and they head down to the basement, where Wes’s mom has made up beds on the couches and a gigantic recliner. I shake my head when Wes suggests I wear something of Debbie’s. She’s about a half foot shorter than me, and tiny.
“I’ll be OK,” I tell him. The heavy, wet denim clings to my legs, cold and uncomfortable. I shiver.
“Let me find something,” he says and disappears down the hall to his room again. While I wait, I look at the ornaments on their colorfully lit Christmas tree, tucked into a corner of the living room next to the fireplace. Many of the ornaments are handmade and hockey-related, several wooden hockey sticks and skates, smooth and glistening in the lights. I like that they still have their tree up, weeks after Christmas.
When Wes comes back a few minutes later, he’s got a green Minnesota North Stars hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants with the orange Great River Thunder logo down one leg.
“No way,” I say and cross my arms.
Wes grins. “The last of my Thunder apparel. I saved these for posterity. They’re a couple of years old, so they won’t be so huge on you.”
I point at the logo. “I cannot wear those.”
“You can’t wear those wet jeans. You’ll get sick.”
“I won’t get sick from wet jeans. I might get sick from having to wear those.”
He laughs, and I like his laugh. I like being in the same room as Wes and having an actual conversation rather than texting back and forth. I like spending time with him.
But this is not flirting.
We’re friends.
I change into his stupid sweatpants. They’re soft and worn and even though they’re too small for Wes, they’re way too big on me. I pull the drawstring tighter and roll the waist-band. I bring the fabric of the sweatshirt up to my nose and breathe in.
Good. So good.
Wes has joined Carter and Jesse in the basement. He’s sprawled out on a beanbag chair on the floor with a video game controller in hand. When I come down the stairs, he turns to look at me, a grin across his face.
Must. Resist.
I ignore him and the boys and curl up on the bed Debbie has made for me. Carter stretches out on the long blue sofa, and Jesse’s got the recliner, but I get the sleeper sofa on the other side of the wide room, which she’s piled high with quilts and pillows. I burrow under them, safe and protected from the raging storm outside and the one in my heart. I try to read Woman in the Nineteenth Century, but the warmth of the quilts lulls me to a sleepy, dreamlike state, not quite out, the video game noise and the boys’ chatter a comforting backdrop.
My last thought before I fall asleep in Wes Millard’s basement is that I’ve never been so grateful for a blizzard.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Hey. Hey, Dutch.”
My eyes pop open. I shake my head, disoriented. It takes a few seconds for me to realize that I’m still in Wes’s basement, which would explain why he is standing over my bed calling my name. Carter and Jesse are still lounging in front of the TV on the other side of the room, now playing Madden.
“What? What time is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
I’m so confused, and tired, and more than a little grumpy about being woken up for no reason, apparently.
“Then why did you wake me up? I was sleeping, you realize?”
“It’s only, like, nine o’clock. And I’m bored.”
“You’re bored.”
“Yeah.” He sits down on the edge of the sofa bed. “Your brothers have started an epic playoff reenactment that could take hours. Let’s go watch a movie.”
“A movie?”
“Is there an echo in here? Yeah. Come on.”
I probably could have slept for an entire day, but I can’t deny that the idea of watching a movie with Wes, presumably without my brothers or his little sister, Jilly, appeals to me. I shouldn’t let it, but I’m too tired to fight it.
“OK.”
“OK. Good. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”
“Hey,” Carter calls, not looking at us, as we walk past. “Don’t even think about messing around with my sister, Hot Sauce.”
Jesse snorts. “Good one,” he says.
Oh, lord. I scurry up the steps ahead of Wes, my face hot. He mumbles something to the guys, but I don’t hear it, and I don’t want to.
When he said upstairs, I thought he must have meant the living room, but he walks through it and into the long hallway that leads to the bedrooms. I hesitate. The main level is quiet and dark except for a light above the sink in the kitchen and the multicolored, flashing LEDs on the Christmas tree.
“Dutch? You still with me?” he asks in a quiet voice, almost a whisper. I suppose Jilly’s in bed already.
“Are we—where are we watching this movie?”
“My room.” He says this like my heart should not be pounding or my hands sweating like I just scored on a breakaway.
“Oh. Right.”
I follow him, second door on the left. Tallie sneaks in behind us and jumps on the bed before he closes the door slowly and without a sound.
His room is neater than mine, the bed covered by a thick red-and-black buffalo-plaid comforter. Posters of hockey players, some of them signed and framed, cover the walls. There’s a half-empty canister of Atomic Fireballs on top of a stack of hockey books on his desk. A framed photograph of the Thunder’s state tournament team hangs above his desk, and the medal is in a plexiglass case next to it.
I search for Wes in the photo, and when I find him, I reach out to touch my index finger to the glass. He looks so young here, barely sixteen. A wild grin lights up his entire face.
“Wow,” I say. “What a moment.” I turn to look at the real Wes and see that same wild grin.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It was something. Could turn out to be a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”
“I hope not. Do you think we’ve got a shot at state?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “We’ve got a lot of natural talent on the roster. It’s a matter of working as a team, keeping the momentum going, not letting ourselves be intimidated by the big guys, you know?”
“Spoken like a true captain.”
He shrugs again. “That’s my job.”
A tall bookcase takes up one wall, filled with photos and wood carvings of ducks and birds and books. He reads! Real books! Hardcovers, paperbacks. Clapton: The Autobiography. High Fidelity by Nick Hornby. Room Full of Mirrors: A Biography of Jimi Hendrix. Lots of Stephen King.
My eyes fall to the bottom shelf. His vinyl collection. Four feet of albums.
“Holy shit, Wes.” I drop to the floor and sit crisscross applesauce, tilting my head to read the narrow spines. Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, Matthew Sweet, an entire section of Chris Cornell—solo, Soundgarden, Temple of the Dog, Audioslave. Tallie walks over and lies down, her head on my knee. I scratch behind her ear. “Wait. Al Hirt? Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass? Why all these trumpet players?”
Wes laughs. “I inherited my grandfather’s collection. He liked trumpets. Some of it’s really good.”
“Forget the movie. Let’s listen to music.”
He reaches out his hand to pull me up. “Another time.”
I hesitate before taking his hand, but when I do, I’m rewarded with the now-familiar electricity that passes between us. And a smile from Wes.
I wish there could be another time.
He grabs a couple of remotes, leaps onto his neatly made bed, and pats the spot next to him. “What should we watch? Let’s see what we’ve got.” He turns on the TV and streaming service and clicks to recommended for you. “Mystery, Alaska? The Princess Bride?”
Two of my favorites. Two very different movies in style and content. “You pick.”
“You’re my guest, Dutch. You choose.”
“The Princess Bride.”
“As you wish,” he says in a terrible British accent.
Uhhh, he’s so perfect.
“Come on, don’t be shy. Make yourself at home.”
He must not realize that sitting next to him on his bed is going to send me into shock. I lower myself onto the bed and lean up against the pillows. I leave about a foot of space between us.
Space that says I should not be in his room, I should not be thinking about the things I’d like to do with him on this bed.
Tallie moves into the space and snuggles in, her nose on my shoulder. I curl my arm around her and stroke her floppy, velvety ears.
“Lucky dog,” Wes says as the movie begins.
Not five minutes later, Tallie jumps down and whines at the door. Wes gets up, too.
“Be right back,” he says before opening the door and following Tallie out.
I pause the movie. When he returns, his cheeks are pink from the cold and there are a few snowflakes in his dark hair. He’s alone.
“Where’s Tallie?” I ask.
“She’s no longer invited,” he says as he settles back in against the headboard and pillows. He doesn’t leave as much space between us, and I can feel the chill of his skin from the few minutes he spent
outside.
Somehow the space becomes smaller and smaller as the love story of Buttercup and Westley plays out.
And disappears completely the moment Wes slips his arm around me, tucks me in close, and I rest my head on his chest, breathing him in as Inigo Montoya fights the six-fingered man who killed his father.
He’s warm and comfortable, his breaths steady, rhythmic. We fit together perfectly, and my heart gives a little lurch. The moment doesn’t feel real. We’re tucked away inside that pocket again, where real life doesn’t exist, where I don’t have to worry about what the old-timers think, what our teammates might say about us. Luke’s drunken comment at T.J.’s party. Coach’s warning.
“This is OK, right?” he murmurs.
I clutch at the fabric of his shirt. “Sure,” I say, my voice strained. “I mean, we’re friends, after all.”
Friends. That’s all.
When the movie ends, I slip out of his arms and leave the room, not saying a word, feeling his eyes on me even after I’ve closed the door and gone back downstairs, where my brothers are playing the Super Bowl.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I wake early, the light from behind the blinds a muted blue. The basement has a heavy, musty boy smell to it. Jesse snores. Carter’s still sleeping, too, his bare feet sticking out from under the tangled quilts.
I’m toasty and comfy and could stay in bed all day, listening to the howling wind and blowing snow, but I could also eat something. My stomach rumbles and makes the decision for me.
Jilly makes breakfast, which consists of toaster pastries, cereal (with or without milk, my choice, she says), and fruit cups.
“Sorry I don’t have something more substantial,” Debbie says as she pours me a cup from the Mr. Coffee. “I didn’t make it to the grocery store this weekend.”
“This is perfect,” I say. I add a splash of milk and sprinkle in some sugar from the dispenser on the table.
Tallie comes in and sits on my feet. We’ve never had pets, other than the chickens and goats and barn cats. One summer, we “boarded” a pig that I, of course, named Wilbur. Besides Cosmo, my dog experience is limited. Tallie seems to love me, though.