by Sara Biren
I text Wes again after dinner: You there?
Nothing.
I delete the last paragraph of my article and try again. I write about the history of Halcyon Lake hockey and a few things about the rink renovation. Then I call Grandpa to talk about the renovation. I’ve heard these stories a hundred times, but it gets him talking and keeps my mind off Wes. Grandpa provides a couple of good sound bites and I get back to work on the article.
My phone buzzes as I’m finishing up my closing paragraph, and I’m surprised to see that it’s after ten.
Wes: Sorry, I took Rocket out to skate at the Hole today and then I fell asleep. Did you watch it without me?
My heart feels tight when I think of him teaching his little sister how to play hockey, when I think of him sleeping on top of his buffalo plaid comforter, Tallie snuggled up next to him.
Me: Yeah. You’re a good brother.
Wes: Is it weird that I miss you?
Wes: Can I call you?
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Hi.”
“Hi, Dutch.” Music to my ears. “Tallie misses you, too. She’s been sleeping on my bed with her nose pressed into your pillow.”
He asks what I’ve been doing all day and I tell him about the article, that I’m worried Rieland’s going to rip it apart, worried that my half-assed attempts at journalism won’t be enough to get into the program at Hartley.
“How old were you when you started writing?” he asks me.
I give him the abbreviated version of my long history as a writer. “When I started working on the Jack Pine this year, I thought I was so experienced and worldly because of my blogging experience. Rude awakening doesn’t even cut it.”
“Blog?” he asks, and I could kick myself.
Other than Hunter and my parents, no one knows about the blog. Not even Carter or Jesse.
“Oh, ha, yeah, this music blog I write sometimes. No big deal.”
“Oh,” Wes says. “I thought you meant you helped your mom with her blog or something.”
“No, no.” I laugh uncomfortably. “Nothing as big and official as that.”
It’s not only that I made a deal with my parents to keep the blog private. The thought of Wes reading my work—especially about music—sends me spinning with nerves. I can’t wrap my head around it, why it’s so important to me that he doesn’t think I’m a hack.
“Well,” he says, “if you write like you handle a puck, you’ve got this. I know you feel like you’re under a lot of pressure right now with this and HockeyFest, but if anyone can do it, you can. Now, get back to work.”
I tell him good night and pull my laptop closer. I’m rereading the last paragraph I wrote when my phone buzzes again.
Wes: Night Dutch
He sends a link to the Foo Fighters’ “Big Me” video, the parody of those goofy Mentos commercials, Dave Grohl’s hair in twin pigtail braids.
Concentration and motivation are officially lost as I search for meaning in the bizarre lyrics.
Wasting Light: A Blog About Music, Hockey, and Life
January 29 11:33 p.m.
By HardRock_Hockey
Big Me: A Search for Meaning
Now Spinning: Foo Fighters, Foo Fighters
Hello, Hard Rockers.
The last couple of weeks have not been conducive to blogging. I’m doing a lot of writing for school and I’m doing a lot of skating, but I’ve neglected the blog. Sorry about that. I’m heavily involved in an event that’s happening in town in a few days, and that’s taking up a lot of my time. Along with . . . other things . . . my time and my mind space.
Anyway, tonight I’m inspired to write about a song from my favorite band, Foo Fighters: “Big Me,” the fourth single from their 1995 self-titled debut album. I watched the video for “Big Me” a couple of hours ago (thanks, 17) and suddenly found myself down the rabbit hole of really old online forums, overanalyzing the lyrics and trying to figure out why this particular song on this particular night after this particular conversation. I mean, it’s a long story. I’ll spare you the details.
Verdict: I have no idea what this song is about.
Do we ever know what’s going through a songwriter’s head? I suppose in some cases, yes. We know that Paul McCartney wrote “Hey Jude” for John Lennon’s son Julian when his parents were divorcing. We know that Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” is about . . . you get the idea.
But that’s the cool thing about music and lyrics. The songwriter blends inspiration with emotion to create meaning. The end user blends personal experience with emotion to find meaning. I hear the lyric “But it’s you I fell into” from “Big Me” and it may mean something completely different than what Dave Grohl meant or what my brother thinks when he hears it.
Songwriting isn’t black and white.
Life isn’t black and white.
Life is kind of like one big search for meaning. We look for answers and try to make sense of the world around us. You need a decent soundtrack for that shit.
HARDROCK_HOCKEY: TOP 10*: FOO
10. “Wheels”
9. “Walking After You”
8. “Long Road to Ruin”
7. “Learn to Fly”
6. “My Hero”
5. “Times Like These”
4. “Something from Nothing”
3. “These Days”
2. “Everlong”
1. “The Pretender”
*Selection and rank were nearly impossible tasks. I love you, Dave. You, me, Xcel Energy Center, October 18. See you then.
Tell me, what’s your favorite Foo Fighters song?
m/
19
Comments
11:37 p.m.
Why don’t you have any songs from the new album on this list? PUT IT ON THE TURNTABLE.
Hunter_Not_The_Hunted
Reply from HardRock_Hockey
11:39 p.m.
You mean the album that you gave me for Christmas that “accidentally” found its way into your suitcase when you went back to school? The one that you’ve conveniently forgotten every time you’ve come home since?
11:42 p.m.
Fuckin’ A, man, I love this post. Sometimes you just gotta do the hard shit in life. But such a hard question, dude. How can you pick one favorite Foo Fighters song? I mean, I don’t think it’s physically possible. But if forced at gunpoint or something, I gotta go with “Monkey Wrench.”
MetalManiac (Jim)
Reply from HardRock_Hockey
12:03 a.m.
Good one. Seriously, this was so hard.
12:05 a.m.
It’s you I fell into.
Hot_Sauce_17
Chapter Thirty-One
Tuesday, game day. I don’t see Wes until lunch, where he has found a permanent spot at our table—on my left, of course.
“Hey,” he says as I sit down, his hand on the back of my jersey. “Did you get my message?”
“Do you mean the message on my blog?” I ask quietly, glancing around to see if any of our friends are paying attention to our conversation.
“Yes.”
“How did you find me?”
“This newfangled thing on the world wide web called Google.”
“Very clever.” At this point, I suppose if anyone hears us, they’ll assume we’re talking about music (which we are) or bickering as usual.
He turns to me and smiles as he opens a packet of Cholula and pours it over his soft-shell beef taco, then opens another. He holds it out to me and raises one eyebrow. “Want some of this?”
He’s killing me.
“Sure,” I say and grab the packet. I sprinkle a few drops and hold it out to him, hanging on for a second before he takes it from me. His pinky dips down and strokes the underside of my hand and I almost gasp from the shock of his touch. I let go and he dumps the rest over his taco.
“What the what?” Cora says. “Did you just put hot sauce on your taco over there,
Blando Calrissian? Is that what you did all weekend?”
So she is paying attention.
I smirk. “I’ve been practicing.”
“You are weird,” she says. She gives me a look like she knows I’m up to something. I shrug, and she goes back to her conversation with Morgan.
“I have no idea what that song means, either, Dutch,” Wes says, “but I like that line. I like it a lot. Speaks volumes.”
“Mmm.”
“Can you meet me by the locker rooms in five minutes?” he asks quietly.
“Why?”
“Do I really need to elaborate?” He clears his throat. “See you all later,” he says, and stands up with his now-empty tray.
I finish my taco. I drain my water bottle. I bounce my leg up and down. Finally, I use Rieland as an excuse to leave early again and find Wes in the empty hallway near the gyms.
“Hey,” he says and tugs me around a corner. This is the very definition of sneaking around. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I really want to kiss you right now. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
I bite my bottom lip. He wants to kiss me right now. I want to kiss him.
He leans his head back and huffs out a frustrated sigh. “Don’t do that, or I won’t be able to stop myself.”
“Why do you want to stop yourself?” I tease.
“Because if I start kissing you, I won’t be able to stop, and we have about two minutes left before lunch is over.”
“Two minutes is a long time.”
“Maybe in the penalty box,” he says. He cups my cheek with his hand. “But it’s never enough with you. Can I give you a ride home tonight after the game? I want to spend some time with you. Alone.” His thumb lightly grazes my cheek, back and forth, back and forth.
“I’m supposed to catch a ride home with Carter.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Carter told you he’d kill you if you so much as touch me,” I remind him.
“He didn’t say that, not those exact words. I’m touching you right now. I’m going to keep touching you. That OK?”
My body hums. “Mm-hmm,” I say. “I’m good with that.”
Wes laughs. “Carter’s going to find out sooner or later. If he doesn’t figure it out tonight, it’ll be pretty clear when I show up to take you out to dinner.”
I can’t argue with that. Even if we hide our new and improved relationship from the rest of the team, Carter and Jesse and my parents will know something’s going on.
“We can’t keep it a secret forever,” he says.
“At least until after the HockeyFest game, though?”
“OK,” he agrees as the bell rings. “Play your heart out tonight. And then I’ll get you alone in my truck.”
Rieland pulls me aside during class to talk about the article I emailed her last night.
“Give it to me straight,” I say. “I can take it.”
She laughs. A good sign, I hope. “There’s nothing technically wrong with the article. You have a solid opening and you hit on all the facts. You wrote the framework with the intention to plug in details of the event itself. But there’s no emotion, Holland. No pull. That’s the goal of good writing, to evoke emotion, to inspire action. You want your readers to become so immersed in your writing, in your story, that they say to themselves, I want to be a part of that.”
“How do I do that? I tried to write from the heart, like you told me. Apparently, I failed. And this edition won’t come out until after the event. So they can’t be a part of it, right?”
She smiles. “That makes it even more challenging. But you won’t get anywhere near success if you don’t fail once or twice. Maybe in this case, it’s not enough to tell a story from the heart. Maybe you need to tell your story.”
I nod and blow out a breath.
“There’s a reason they’re called growing pains, Holland. Like doing drills. Some days you leave all your blood, sweat, and tears on the ice. Some days you leave them on paper. I’ll give you a pass to the library and you can work there without any distractions, OK?”
I stand. “OK, I get it. Whatever it takes. Thanks, Rieland.”
We win with our eyes closed, seven–one. I get assists on three of those seven goals.
Carter’s in such a good mood, we’re able to send him home without me, with little explanation on our part.
“I’m not stupid,” Carter says to Wes as the three of us walk across the parking lot. “I’m on to you two. But I’ll figure out something to tell Mom and Dad.”
Wes unlocks his truck with his fob and opens the passenger door for me. Irritating and endearing. He lets the truck warm up for a couple of minutes, then reaches across to grab my hand as he pulls out of the arena parking lot. “Where to?” he asks, and I laugh, because his question is ridiculous for a Tuesday night with homework and still less-than-ideal road conditions.
“Wherever you’d like to take me.” I play along, squeezing his hand.
Wes puts on the Barn Burner Mix as we drive through town and out on 27 toward my house—heavy, thumping beats and guitar riffs. My heartbeat seems even louder. He detours onto Satellite Lake Road, though, and pulls into the deserted, tree-lined parking lot of the Hidden Marsh Golf Club.
“In the mood for some late-night golf?” I ask.
“More like I’m in the mood for some late-night Dutch,” he says, and as corny as it sounds, his words and the glint in his dark eyes as he turns to look at me send a little thrill through me.
“How did we get here, Wes?” I ask, almost shyly.
“It’s a better place, isn’t it?”
I love that he gets me. I love spending time with him, even if it’s only fifteen minutes of make-out time in an empty parking lot, the truck running, on our way home after the game on a school night.
I hope we get at least fifteen minutes before my mom starts texting me, wondering where I am, why I didn’t come home with Carter, and if I have any homework. My moment in the spotlight hasn’t changed that.
Wes leans in for a kiss as I unbuckle my seat belt. His lips brush mine and then he says, “Good idea.” He clicks his seat belt off. “I’ve got a better one. Back seat?”
I’ve never been so glad for a dark cab and dim streetlamps as my face heats up.
“As you wish,” I murmur, and he laughs, his head thrown back.
I could fall in love with this boy, I think to myself as I open the door to move to the back and then hope to God that I didn’t say that out loud. He doesn’t laugh or say anything, so maybe I’m safe. When we meet in the back seat, I’ve barely gotten the door closed before he’s tugging me close, and his lips meet mine with such intensity and longing, a little squeak of surprise escapes me.
I can feel him smiling and then—I’m all in. All in. Whatever it takes.
Wes deepens his kiss, his tongue exploring my mouth, tangling with mine, I bite his bottom lip and there’s that smile again before he nips mine, he covers me with his strong, muscular, hockey player body, and I try to push my own strong hockey player body closer, but we’re already so close, his letter jacket is in the way, I slip my hands up underneath it, then tug at his T-shirt—a vintage look Monsters of Rock baseball T-shirt—and place one hand on his hot, bare skin, and he groans, then he moves his mouth from mine to my neck.
“You know,” I say, breathless, “for someone I can’t stand, I really like you.”
“Ditto,” he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot.
His lips meet mine again, and somehow, he flips us so that I’m straddling his lap, leaning into him, and then his hands struggle under my hockey jacket, the liner, a sweatshirt, a tank top. “Shit,” he says, “layer much?”
Finally, he connects with the skin of my lower back, my side, his hands hot and smooth, electrifying me, drenching me in sensation, and he moves one hand up, over my bra, to the back of my neck, and he cups his hand around me, a movement so gentle, with so much tenderness, my heart aches.
This is s
o, so good.
There’s a buzzing under my butt, my phone somehow wedged between me and his thigh.
Another buzz.
“Oh, shit,” I murmur and pull away from Wes’s delicious lips. “My mom.”
Wes looks at me in a daze. “What?”
The phone vibrates again, and I pull it out from under me.
Top Shelf Hockey Mom: If you’re not home in fifteen minutes, there’s a good chance you won’t be playing in that game next Saturday. Or any game.
Top Shelf Hockey Mom: Carter told me you were with Wes and I’d really like to know why.
Top Shelf Hockey Mom: We’ll discuss this when you get home.
I hold out the phone to Wes.
He kisses my forehead. “Don’t worry. Your parents love me. I got this.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wes charms the hell out of my parents.
We’re sitting around the kitchen table, a plate of Mom’s maple bacon blondies in the center.
“I know that I haven’t lived in town very long,” Wes says, “and you don’t know much about me or my family, but I want you to know how much I enjoy spending time with Holland. The more time we spend together, the more we learn how much we have in common.” He grins at me. “And I also want you to know that my intentions with your daughter are honorable.”
I almost laugh. Is he serious? His intentions? What intentions could he possibly have? Personally, I intend to suck on his bottom lip the next time I get him alone, which I hope will be shortly after this uncomfortable conversation, when I walk him out to his truck.
“Huh,” Dad says, reaching for a bar and biting off half of it. He chews and looks from Wes to me. “I thought you couldn’t stand the guy.”
I shrug. “Most days he drives me completely batty. But he’s growing on me.”
“Very funny,” Wes says. “Anyway, Dutch—er, Holland—and I have discussed the, ah, ramifications of dating publicly, and we think it might be best to keep this to ourselves and our families for the time being. For the sake of the team.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?” Mom asks.
“Everyone’s already under a lot of pressure with Hockey-Fest coming up,” Wes explains. “We don’t want to create another, uh, unusual dynamic.”