Any Way You Slice It (20 page)

Grams nods and smiles. “I didn't tell you to do that.”

I mime zipping my lip to show her I'm not telling. “How fast can you drive without hitting the guardrail?
”

Dad's sitting at the front booth, watching a production assistant move tables and rearrange the chip rack, which haven't been moved since Gramps died. He's just patiently letting the makeup lady powder his face.

“Mr. Spaulding,” Mark Wilder says. “Can you move to this booth? The light is better over here.”

Sometimes I really don't get my dad. This is the same guy who wants to lock me up for playing hockey. And he's just letting these TV people walk all over him. It makes me want to scream.

The camera guy adjusts the lens as Troy Depalma swoops in and shakes Dad's hand. In two seconds, they're chatting across the table like old friends. Three other crew members swarm around, as far as I can tell, just trying to look busy. From my vantage point at the back door, Dad looks old. Tired. Angry as I am, I still know that I've contributed to that.

Grams puts her hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“No,” I whisper, brushing a stray hair away from my face.

What choice do I have? Either I go behind his back and play on Saturday or I find a way to get him to give me permission. Is it really any better to make him give it in front of an audience?

I cover my eyes with my hands. “How the heck did I get into this situation, Grams? I never wanted to lie to anyone. I've never wanted to make them angry. I don't hate Slice. I just wanted a little freedom.”

I hear my own voice and it sounds whiny and childish.

“Why don't you just tell him that?” It sounds so easy when Grams says it, but I think it might be the hardest thing I've ever done.

Just tell him?

We stand together and watch them tape the segment. It must be the last thing for them to film. Dad's talking about taking over the business, about the pride he felt when Slice first won a fan-favorite contest, and about working alongside his own father before he died. I glance over at Grams and watch the tears roll down her face.

I can't do it. I can't interrupt Dad's moment.

When the camera crew packs up the equipment, I'm still standing there against the counter. It all feels like slow motion. Like my breathing has slowed down. Or like I'm under water. My feet won't move.

“Excuse me, can I get a large slice of bacon pizza?” a voice breaks through my thoughts.

“I'm sorry, we're closed for business right now,” I say, not looking away from my last best chance to play hockey on Saturday night. Once the crew is packed up, it's over.

“Blades.” Jake waves his hand in front of my face. “Penelope! Anybody home? I've been texting you for the last two hours. Where have you been?”

Like I'm coming out of the deep end of a pool, I shake my head to clear my vision.

“What's wrong?” Jake looks like he's about to jump over the counter at me.

I shake my head and gesture to the camera crew. “It's just over, that's all.”

“What's over?” He laughs nervously, and grabs my hand. “What are you talking about?”

The last of the crew hoists a light onto his back and with a small salute, walks out the front door. Troy Depalma shakes Dad's hand and waves at me. “Thanks for everything! Be prepared for your business to explode!” And he's gone.

“You didn't tell me you couldn't play on Saturday.” I want to be angry at him, but I'm just so done with everything. “Why didn't you tell me?”

He shrugs. “I was hoping Jones might change her mind about Saturday. She still might, but I called Coach to give him the bad news.”

It's so quiet, the clock on the wall sounds like a time bomb, counting down the seconds. “I know. I went to practice to tell him I needed to quit.”

“What? Why?”

“I couldn't do it, though,” I say so quietly I'm not sure he actually hears me.

Grams wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.

“When did you kids get here?” Dad finally notices us. He looks shell-shocked.

“Oh, Adam, you're too much.” Grams rolls her eyes and pats me on the shoulder. “It's late, will one of you young men make sure my granddaughter gets home safely?”

Jake and Dad reply at the same time. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Jinx,” Jake says with a laugh.

It feels good to laugh, like the ice that's been stopping me from moving all evening has finally broken. Grams kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck,” she whispers.

I turn back to Dad and Jake, both leaning against the counter. “Thanks again, Mr. Spaulding, for sponsoring the team,” Jake says. “We really appreciate it.”

If Ethan Carter had said the same words, they would have sounded smarmy and insincere, but Jake means it.

“No problem. Glad to support you guys. How's it going?” Dad looks like himself again, relaxed, calm, in control.

I take a deep breath. This is happening.

Jake glances at me before he speaks again. “Not great. We've got this big exhibition match on Saturday and well …” He looks sheepishly down at his feet. “Some of the team can't play.”

“That's dumb,” Dad says emphatically, and I snap to attention.

What?

“Don't these kids have priorities? In my day, you better have a damned good excuse to get out of an important game.” He rubs his head absentmindedly, and I realize he's thinking about his own concussion.

“Dad.” It comes out too quiet, so I clear my throat and try again. “Some kids don't have a choice.”

The realization of my words hits him like a two-hundred-pound defenseman to the ribs. It literally renders him speechless. He's opening his mouth, but he's not saying anything.

Jake purses his lips and jumps back into the conversation. “Penelope is really good, Mr. Spaulding.” He stops and winks at me. “As good as anyone who's only been playing a few weeks can be. She's a natural, Coach says.”

Dad's face goes all red and splotchy.

It's like he's apoplectic or something. Or he's drowning. He's totally going to hit the roof; I've overstepped and I'm going to be in my room until I'm eighty. And then he does something that takes my breath away.

He starts to cry.

My dad. Crying. Not ugly tears like when Mom watches a sad movie, but actual tear drops in his eyes, sliding down his face. “I heard you guys talking.” He looks away for a second.

I try to shake the cobwebs out of my brain and listen to his words.

“I loved hockey.” He rubs his lip. “But I made a choice to stop playing a really long time ago.”

I swallow a lump in my throat and chance a quick look at Jake. He's rapt with attention, staring at my dad. Jake must have found the trophies at school. Only Dad's staunchest admirers look at him that way.

“I've questioned that choice so many times over the years. I always wondered what might have happened if I'd gone back.” Dad's focus shifts, and suddenly his gaze is directed at me. “When I heard you the other day”—He gestures to the front booth—“I knew how you felt; having the game you love taken away from you. And I didn't give you a choice.”

The tears are flowing down his face now and I really don't know what to do or say. The only time I've ever seen Dad cry was at Grampa's funeral. This is not how I imagined this conversation.

Jake shifts uncomfortably. His hand twitches, like he might be thinking about how to reach out and comfort Dad, but at the last second he pulls back.

I take a step forward and reach my arms around Dad's neck. It's been a long time since I've hugged him. “I'm sorry I lied to you,” I whisper.

He pulls me into a bear hug. “Sweetheart. I only want the best for you. I don't want you to get hurt. But I would never have forgiven my parents if they had forbid me from playing. I just forgot. That's all. Promise me, you'll be careful?”

“What?” I pull away and look at Jake to make sure he heard the same thing I did. “I can play?”

“You can play.”

I've pinched myself a dozen times. I still can't believe my dad gave me permission to play. I don't even care that we're going to get crushed. We've been playing teams that are bigger and stronger since I started, so that's no different. I've never been so excited about a game we're sure to lose.

I sneak out of the locker room and stand just inside the hallway. I can see out into the main rink area, but I'm hidden. The little kids are doing drills up and down the ice and the noise from the crowd is deafening. The whole town is totally here. Jason Reed from the Bruins stands in the spotlight calling each kid's name and the crowd is electric. The selfie I took with him when he first got here is already uploaded as my profile picture.

Earlier, when I spotted the Restaurant Network van in the parking lot, I almost cried. Holy hell, I thought they were done. But then Troy Depalma flashed me a thumbs-up and Mark Wilder jogged over to help me haul my bag out of the trunk of Grams's car. But then again, it doesn't much matter anymore. At least on a personal level.

I've watched all the videos Coach gave us of varsity games to memorize their tendencies, their power plays and shorthanded strategies. I'm still not ready to go head-to-head with Warren McNeill.

Individually, we've added a few new moves to our repertoire, but it's still hard to maneuver around a bigger team when they're all bearing down at once. My knees shake a bit when I think of my parents and pretty much the whole school in the stands. Jason Reed says something I can't hear, and the crowd goes wild again. I take a step back and almost bump into someone.

“This is the biggest crowd we've ever had,” a familiar voice says. I spin around and Jake smiles encouragingly and my knees wobble. I did not expect to see him until later tonight.

“What are you doing here? How did you get out of detention?”

“I talked to Jones. I told her everything about the last four years and all the times I took the punishment for something I hadn't done.” He grins and puts a finger to his lips. “She believes me, but I promised her I wouldn't flaunt her leniency by playing today, since I'm supposed to be in detention.” He looks like he's won the lottery. “I'm not sure what's going to happen to Warren on Monday.”

“I don't know what to say. Wow.”

“I just wish I'd done it sooner. It feels so good to get it off my chest.” He shrugs. “Thank you.”

I'm glad he's here, but he still can't play. This is his team; he's the one who all these guys respect. And he's not going to play.

All those years I wasted by not being his friend. There's no way to get those back. And there's no way I'm going back to the way things were before I was playing hockey. Before I knew Jake.

I sigh and lean against him. “It feels good not to lie anymore.” I glance up and catch a glimpse of my family taking their seats. Suddenly my knees are wobbling because I'm aware of my parents and grandmother sitting in the stands, not because Jake Gomes is smiling at me. “What the hell am I going to do?”

Jake looks at me, “You're kidding, right? You're going to play. And you're going to kick it! They're here to watch you
and
they are sponsoring the team.” He leans forward and waves up the stands. “Did you see the television crew? Do you think the game will be on the show?”

“Of course the game will be on the show.” Troy Depalma strides past us, the whole camera crew in tow. “The game
is
the show. It'll be the focal point … with taped interviews spliced in. It's a first of its kind. Such great
Local Flavor
!”

“What?” My knees are shaking so hard, I almost fall into Jake. “No pressure or anything,” I say, regaining my balance.

Jake grips both sides of my helmet and makes me look at him. “You can do this. Just go out there and have fun. Don't worry about winning. Don't worry about impressing anyone. Don't worry about the cameras.”

I glance over our heads again. My mother is completely ignoring us. She's listening to an animated conversation, complete with huge, flamboyant arm movements, with Mrs. Gomes and a guy who
has
to be Carter's father. Grams waves and gives me a thumbs-up. Dad stares straight ahead, like he's afraid to see me in my gear.

“They're finally here to see you play, so you might as well give it all you've got. You've got to help the guys kick butt.” He turns me to face him and crouches down a bit so he's looking me in the face. “You're really good, Pen. You could stay and play with us, or go and play with girls' varsity. Or you could still quit, if you want. You should do what
you
want. I'd like you to keep playing with us. I'd miss seeing you at practice, but I can guarantee it's not going to change how I feel. I'm still going to come around and order bacon sandwiches from the restaurant and walk you home.”

I lean toward him. I just want to kiss him again, but with all my gear on, I can't get nearly close enough. A fist bump will have to suffice.

He smirks as he kisses the top of my helmet. “Hockey teammates do
not
kiss each other, Pen. At least not while they are in full gear.” He winks at me. “But I could smack your ass if you'd like.”

I whack him with my stick for good measure. The rest of the team streams out of the locker room and starts the ritual. The assistant coach squirts everyone in turn with the water bottle and each guy spits out on the floor. For the first time, I take my turn and get a squirt. It's watered down Gatorade. I spit just like everyone else, and Carter slaps me on the back. He practically knocks me into Flores, but it's all right.

This is my team.

Hitting the ice with my parents watching feels amazing. I can finally wear my jersey without being nervous about who's watching. I can't believe how relaxed that makes me feel.