Any Way You Slice It (2 page)

“Skate up to the wall and back again. Hold the stick across your body,” he says, pushing me forward. For some reason, the spot on my back where he touched me is hypersensitive.

I do what he tells me, against my better judgment, and it feels right. The stick has a nice weight to it—I can balance it across my body, and if I lean forward, I'll be able to go faster.

I shift my weight and lower my hand like he said, keeping the stick in front of me on the ice. Racing back toward the center, I take a wide turn around Jake and come up on the puck. I swing, and this time I connect. A rush of adrenaline surges through me and I spin in a flourish as the puck flies neatly into the top corner of the net.

“Yes!” Jake pumps his arm, “I knew it!”

“Woot!” I can't help it; I reach out my hand for a high-five. “That was awesome!”

Who knew hitting a hockey puck felt so much better than just skating in circles around the rink?

Jake yells over to a man standing near the equipment door. “Coach Walsh! Did you see that?” He turns back to me with a look that suggests Labrador puppy might run in his blood. “Pearson just moved away. You already know how to skate. We just need to teach you how to play. Please tell me you'll join the Rats.”

The Rats?

“You want me to play hockey?” It's a dumb question. He obviously just asked me to play hockey. It's almost four thirty. Mom is totally sitting out in the parking lot. My shift at the restaurant starts at five, and if I don't get out there soon, she's going to come looking for me. I'll be grounded until graduation if she sees me holding a hockey stick. Dad will go ballistic. I might not have the social life of a hotel heiress, but I can't risk losing the meager status that being the Pizza Princess gets me.

The coach runs across the ice, slipping and sliding on sneakers, looking as excited as Jake. “Young lady, that was amazing. Clearly you've played before.”

I shake my head, and he stares at me with his mouth open. “Please join my team.” The coach sounds more desperate than Jake, and I'm thinking the Rats must be ten shades of terrible.

The thought of being part of team gives me a rush, though. I've always had to work at the restaurant after school, but I've always envied the kids who belonged to something. Plus, matching shirts that don't have grease and pizza sauce stains would be the bomb.

All of a sudden I can't breathe. “I've got to go.” I skate to the wall and push the door open, barely missing the mom and the six-year old. She glares at me, but I rush forward and practically trip over the step.

The buzzer echoes around the building and I cover my ears.

Open rink is officially over.

When I step outside a few minutes later, it's only ten degrees colder than inside, but the wind is biting. January in New Hampshire sucks.

Mom is crossing the driveway to the building. I'm sure she's annoyed about having to leave the warmth of the car. She taps her watch when she sees me. “Let's go, Pen! I've already been waiting ten minutes. You know Friday night is always busy.”

“Sorry.” I wonder if my guilt shows on my face. And then I wonder why I'm feeling guilty. But then again, I'm not opening my mouth to tell her I've been asked to join the Rink Rats.

As I slide into the front seat, I pull my phone out of my bag to check messages. There's a friend request flashing from Jake Gomes.

Damn, he's fast.

“I'm glad you're here, Pen. It's going to be busy tonight,” Jorge yells, tossing me an apron as we dash through the back door. That's as much of a reprimand as I'm going to get from the head chef at Slice Pizza. From him, that's like getting raked over the coals. At least Dad's not here to bark at me.

“Jules called in sick, and your dad left for Boston to meet with the guy from the Restaurant Network,” Jorge says.

I roll my eyes. Mom only hired Jules to be the head waitress when we won the first “Best of” award and things started to get busy. The only time she calls in sick is when the hotness of her date exceeds how badly she needs her paycheck. Otherwise she'll drag herself off her deathbed for Friday night tips. It's just after five o'clock and the line at the counter is already seven deep. Tonight's date must be incredible.

Slice Pizza, the only decent restaurant in Vernon, New Hampshire, is nestled between an Asian market and an antique store. On a Friday night, it's literally the only place to go in town. Jorge's good, but he's already backed up in the kitchen. I tie my apron around my waist and push Grams gently away from the counter.

“I'm not an old woman you need to put out to pasture,” she protests, but a few minutes later, she's laughing with the Mason family while they wait for their pizza. My grandmother is the true Pizza Princess—if we asked her to wear a crown; she'd do it with a smile. Come to think of it, a crown would look really cute with her pink tracksuit and silver hair.

Mom grabs a dishcloth and starts busing tables. I'm still not used to the clatter of glasses and ice from next door, but it means Steve, the bartender, is putting orders through to the kitchen as well. The bar is Dad's newest brainchild. It took a few months to get the liquor license, but so far the build out was well worth the investment. People love having a place to drink in our small town.

Go figure.

Mom and I really should have been here
before
four o'clock, especially because a home game is on tonight. In an hour, the place will be full of Bruins fans watching the game on the big screen. Mom indulged me with my skating this afternoon because of the fight with Dad. I made us late by lingering with Jake. That thought makes me feel worse.

Two hours fly by like ten minutes. Every time I inhale, a painful twinge cuts across my ribs. That hit to the wall hurt. But every breath reminds me about the chance to be on a hockey team. And even though I'm trying to fall back on my old hatred of Jake Gomes, I can't find it.

I remember the last time I touched a hockey stick. Grams had helped me pull the old skates out of the garage for the first time when I wanted to learn to skate, and we'd stumbled on Dad's old gear. I thought he was gonna go postal until we told him I was only skating, not playing hockey.

There's no way Dad will ever let me play. I don't know why I'm still thinking about it.

At seven o'clock, a couple of minivans pull up at the curb out front. I freeze for a second as the guys from the Rink Rats start piling onto the pavement.

Damn. I wish Jules wasn't “sick” tonight. If she were here giving me her usual brand of snark, my knees wouldn't be shaking as the guys stream into the building. I have no idea why I'm so nervous. I've seen most of them before, either at the rink or in school, but I've never looked twice.

They're a motley group. It's just a rec team, but even so, none of the boys look like serious athletes. Only a few of them even look like they've ever seen the inside of a gym. These are the guys the high school team wouldn't take; the guys who love the sport, but can't play at a more competitive level. A couple have long hair, and two have scruffy beards. Some look like maybe they didn't shower after practice. A couple of them look like freshman. They're small—like maybe I could take them on a good day. It occurs to me to wonder about their competition. Everyone around here plays hockey. Even the old-folks' home has a team. The Silver Lunatics.

Jake waves at me over the heads of his teammates, and I do my best to ignore him. It's not hard to pretend I'm fully focused on taking Mrs. Corbett's regular Friday-night order of spinach pizza and onion rings. But out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jake's disappointed expression when I don't react. Strangely, it makes my pulse race. And that annoys me more than anything else.

“I'd like a dozen large pies,” Coach Walsh says, when he finally gets through the crowd to the counter. “Make half of them pepperoni and one vegetarian.” He looks at me for a second, like he thinks he might know me. Jake whispers something in his ear and Coach looks again, nodding. He starts to open his mouth but I shake my head, pleading silently for him not to ask the question. The last thing I need is for Jorge to get wind of my hockey transgression before I have a chance to make up my mind.

“I'll put those right in. For here or to go?” I concentrate on making my face completely neutral.

He looks over his shoulder at the team and various family members who have taken over every available booth. “I guess we'll eat them here.”

A couple minutes later, the game starts and there's a buzz in the room from excited conversations about great plays and whether or not the Bruins will make the playoffs this year. A clip of my favorite song bursts on in the background of an insurance commercial and I dance a little behind the counter when no one is watching. For the second time in ten minutes I miss Jules, with her Friday-night platform heels. But then again, no one ever notices me when she's doing her song and dance, and tonight I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

The orders are coming at me fast and furious. Between customers, I'm wiping down the counter when it gets greasy. With a smile, Grams retreats to the kitchen to cut vegetables for Jorge.

I brush my hair away from my face. I'm sweating like a dude—and I don't have the benefit of half a bottle of Axe to douse over myself, like most of the guys in the room. But then again, between the pizza and the high-octane aftershave cloud in the room, no one can smell me.

I try to focus on the job and getting the orders right, but the feel of the hockey stick in my hand keeps popping back into my head. How it felt to hit the puck and see it fly into the net. How it would feel to be in full gear, playing in a real game with other players jockeying for position.

I have no idea why the thought of hockey has me so worked up. It's weird. Maybe because Dad forbids it? His anti-hockey stance never really bothered me before. But I never really took it seriously, because I never cared about playing.

I'm also aware of every move Jake makes, even though there are at least twenty-five other people in the dining area. He's working the room like a politician, leaning on the back of a vinyl banquette for a few minutes while joking with the kid wearing the ball cap. Then he's kneeling down to talk to the short guy in the Red Sox jersey.

“Can I help you?” I ask the next person in line, without looking up from noting the last takeout order.

“I'd like a BLT, but hold the lettuce and tomato.” Jake Gomes leans against the counter and grins at me like he's just told the best joke ever. He totally thinks he's the mayor of Slice Pizza tonight.

The perfect comeback is on my lips until I completely lose my train of thought. I can't believe I haven't noticed how much he's changed this year. I think maybe he's grown six inches since the last time I stood this close to him. His T-shirt isn't wicked tight, but I can see his biceps under his sleeves and it's obvious he works out.

His brown eyes have me hypnotized. He's got the longest eyelashes known to man, and I'm having a hard time concentrating on making a wiseass reply. But he's still the kid who throws spitballs from the back of the bus. The kid who pulls the fire alarm between classes so we all have to go outside with no coats and wait for the fire department to call the all clear. The kid who gets detention for picking fights in the boys' room and behind the bleachers.

Isn't he?

So I give it my best shot.

“So basically, you're at ‘the Best Pizza Joint' in New Hampshire,” I say, hooking my fingers around the superlative, “and you want bacon on bread?”

“Yeah, that's about right.” He nods. “How much?”

Until this afternoon, I hadn't paid attention to Jake for years. I stare at him, trying to remember the last time he'd pulled a stupid prank, but I can't come up with anything. I suddenly realize I haven't been angry in years. But since that day in the sixth grade, we've made a habit of running in different circles.

I remember the afternoon after “the incident.” I told him we weren't friends anymore. He stamped his feet and cried. Seriously. He cried. He even told Mrs. Reed. She wasn't at all sympathetic, and he got detention for two weeks. I wish I could say I don't remember why I was so mad. But I still remember everything and I've never forgiven him.

Why should anything be different now?

While I'm staring into his eyes, which are inexplicably twinkling at me, I remember he's broken my golden rule, “when at Slice, eat pizza,” and it snaps me out of my stupor. If the name of the restaurant wasn't “Slice” as in slice of pizza, then maybe I'd be more forgiving. But we make
the best pizza
in the state. We've won the New Hampshire “Best Pizza” award five years in a row. My grandfather perfected the recipe from the original owner, Tony “Tiny” Constanza.

I look over my shoulder and Jorge snorts from the kitchen. The bacon starts to sizzle. He doesn't care. But it's not his family's reputation on the line. He'll scold me later, “Penelope, it doesn't matter what we make or serve, as long as it's the best. Pizza? Yes. But the customer is always right. You want them to come back.”

I disagree. You don't order a hamburger at a sushi bar. You don't order a bacon sandwich at Slice Pizza. I look over Jake's shoulder at the crowded restaurant. Dad wants us to be more than just pizza—it's one of the reasons he's hoping to get a spot on the reality show.

I grab my pad and pencil and try to play it cool, like I didn't hit pucks with him on the ice this afternoon. “Jake, right?”

For a second he falters, like he can't believe I'm not falling for his act. But he recovers nicely. “You want my number, too?” His smile lights up his face. One crooked eyetooth among a row of straight pearly whites. I'm tongue-tied and totally staring. Jorge giggles from the kitchen.