Bittersweet (12 page)

Today’s primary goal: avoid beatdown. Check.

“It’s no secret the Wolves are struggling,” Will says.

“Struggle. To flounder or stumble.” Thirty-two,
FELZNER
, defense, taps away on his cell.

“We’re definitely stumbling, yo.”
NELSON
, sixty, also defense. He grabs his crotch and spits, then winks at me in the box. Aside from the spitting and groping, which under normal circumstances I don’t find all that attractive, Brad Nelson’s kind of a dead ringer for that model Tyson Beckford.

I slip off my gloves and lower the zipper on my fleece.

“We’ve lost focus,” Will continues. “We’re not playing like a team. Our morale is low. I get it.”

“Eh, we bite.”
DEVRIES
, oh-seven, left wing. The smallest of the line, Rowan DeVries sports the unfortunate combination of braces, freckles, and tangerine-red curls. He seems better suited to racing hockey players in a video game.

I flip past the roster and scan the rest of Will’s notes. According to the files, the Watonka Wolves haven’t been to a national competition in over twenty years. The last time our varsity hockey team even won a
division
championship, these particular boys were still in diapers.

I’ve certainly got my work cut out for me this month.

As I make my steady, intentional eye contact, the packmates stare back. Hard. Rowan aside, they’re all about the same size, big and broad-shouldered, muscle and attitude. Just as Will promised, everyone showed up, skipping their Guitar Hero matches or raw meat–eating contests or whatever it is boys do in their free time, but most of them don’t really
mean
it. They’re only half-equipped, some of them in worn jerseys while others are just wearing sweatshirts and track pants. Five didn’t bother with helmets. Two keep checking their phones,
texting and scrolling, counting down the seconds until someone calls with a better offer.

Will skates to the center of the pack, his skates stopping in a T. He nods toward me in the box. “We have a guest today.”

I wave, forgetting all about the cool man-nod I practiced in front of the mirror. Josh smiles at me from the line.
Oh
. Is the pancreas on the left side? Because I think mine just twitched.

“Some of you guys probably know Hudson Avery,” Will says. The statement elicits a few grunts. One discernible “yeah.” Two sneezes. A yawn. Wow. Just as I suspected, I’ve made quite an impression at the Watonka Central School District. Perhaps I should refresh their memories with a few stories from the good ole days, like the one where right wing Parker Gilgallon wets his pants during sixth-grade crab soccer, or where defense Eddie Dune got the nickname “Gettysburg” for flashing the crowd during center Micah Baumler’s recital of the Gettysburg Address, right after the four score and seven years part.

“She can skate,” Will continues. “
Really
skate. And unless you scare her off by acting like your mouth-breather selves, she
might
be able to help us. Off the record, of course.”

Shuffles. Groans. Another sneeze. Perhaps my hot-pink zip-up fleece wasn’t such an award-winning idea; much more
Barbie on Ice
than the Icelandic barbarian skatetrix Dani and I envisioned earlier this week when we discussed the hockey strategy. Still, I expected and planned for this exact scenario, and no one needs to know that behind my confident fuchsia-and-bubble-gum exterior, just above my hockey-boys-you-
will
-take-this-ass-seriously
stretchy jeans, my stomach is trying to run up into my esophagus.

Hudson Avery, you are a professionally trained ice-skater. You can do spirals and axels and lutzes around these guys all day long. You are a beautiful woman with the strength of an ox, …

Yes! I step out of the box, blades firm on the ice.

… the ferocity of a lioness, …

Absolutely! I hold my head high.

… the grace of a gazelle….

No doubt! Right foot next, firm on the—firm!
No! I said firm! With the grace of a—

Gazelle.

I’m flat on my stomach, splayed out in an X, cartoon-falling-off-cliff style. As a competitive figure skater, I spent a good majority of my training perfecting the best way to fall on my ass, and I’m not even doing
that
right anymore. What
is
it with me and hockey boys?

Across the ice, thirty-eight black skates are level with my head. White laces looped through silver eyelets. Toes scuffed. Thick blades. Four of them move toward me.
Slash-slash, slash-slash, slash-slash.

Will and Josh grab my arms and help me to my feet.

“You okay?” Josh’s face tightens the way it did after our collision at Fillmore.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“You totally bit it,” Will says through that megawatt smile. “Blackthorn didn’t even have to train-wreck you this time.”

“You gonna teach us how to walk, Princess Pink?”
GILGALLON
, twenty-nine. Pretty ballsy for a pants-wetter, if you ask me. “I wouldn’t want you to break a nail.”

If I wasn’t so utterly
pink
right now, I might just skate over there and knee him in the—

“Back off, Gilgallon,” Josh warns. He and Will may be my only allies on the ice. Which is unfortunate, considering there are seventeen other guys staring me down, all looking for a reason to unilaterally dismiss me.

“So, um, why
are
you here, exactly?”
Grab, spit, grab
goes Brad Nelson.

“Seriously,
mamí
.” Left wing
TORRES
, lucky number thirteen, shakes his head. “Hockey rink ain’t the place for candy-ass little girls. Maybe you should go home and play with your dollies.”

“Dude, shut it.” Will smacks Frankie’s arm while the other guys laugh. “Seriously, you all right to keep going, Hud?”

I press my hand against my fleece pocket, Lola’s letter crinkling inside.
You gotta want it, kiddo. Really want it.
I take a deep breath and feel the rink beneath my blades, the familiar solidity coming up through my legs. All winter I’ve come to the ice sporadically, a secret affair. Without reason. Without direction. Looping like a tiny snowflake swirling on the wind, no idea how far I’d drift or where I’d end up, hoping only that I wouldn’t melt before I got there.

But here, now, my reason skates to the surface.

Will and I made a deal. I’m laced up. I’m on the ice. And
for the first time since I ditched the competition track three years ago, I have a purpose.

And like old Lola used to say, “I didn’t keep myself alive another lousy day just to watch you half-ass your way across the rink,
bambina. Capisce?”

“Wolf pack, right?” I ask, newly emboldened by the stone-cold Lola-cool in my voice. “That’s what they call you?”

“How-
ooooo
!”
JORDAN
, ninety-nine, goalie. Amir Jordan is actually howling. Head thrown back, olive-brown skin and shaggy black hair gleaming under the fluorescents like a real wolf in the moonlight. The whole thing is pretty frightening, and I don’t mean in the sexy “Team Jacob” kind of way.

I suck in a breath of cold air and channel some more Lola, slapping my gloves against my hip. “All right, wolf pack. When was the last time you won a game?”

Slap
.

“Tied a game?”

Slap.

“Lost by less than a point?”

“Speaking of points, Princess Pink … you got one?” Brad again. You know, for someone so hot, he shouldn’t be so wound up.

“Chill out, Nelson,” Josh says.

“But homegirl doesn’t know
jack
about hockey! You just want to—”

“Ever hear of James Creighton?” I glide toward them, skating along the blue line.

“Who?” Micah Baumler asks.

“Creighton. Father of ice hockey?”

Skates shuffle. Helmets bow.

“He’s in the hockey hall of fame,” I continue. “And by the way, wolf pups, the father of your favorite sport was also a figure skating judge. So let’s drop all this ‘homegirl doesn’t know jack’ b.s. and focus on the biggest challenge this school has ever seen: breaking your flawlessly pathetic ten-year losing streak.”

“Ten years?” Rowan laughs. “It hasn’t been that long, Hudson.”

“Have you
read
the files?”

He looks up at me, lowering his voice as if we’re sharing some big secret. Which, apparently, we are. “What files?”

“From the—”

“If you’re done with the history lesson, can we
go
now?” Chuck Felzner whines, still messing with his phone.

“Yeah, I’m starving,” Brad says. “You guys wanna hit up Papallo’s? Ten-cent wings tonight.”

Frankie fist bumps him. “Man, you
know
I want in on that.”

Josh holds up his hands. “Come on, guys. Practice isn’t over.”

Oblivious to his protests, the team shuffles collectively toward the locker room.

“You coming out with us, Princess?” Brad winks at me again before he leaves, but I shake my head and he follows the rest of the pack off the ice.

Will and Josh, the only two wolves on the rink, exchange a frustrated glance.

“I’ll try again,” Josh says. He skates to the edge and slips the guards over his blades, hobbling into the locker room to find his teammates.

“Sorry about that,” Will says. “Not bad for your first try, though.” He squeezes my shoulder. I remember Dani’s “smoldering” comment in French class the other day and gently shrug him off.

“If that’s what you call ‘not bad,’ no wonder your team sucks.”

Will laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ouch.”

“Sorry.” I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings out here, but … not bad? Seriously? On the scale of things going bad, one being my infamous Black Melons cupcake fail—watermelon cupcakes with black licorice icing that even Bug refused—and ten being, let’s say, the Cold War, I’d call today’s meet and greet about a seven
thousand
. Hot-pink zip-up? Training Watonka’s hockey thugs? My so-called candy-ass moves against ten-cent wings at Papallo’s?

“It’s okay. It’s just the first night.”

“Will, this isn’t going to work. The guys don’t—”

“The guys don’t realize how much they need you. But they will.”

“I don’t belong out here with—”

“Yes, you do. It’s hard for them—no one wants to admit we need outside help.”

“You mean help from a girl.”

“I mean help from anyone not on the team.”

I slip my gloves back over my hands and flex my fingers. “Why don’t we talk to the coach, then? If he signs me on officially, maybe the guys will—”

“No way.” Will shakes his head. “Dodd is still technically our coach, but he doesn’t care about helping us win. And if he knew about you, he’d flip. Not to mention we’re probably violating some school insurance policy. I’m serious, Hudson. You can’t tell people about this—especially Dodd.”

I shove my hands in my fleece pockets, gloved fingers scratching against the foundation letter. “You’re giving me a lot of reasons to walk away.”

“I’m also giving you a big one to stay.” He looks out across the empty, unblemished rink and smiles, and we both know he’s right. Surly hockey boys or not, I need the ice time.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Will says. “You wanted the ice tonight after practice? It’s all yours. Just let Marcus know when you’re done. He’s the manager here. He’s in the office down the hall—white ponytail, Sabres hat.”

“Thanks.”

“Have a good workout.” Will gives me one last squeeze and skates off toward the locker room.

Once he’s gone, I check the laces on my skates, do some light stretching, and push off the back edge. Methodically I loop into my figures, eyes closed, the cut and swish of the blades bringing me back to the only place besides the predawn
Hurley’s kitchen that calms me. I’m still mangled from the Wolves firing squad, but a deal is a deal, and holy snowballs—compared to Fillmore, the ice here at Baylor’s is a downright dream.

I pick up speed as my legs get a feel for the place, each muscle rejoicing at the smoothness of the groomed indoor rink. I’m much faster here. Looser. Uninhibited. Just like I remember.

I skate hard to the other end and loop back, twisting into a scratch spin, tight and fast, arms high above my head as my feet twirl against the ice and …

Bam!

My ass hits the rink with the thud heard round the world.

“This sucks.” I drag myself up for another go.

“Rough night, huh?”

I whip around so fast, I almost lose my footing again.
Almost
. Josh smiles and glides across the rink, still in his skates and practice gear.

“Just you and me,” he says. “Will went to Papallo’s to talk some sense into them. I didn’t have any luck.”

“No luck, and no wings, either? Talk about a rough night.”

Josh laughs and motions for me to follow him around the perimeter. I fall in next to him, both of us taking long, comfortable strides along the edge.

“Hudson, when I first asked you about this … I mean, if I’d known Will would rope you into the team thing, I never would’ve mentioned it to him.”

“No. I really need the ice time. I just don’t know why he
thought I could help the Wolves. I might as well be invisible out here.”

Josh shakes his head. “Will believed me when I told him about you—about what I saw at Fillmore. That’s why he thought you could help.”

I keep my eyes on the ice, my cheeks burning. “In that case, sorry I let you down.”

“You kidding me? The guys are mostly idiots, Hud. Seriously. Sometimes I think we need sensitivity training more than technical work.”