7. Chase
Zak hadn’t given Chase much to go on when she had asked him to meet her the day after the reunion. Come to think of it, she didn’t really ask him. She had told him to be at Spilled Beans at ten a.m. as his old teammates carted him off.
The guys had spent the rest of the night alternating between smoking cigarettes in the men’s bathroom and drinking in the main party room. Reminding Chase exactly why he hadn’t wanted to go in the first place.
Carter was now married, but treated the night like a second bachelor party while his pregnant wife stayed home. Ben’s mom still did his laundry and made him home-cooked meals every night. Kevin carried around a digital camera, which he exclusively used to catalog pictures of strippers.
Had they always been such pieces of shit?
Probably, though Chase had never noticed. Five years ago, he had been too busy trying to make sure everyone liked him to stop and ask himself if he liked them. “Never burn bridges, never talk politics, and when in doubt, smile and nod,” was what his parents always said.
But there was one good thing about nearly dying: perspective.
The second thought he’d had upon waking up from surgery, right after, Holy shit my leg is gone, was, Who am I?
He still hadn’t found the answer.
All his life, he had been an athlete, a teammate, a number on a screen. Now that he was none of those things, it was easy to see everything he had never been. A friend, a partner, a dreamer. A person with opinions and the voice to say them out loud.
He used to appreciate gradual change, a mindset born to cope with the monotony of discipline and practice. Sweat, fall, bruise, break, and get back up to do it all over again. But losing the routine had rendered him numb to all but the instantaneous.
Finding his name splashed across news headlines.
Dropping everything and moving back to California.
Seeing Zak for the first time in five years and feeling like he’d stepped back in time, to 1989.
There was no fa?ade with her, no net worth or public sob story to hide behind. She didn’t care. And she made his heart pound right out of his fucking chest, the same way she used to when they were teenagers butting heads.
Not knowing what to expect from her this morning made him as nervous as he had been before his debut game as a rookie. Back then, he needed to prove he was worth one-point-five million to a guy in a suit. Today, he was worth absolutely zero to Zak, which only made the stakes higher.
Rising early for practice had conditioned him to wake up at seven, regardless of how late he stayed up. So he showered and lumbered through his physical-therapist-ordered stretches to kill time before ultimately deciding to walk to the coffee shop.
Lydia would be asleep for a while yet, and so would David Ramirez, he assumed, who indeed made it back to their place last night to help Chase’s sister rigorously test the noise-canceling properties of their shared bedroom wall.
In three words: not soundproof enough.
It wasn’t quite nine when he made it there, but that gave him a solid hour to read the seven menu items on repeat, make an educated guess about what flavor Zak liked in her coffee—if she liked any flavor—then agonize over whether he should buy her coffee at all.
Despite what any sane person might assume, Chase knew there was a better chance of this outing being an assassination attempt than it being a date.
He finally ordered two lattes and two blueberry scones from the very patient barista at the register, threw twenty bucks in the tip jar, and stood by the pickup counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of silver. A pair of aviator sunglasses tucked into a mess of black hair.
Zak shared the back corner table with her guitar case, mouthing words to herself as she scrawled in an open notebook. If she noticed him, she didn’t show it. She was lost to the type of slow, meandering creativity that made the world fade away and replaced it with something better. Unlike the way he was lost. Nothing else to do, nowhere else to be.
He wanted something to inspire him the way music inspired her. He craved passion. Wished he could experience it vicariously by watching her work.
Chase said, “Thank you,” a little louder than usual to warn her he was early as he grabbed the drink holder and paper bag. Watching her write for all of five seconds had to be the most innocent form of voyeurism, but still, it made him feel like a creep.
“I thought I said ten?”
She fanned off the pages of her notebook before closing the cover. Condensation from a long empty cup of iced tea had wrinkled the paper and smudged the ink. With the sun shining through the windows, he could make out the swirls she had doodled on the side of the glass with her finger. The smudges of wine-colored lipstick staining the back of her pen and the straw in her drink.
“You did.” He set down their breakfast and slid into the chair opposite hers. “Lydia brought a guy home last night, so I figured I’d get out of there before she breaks his heart this morning. Didn’t realize you’d be here early, too.”
She eyed him up and down, as though she suspected he might be lying about such a mundane story. “I think better out here. My place is kind of hectic,” she said without elaborating.
So, this wasn’t going to be about catching up with an old acquaintance, either.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Of course not. I gave you a specific time, hoping you would blatantly disregard it and show up whenever the hell you wanted instead.” She pointed to the second steaming coffee cup and pastry. “Did you invite anyone else?”
“No, I got these for you.” He slid them toward her. “But if you’re a tea drinker, I’ll—”
“I’m an everything drinker when I pay for it myself.” She assessed the food as if checking for poison. “You don’t have to go waving your wallet around just because you’re richer than me, Chase. This isn’t a date.”
“Of course it isn’t.” He brushed off her glare, the corner of his mouth itching to quirk upward. “This isn’t what we’d be doing. On a date.”
“I suppose not. If this were a date, I’d be climbing out the bathroom window right about now.”
“Oh really? You never seemed like the conflict avoidance type to me.”
Antagonistic, unrestrained. A breath of fresh air. At a time when everything else had changed, the dynamic between him and Zak remained preserved like a time capsule. In her mind, it was probably hostility burning in those deep green eyes, but all he saw was the competitive fire he thirsted for. Something familiar, something real.
The flame flared, then extinguished. She wiped the irritated expression off her face and took a defiant sip of the latte. “Do you know why I asked you to come here?”
That sounded like a trick question.
No, he didn’t know why she wanted to see him again, and the reason didn’t matter. Talking to Zak distracted him from what was missing because she still treated him as whole. Granted, a whole person whom she hated, but that was far better than the inverse.
“Is it because you realized the Bloody María is possibly the worst cocktail ever invented, and you wanted to personally apologize for recommending it to me?”
She smiled, albeit in more of a vindictive way than a friendly one. “I said I was drinking it, not that I recommended it. If you had asked me what I recommend, I would have told you every drink on the menu is awful. You’re better off buying mixers from the corner store. Avoid the food, too, unless you’re starving or stoned.”
“Ah, so you didn’t invite me here for a job either, then.”
“Not at the bar, no.” Zak bit down on her lip and chipped at the black polish on her cut-to-the-quick nails before folding her hands on the table. “Look, I’m not very good at this casual talking thing.”
He hid his amusement behind the plastic lid on his to-go cup. “Yeah. I can tell.”
“So I’m just going to come right out and say it. I wanted to see if you’ve ever considered singing. As a career.”
The idea ripped a full-blown laugh out of him. Zak was famously sarcastic. She had to be joking.
Before Lydia’s little karaoke prank last night, he’d never considered singing in public, let alone on stage professionally. He had never even dared to hum in the locker room if there was a chance he might not be alone.
“I’m serious,” she said. And looked it, too. When was the last time she’d blinked? “I understand this is a crazy ask. Hell, we haven’t spoken in years. We were never friends to begin with. But have you heard of Amped?”
Never friends. It was true. And yet, he came here hoping to ask her all about her band and her life, to hear her stories from the past five years. He wanted to walk up to the cash register next time and know her coffee order without having to think so damn long about it.
“I’ve seen the commercials,” he said slowly. “Why?”
“We’re going to be on it. My band, I mean.” She was back to picking at her nail polish again. “At least, we’re supposed to be. But with Link gone…”
Chase waited, but she left the explanation open. She wouldn’t have to ask for help if he offered it, he realized. “You need someone to fill in for him. And you think I’m your guy?”
“I listened last night,” she told him. As though she wasn”t the one person he had been worried about humiliating himself in front of. “And I think you could be. Don’t let this go to your enormous head, but your voice is incredible, Chase. One in a million. It’s exactly the right sound for us.”
It felt like it took an eternity for Chase to figure out how to respond. On the one hand, he could tell she was fighting against the suffocating amount of pride she possessed to give him a compliment not immediately preceded or followed by an insult.
On the other hand, he had seen Saint of Spades play before. He had heard their singer belt out crazy high notes and experienced the way they made their audience a part of something personal. He had felt the pull from behind a crowd over forty feet thick. When they took the stage, it was palpable how close they all were, and watching them was like being invited to become a part of it.
How could he live up to that? He had no experience, no clue about where to begin. If he said yes, there was a far better chance of him tarnishing the band’s public image than saving it.
“There has to be something else you guys could do,” he said. “Someone else who could take his place. Or you could go solo, even. Forget the competition.”
Zak recoiled as if he had raised his hand to physically hit her. “No. There is no other option. I’m not ditching the only people who have ever cared enough about me to stick around.”
Her brows knitted together. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be asking some pretentious jerk-off to join my band if I hadn’t tried everything. I’ve listened to hundreds of auditions, put up flyers outside every music store within a three-hour radius. You’re it, Chase. You’re my last shot at making this thing happen for us.”
The silence at their table swallowed the muted conversations and folk music and steaming espresso machines in the background.
“I can see why you haven’t had much luck if you’re calling me a pretentious jerk-off at the same time as offering me the gig.” Chase placed his coffee cup on the table. “I can only imagine what you called the ones you didn’t want.”
She looked away, like she suddenly cared about indoor plants and typography posters, and he could sense the subject change coming. This really was her version of trying to be nice. It was hilarious.
“I never asked you last night. What are you up to these days?”
He waited for her to make eye contact again. “I think we’re past that, Zak.”
“Answer the question.”
“I didn’t just lose my job. I lost everything I worked toward my entire life. I lost the only hobby I ever had. My team, the only people who were constants in my life for four years. For a while, I lost my independence.” He stopped. He had already let it go on too far. “Isn’t the answer obvious?”
“No,” she stated. And it struck him this was the first time anyone, other than his twin, had asked him about his life outside the league. “So, you don’t play hockey anymore. What do you do instead? Where do you work? How do you spend your free time?”
Wishing I didn’t hate my life so much.
“What would you do if you lost your arm and couldn’t play guitar anymore?”
“I’d learn to play with my fucking feet if I had to, Chase. Nothing short of death could keep me from making music. Nothing. So, what’s keeping you from doing what you love? Or do you not know what you love?”
“I’m still figuring things out.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That doesn’t mean I need to try singing on reality TV, though.”
“I can give you a million reasons why you should say ‘yes.’ Granted, most of them are selfish,” she said. “But you still haven’t given me a reason why you shouldn’t.”
“Because it was just karaoke, Zak. I don’t sing. I have no clue what I’m doing out there.” But as he said the words, he didn’t think he could stomach the expression on her face, either.
Not friends, he reminded himself again. But they were more than strangers, and even a stranger could look at Zak and see how deeply she cared about music. He used to have a dream like hers. One he would have done anything to accomplish, even if his motivations hadn’t been entirely his own. But sometimes there was nothing to be done. Sometimes one second of shit luck was all it took to shatter years’ worth of dedication.
To her, he was the person with the power to undo that one second of shit luck. Chase vehemently disagreed.
“I don’t think I can do it.”
“I don’t care what you think. I know you can do it.”
There was nothing warm about the tight set of her jaw or how her kohl-rimmed eyes looked like they could pierce right through him, and yet, her conviction was more comforting than kindness.
“All that’s left for you to decide is if you want to do it.”
His indecision must have dragged on too long because she followed up with, “It doesn’t have to be a forever commitment. Just the show. If we win, it’s a five-year contract, but you could leave if you wanted. It doesn’t matter if we get dropped as soon as our name is out there. As long as you give us a chance to replace you.”
The line between what she wanted and what he wanted was smudged to shit because Chase wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. But he did want Zak to have what she wanted. She deserved better than Salt Surf.
He would never have imagined entertaining the thought of joining a rock band, but music had become his escape. What if it also happened to be the place he belonged? Even if he didn’t believe in himself, and he certainly didn’t believe fame was everything it was cracked up to be, he needed something to believe in again.
The longer he considered it, the better it sounded. Until he found himself saying, “If I say yes, what happens next?”
His coffee cup was half-full and still warm. It turned out he didn’t have to think long about it at all.
“Contrary to what the guys would tell you, I’m not a dictator. If you said yes, I would take you to meet the band.” She stood and finished the rest of her coffee. “Are you coming?”
She might have phrased it like a question, but it sounded more like an expectation. Was she aware of this power she had to make people want to follow her, or was that a power she only had over him? One hypothetical yes, and he was already in too deep.
“And it’s temporary,” he said. “You just need someone for the show?”
“If you hate it, you can leave,” she promised. “They might not even let us on the show without Link, but we have to try something.”
Screw it. Chase had followed his dream job all over the country. He could follow Zak back to her apartment.
“Yeah, I’ll meet them,” he said, knowing full well this simple introduction would turn into him joining a band within the hour. If they would have him.
She turned away to hide a victorious little smirk that made him miss the edge of the plastic lid with his mouth and spill hot coffee down his shirt instead, so he headed to the trashcan to toss the remainder. A stimulant of any kind was the last thing he needed right now.
“You’re going to throw away two dollars? Here.” Zak held out her hand. “I could always use more caffeine.”
He handed over the rest of his coffee, though she seemed to have energy in reserves. She must have been out much later than him last night, having to clean up and haul away catering supplies. Yet here she was, working again.
Here she was, putting him through some other confusing kind of hell by forming another one of her lipstick prints on the black plastic lid. Right where his own mouth had been a few seconds ago.
“Sorry, are you a germaphobe or something? I’m used to having no personal space, and I forget other people aren’t.”
She clearly thought he looked horrified, and he was. Horrified that, evidently, he was still hung up on a crush he had as a kid. But appearing shocked was better than letting what was actually going through his head play out on his face. So he didn’t move a muscle.
“No, it’s fine. Steal my drink anytime.”
Oh, what a weirdo. Seriously, Chase? “Steal my drink anytime?” What the fuck?
“Well, that’s a relief.” There was a confused pull to Zak”s brows, but she directed it at the exit door instead of him. Which was good, because it was going to take Chase another thirty seconds to visibly recover from his stupidity, and the rest of his life to recover from it mentally. “For you, I mean. ‘Cause my car’s a mess, and my apartment’s even worse.”
She wasn’t kidding. He considered offering to sign over the title to his own car for free when she led him to a station wagon covered in oxidation patches, threw her belongings in the trunk, fumbled in through the passenger side door, and squeezed her eyes shut like she could will the battery to last through another summer. The dash lit up on the second try, and she relaxed in her seat.
Against his better judgment, Chase climbed into the passenger side and shut the door behind him. At least it would be ironic if he beat pessimistic medical odds just to die in Zak’s rust bucket on wheels.
“So, which irresponsible dealership are you hopefully planning to sue for negligence?”
“Stepdad number three was a used car salesman,” she said. “He wasn’t with my mom anymore when I bought it, but I think that’s why he gave me such a good deal. Pity or guilt, or something.”
Something twisted inside of his gut at how casually she threw out the number three. Like she expected people to float in and out of her life. “If he really felt guilty, he wouldn’t have sold this thing to you.”
“It was in better shape when I bought it, full transparency.” She pulled onto the street, gripping the steering wheel from the bottom. Her thumbs tapped against the leather. “This is what I get for spending all my money on guitars and shoes.”
He glanced at her snakeskin boots, pointy at both the toe and heel, and wondered how on Earth she walked around in those things, let alone maneuvered the pedals of a car. “No wonder you’re so keen on stealing my leftovers.”
As if he had reminded her, she gulped down the rest of his coffee at the next stoplight, then reached over and flipped open the glove compartment. The car behind her gave a long honk when the light turned green, which she ignored as she pushed aside a stack of papers, started digging out cassettes, and piled them on Chase’s lap. One of them, he noticed, she shoved to the bottom and covered back up.
With the tapes clattering in his arms and falling to the floorboard, she laid on the gas again. “Normally I’m a stickler with the driver-picks-the-music rule. But I’ll make an exception this time because I’m curious.”
“What’s got you curious?”
“You,” she said.
For once, they were on perfectly level footing because nothing intrigued him more than Zak Parker.
“Obviously. If you’re going to be in a band, Chase, you’d better have some opinions about music.”
“I have plenty of opinions about music.”
To prove it, he popped Back in Black into the cassette player. Bell chimes flooded the speakers, and she nodded like she got the message.
A tribute to a dead lead singer. An iconic, best-selling album born from tragedy. Even if he did join her band, even if he ended up sticking around for any length of time, that would never be him. He wasn’t a singer, let alone a historic one, but going along with Zak’s plan for now might be good for him. An exercise in spontaneity.
“Interesting.”
And she left it at that.
The rest of their brief trip played out in uncertain silence. Uncertain for Chase, that was. Zak could have very well been loathing every second of it with the utmost certainty.
Eventually, she turned the corner into a rundown apartment complex. A pair of sneakers dangled from the power line by their laces at the entrance. The buildings were a muddy terracotta color, peeling in some patches and mildewed in others. Tenants sat outside in pajamas on folding chairs, smoking cigarettes and hanging laundry out to dry over their balconies. Beer bottles and condom wrappers amassed beneath palm trees, and potholes dotted the pavement like meteor impacts.
Whatever dwindling idea he had of Zak thriving in the ultra-competitive Los Angeles music scene completely vanished as he recognized the name of her neighborhood from the local news. There had been a drive-by here a few nights ago, and it wasn’t an isolated incident in this part of town.
“You live here?”
The answer was obvious, but he still clung to the hope she would say no and offer any explanation not involving her sleeping at the site of four shootings so far this year. He tried to keep his tone neutral and light, while internally, he was freaking the fuck out. In less than five minutes, he’d counted about a hundred things that made this place a health and safety hazard, and then had to remind himself that Zak had been living here all along. What if something already had happened to her?
“Yep.” She pulled into what might have once been outlined as a parking spot. “Home sweet home.”