3. Chapter 3
THE FIRST week of dance practice was tough. Week two was even worse. But five weeks in and I’m finally feeling I’ve got a handle on the routines. Dancing on the college squad was tough, but we never had to perform on ice. No, we aren’t pulling off figure skater moves, but somehow that seems like it would be easier.
A large mat sits on the ice, a grip on one side and carpet on the other, and we all stand ready and waiting for the music to start. The home opener is this weekend and we will be performing before the first puck drop. The opening bars of the song play and I count in my head before starting the routine.
Our moves are clean and precise and perfectly in sync. It’s dire that we all stay on count. The movements cause the mat to move slightly, so we need to all be on the same beat. It’s even more important when half of us do a jump and the other half is holding their places, and mat, still. The first time we tried the jumps, the mat went flying out from under us, and we all ended up with our butts on the cold ice.
This time around, we complete our routine with everyone’s butts dry and our feet on solid ground.
“Fantastic ladies!” our coach shouts from the seats where she stands watching us. “We are ready. Let’s end there for today. We’ll see you in two days. Be early, not on time.”
We all reply with a yes ma’am, our chests heaving from the exertion, and carefully walk off the ice. Brooke comes sliding up to me from her spot in the front with a big smile on her face.
“I’m so excited for Saturday,” she squeals, popping up on her toes then waving her arms out to the side to stop her from falling on her ass.
“Me too,” I agree, grabbing her arm and steadying her. “I’m also nervous. That rug better not move a damn inch because if I end up on my ass in front of twenty thousand fans, I’m going to get plastic surgery and leave the country.”
We carefully step off the ice and make our way back to our locker room to grab our bags.
“So,” Brooke starts. “That rookie left wing asked what we’re doing after the game on Saturday.”
“I hope you told him sleeping and soaking our feet.” I swing the bag over my shoulder and dig my phone from my purse, checking for messages.
A group text is waiting for me.
Bean: Dinner at Nando and Paola’s tonight. 6 pm.
Bubba: Cool. There better be salsa.
Bean: Always. Don’t be ridiculous. Jo?
Bubba: She's in practice, but she’ll come.
I read the exchange between my brother and Joaquín as it continues and turns into nonsense. I roll my eyes and laugh at their bickering.
“What’s so funny?” Brooke asks.
I flip the phone around and show her the exchange. “My brother and Joaquín.”
“Bunny, Bean and Bubba? You guys gave each other matching nicknames like your real names.” I knit my brow together, questioningly. “Three J’s…three B’s.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I guess I never really paid too much attention to it.”
We push out of the arena doors and into the parking lot where our cars are parked.
“So you guys are seriously close?”
“Yeah. Well, we were. We grew up together, but Joaquín and I lost contact the last few years while I was at college and he was in Germany. He and my brother are the real best friends.” I press the auto start button on my keyfob to allow my car to cool down.
It’s October and while most places are experiencing fall temps, Houston has barely cooled down to the high eighties. We’ll be lucky if we get below fifty by December.
“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” she replies. “Joaquín makes it seem like you and he were equally as close.”
“I mean, we were, for sure. But people tend to grow apart when they become busy with their adult lives. In a trio like ours, the girl always gets pushed aside.”
Brooke opens her mouth but is silenced when my name is shouted from across the parking lot.
“Bunny!” Brooke and I both fling our heads in the direction of the voice and see Joaquín jogging towards us.
“Not that close, huh?” She arches a brow and purses her lips together.
“Hush up.” She shakes her head and spins back around to watch Joaquín approach.
“Hey Brooke,” he says, only slightly out of breath.
“Hey Joaquín. Bye Joaquín. I gotta jet. I have studying to do.” She lifts her toes and kisses my cheek. “Bye babes. Think about Saturday night. Bram seemed like he really wanted to see you.”
She wiggles her fingers at us and saunters off. I throw death daggers at the back of her head because her little parting words will no doubt get back to my brother who will badger me about it.
“What does she mean by Bram seemed like he wanted to see you?” Joaquín asks, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring.
I try to play it off by saying, “I don’t really know. Something about Saturday night after the game.”
This makes steam pour from his nose. “Did they invite you to the party?”
This time I look at him with a knitted brow. “Party? All Brooke said was that they asked what we were doing after the game. That’s it.”
His face is hardened and he watches me with an intense stare. His dark eyes turn black and it’s something I’ve never seen before. His beautiful features –black hair, cut jaw, straight nose and long lashes– all seem ominous with how fiercely he looks at me.
“You don’t want to hang out with those guys. They’re bad news. Just stay away, Jolie.”
“Are you bad news, Joaquín? Should I stay away from you, too?” I challenge him, my hand coming to rest on my hip.
His eyes squint and there’s a hint of the boy I remember. “You know I’m not like that.”
“No. I don’t know you anymore, Joaquín. The last thing I remember is you walking off with Tiff after I asked to talk with you, and then I didn’t see you for four years. So I don’t know a damn thing about you. And you sure as hell don’t know a thing about me.” My hand slides to the door handle and I pull on it.
“I know everything there is to know about you, Bunny.”
I shake my head, stepping one foot in the car. “I’m afraid you don’t. Because if you did, you’d know that guys like Bram are exactly the type of guy I’m looking for. See you Saturday.”
I sit down in the driver’s seat and slam the door shut. Saturday night seems like the perfect night to get rid of something I’ve been holding onto for far too long.
We walk through the stands, waving at fans and cheering on the Havoc to what looks like is going to be their first win. My cheeks hurt from the amount of smiling I’ve done tonight, but it feels great to be in front of a crowd again and thankful the dance on the ice went off without a hitch.
We reach the main concourse and I stop for a moment, looking out onto the ice. There’s a breakaway by the other team and I watch as Joaquín moves lightning fast, back checking to help defend his goal. It looks like he’s trying to crash the net and I hold my breath, waiting for a collison.
Somehow Joaquín manages to get within inches of the other player. The opponent makes his move to try and score from the house and the goalie has his skates moving side to side. The offense winds up for his shot and the goalie readies himself to defend the shot. The opponent's stick comes down, connecting with the puck, but it doesn’t make it anywhere near the goal because Joaquín dives, his body sending it flying off to the left and away from the goal where his teammate is able to get control.
The crowd goes wild and just seconds later, the buzzer sounds signaling the end of the match. All the dancers jump up, our hands holding our poms above our heads, and shout. Fans come up to us to high-five and celebrate.
While the arena begins to empty, we make our way back to our dressing room to begin to pack up. We’re all on a high after the win, and the chatter is loud. Brooke walks over to me as I wipe my face clean of the immense amount of makeup we wear as I usually go with the bare minimum.
“That was intense,” she says on a sigh and plops down next to me. “So. Are you up for the after party?”
I stare at her in the mirror, thinking about my confrontation with Joaquín in the parking lot. The reality is, I’d really like to just go home, do a mini binge on some chips and ice cream, then fall asleep. My body is tired from practices and the night’s adrenaline is wearing off.
But there’s a part of me that really wants to see what the party is all about. We aren’t supposed to mingle with the players, but it seems that every dancer does. The coaches act blissfully ignorant and the dancers keep a tight lid on what happens. Kind of like Vegas. What happens at an after party stays at the after party.
My phone buzzes on the vanity in front of me and I take a quick look at it.
Bubba: Jo, are you going home? Bean
said you might go to the afterparty.
STAY AWAY!
My blood boils at yet another guy in my life thinking he knows best. I become irritated and it seals my decision to just get this over with.
“Yup. All I’ve got are leggings and a baggy sweatshirt but I guess that will have to do.” I get an idea in my head just as I tell Brooke what I was wearing when I walked into the arena tonight. “Hold up.”
I stand just as my phone dings again. Instead of dealing with my brother, I flip it over and grab my outfit. I peel out of my uniform –yes peel because it’s like second skin– and slip on my leggings. I leave my sports bra on and after pulling my sweatshirt on, I tuck the hem of it under the band of my bra, turning it into a crop top. I slip on my white Nikes and spin around to show Brooke.
“Ta-da,” I sing and hold my arms out.
Brooke claps with an oooh and aaah then says, “Perfection. Now let’s go bitch.”
I pick up my duffle, give myself a last lookover in the mirror and smile. The flutters in my stomach swirl, but I remind myself that it’s time. What’s the point in holding onto something for someone if they don’t want it?