Chapter Seven
Seven
Kian
The atmosphere in the house is gloomy. I hate gloomy.
So Summer and I have decided it’s time to plan the best Halloween party Dalton has ever seen. It helps that it’s her and Dylan’s birthdays too.
“And then we have Aiden pop out of the cake,” I finish, pointing at the slide deck I have pulled up on my laptop. On the video call, Aiden slows the treadmill to a walk, sweat dripping as he wipes his forehead with a towel and adjusts his headphones.
He’s not nearly as enthused as I hoped. Summer’s sitting on my bed, giving me the same expression.
“Are you sure this isn’t just something you want? I can’t imagine Dylan loving this,” Summer says.
“He would love it. I think we should try and fit Eli in the cake too.”
Summer shakes her head. “But Aiden’s coming home early. Are you going to hide him until then?”
“Can’t you come home late—”
“No!” she exclaims.
“Babe, of course I’m coming home to you. And I don’t think I’d even fit inside a cake, Ishida.”
“You’re not that big,” I mutter. It’s a lie. The man is massive, even more so with his new NHL training plan. “Fine. Don’t do it. I don’t care.”
“You care. You’ve got that pouty look,” Aiden says. “How about I come as scheduled but help you with the setup?”
“Fine. Your loss, Sunny,” I say. “You could’ve seen him covered in icing.”
Summer gasps, but I don’t hear the rest of her realization because I head out for practice.
Today’s my first practice without Dylan.
I could barely leave the guy at home and was going to ask Coach if I could register Dylan as my support animal—or human, I guess.
I have that weird hollow feeling, like when your best friend was home sick in elementary school and you had to drift through the day like a loner, playing with kids you didn’t even care about.
Mid-practice, I isolate myself on the bench, spinning my helmet between my fingertips. Kilner approaches me, looking…sympathetic? I can never tell.
“I’m working on getting him back,” Coach says. “I will get him back.”
“But that’s not up to you. He failed his drug test, so the whole department and the NCAA gets involved now.”
“That’s not for you to worry about. I need you here with your team.”
“Shouldn’t your captain be doing that?”
Coach turns away like I’ve struck a chord. “All right, I’ve given you enough time to mope. What do you think the rookies are going to do if my seasoned player’s sitting here like his cat died?”
I gasp. “What if I had a cat and you just metaphorically killed it?”
“Get on the damn ice, Ishida.”
Today, Coach doesn’t give us any drills; he just gestures for me to lead the guys in our usual practice.
I run the drills, watching the guys half-ass their way through them. I can’t even blame them. I spent most of the summer messing around, too, but at least I hit the gym and played beer league. These guys look like they haven’t touched a stick in months.
Sebastian blindsides me with a hit, laughing when I spin to chase him down, until Coach blows the whistle and calls me over.
I flag the rest of the guys, making sure they continue the drill without me. I skate over to Coach, looking at the clipboard in his hand. “I swear I’m not moping. See?” I plaster on a fake grin.
“I want your input on the new lines.” Kilner shows me the current setup. A few issues pop out at me.
“You’ve got Hayes centering, but his face-off numbers are rough right now. If we’re losing draws in our zone against their top line, we’ll be buried before we can even break out.”
Coach nods, but there’s a new vein on his forehead.
“And pairing Carter with Reid?” I continue. “Without Donovan, we’re leaving a slot wide open. Odd-man rushes all night.”
My hand itches to change it, and I try to stop the plays from forming in my head, but they take over. I grab his pencil. “Hayes should drop to the second line. Put me between the two rookies on the first line. This way it lets our D-man attack without hanging us out to dry.”
I brace for pushback, maybe even a lecture about staying in my lane. Instead, Coach Kilner says, “We’re running your version tomorrow.”
“Wait…that’s it? You’re just going to use my strategy?”
He’s already walking away. “You saw the weak points and fixed them. That’s not just winger vision, Ishida.”
I’m still in shock when the team steps off the ice. Cole and Sebastian eye me with curiosity. “So, who’s playing in the first game, Captain?”
The title sounds off, and I ignore it. “Seb’s gotta step up, ’cause we got him on the second line.”
Sebastian’s jaw drops. “You told him I should be in the second line? What the fuck, Ishida?”
“Don’t mess up your face-offs, and we might get you back up.” I head to the locker room, and they follow.
“I don’t like you as captain,” Seb mutters.
“I do, Cap.” Cole salutes.
I scoff. “Kilner wouldn’t dream of making me captain. I’m just a glorified assistant.”
“Or,” Tyler Sampson, our center, cuts in, “he’s got you as an alternate captain because he’s easing you in. The guy’s too traditional to let us play our first game without a captain.”
Sampson’s dad is a hockey legend, right up there with Summer Preston’s dad.
As alternate captain, the responsibility falls on him since Dylan got suspended, but he already pulled out because he’s focusing on law school.
But that pretty much sums up the kind of guy Tyler Sampson is. He’ll always do exactly what he wants.
“Who’s driving to Porter’s? I’m not making dinner tonight,” Cole says. The guy’s idea of dinner is tossing salami onto bread.
“Can’t. I’ve got tutoring,” I say, heading to the showers. They both follow, going into the two stalls on either side of me.
“You’re choosing to study over Porter’s wings?” Seb yells over the shower spray.
Cole laughs. “It’s that hot redhead, isn’t it? The one you declared your love for in the dining hall.”
“What declaration?” Seb asks.
“It was all over the Dalton gossip page,” he answers.
“And this girl is hot?”
“Don’t you remember the smokin’ hot redhead at all those frat parties?”
My jaw clenches as I rinse the soap from my skin. “She’s not a redhead. And she’s my tutor, don’t talk about her like that.”
Scarlett wasn’t exaggerating about her reputation. But what gets me is that she actually cares about what the shitty people on campus have to say about her.
The guys snicker behind me. “You sure you’re not just trying to convince yourself?”
I chuck my wet towel at Seb. He groans, holds it like it’s radioactive, then lobs it into the hamper. It feels good to be a senior. It’s a leg up from having to collect the nasty jock straps whenever I’d piss off Kilner.
“Save me some wings from Porter’s,” I call before pulling my bag onto my shoulder and heading out. I connect my music to my car, and “Everywhere” by Fleetwood Mac plays through the speakers as I drive to the library for tutoring.
When I spotted Scarlett in the dining hall the other day, I knew I had to do something. I’ve been told grand gestures are reserved for special moments, but that’s not my philosophy.
If you can go big, always go big.
And it paid off—I finally have a tutor and I’m one step closer to graduation.
In the library, she’s right where I expected, headphones on and no glasses.
She’s wearing an oversize, pale yellow sweater.
The weather is colder than a week ago, but the library is warm.
I just got off the ice, and I’m burning up.
I ignore the instinct to ask if she’s feeling okay, or if I should find the thermostat.
“Hey, freckles,” I say, taking a seat right beside her and dropping my textbook next to hers.
Scarlett jumps, then quickly folds the paper she was writing on. I’m only able to make out a “Deer Dad” at the top before she shoves it between the pages of her textbook.
“I’d rather not relive the days of middle school bullies with that nickname,” she says, pulling out her headphones. I feel bad instantly.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” I drop my hand over hers on the table. “I meant it as a compliment. They look like stars. My mom has them too.”
She’s looking at me now, head tilted in a careful assessment. My heart thumps against my rib cage like it’s found somewhere better to be. I ignore it.
“Did you bring your syllabus?” she asks.
I pull out my things. I came extra prepared, so she would see how serious I am about this. “I have this problem set due at the end of the week.”
She reads over it. “Yup, descriptive statistics, measurement, and data visualization.”
Those words make my eyes droop closed. “What?”
“That’s the first problem set. They made us do something similar in my stats class. Basically making sure you have the building blocks before it goes into computing.”
“Right.” I scratch the back of my neck. I’m so screwed.
“Don’t panic,” Scarlett says, placing her hand over mine. It’s the first time she’s touched me. Her hand is so much smaller and softer. “Seriously, you’ll do great.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t.” She laughs when I give her a blank stare. “But I do know you’re determined. You’re a hockey player. Athletes don’t give up easily.”
“How many athletes do you know? You seem to have a good grasp of our motivations,” I tease.
Scarlett retracts her hand. “None. I don’t keep up with athletes.”
“You knew who I was,” I say, grinning.
“Everyone knows you.” She turns back to my syllabus. “So, we’ll start with your textbook readings. I usually go through them three times to get a good grasp.”
“Three? Like the same thing three separate times?”
She nods, her gaze narrowing as if she wants me to challenge her. I don’t. “Concept first, formula second. Trust me.”
I spend the next hour reading one chapter three times.
It’s long, with a lot of numbers tossed around and words I don’t have the faintest clue about, but I do it anyway.
On my second read, my stomach rumbles, so I pull out a mandarin.
I slide one half over to her, and it just sits there until I nudge her.
And somehow, just like she said, by the third time I’ve got the text down. Some of the definitions I don’t even have to read.