Chapter 2 Harper
The new ice hockey facility might be the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.
Sure, it’s beautiful on the outside—massive and shining, walls reflecting the October morning sunlight. The Hamilton Lakes hawk gleams, freshly painted, on the side.
But nothing has ever been such an eyesore.
Did it have to be right across from the school, sharing our parking lot? Does this place really need its sports to be in sight at all times?
Am I going to have to see that dumb hawk every time I head to first period?
Students mill around me with wide eyes and open mouths, their murmured excitement only irritating me more.
The school mascot’s even here in full feathery regalia, waving its wings and hyping up the crowd for the upcoming season.
My loose cream sweater was the softest thing I’d ever felt when I put it on this morning, but now it’s so itchy I’m this close to ripping off my own skin one cell at a time.
Or maybe it’s the molecules of air I’m sharing with the hockey team.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, turning to go to class. But the mob is too thick, and it churns with anticipation just when I think I have an opening to slip through.
The crowd goes wild as the guys emerge, flushed and slightly damp from morning practice. I turn to look over my shoulder despite my better judgment, so I get a front row seat to them loping across the parking lot.
Against my will, I can name every member of the team.
There’s Ryan Thompson, grinning and waving at his fans like the British royalty he jokes that he’s descended from, elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist. I half expect someone to faint dramatically; Ryan attracts admirers wherever he goes, his lanky build and easygoing sense of humor a winning package.
Right behind him is Alex Harris, who ducks his head bashfully, shiny brown hair falling over his face.
He’s on JV, so he gets less attention than the rest, but we were lab partners last year, so we’re friendly.
Mostly because he never brought up hockey on his own—even if our classmates did regularly enough that I heard a play-by-play of every game last season.
Goalie Sam Hernández is twisting the mal de ojo bracelets on his wrist (from his Guadalajaran grandma, which everyone seems to think is very sweet), the rest of the team giving him a respectful berth.
Wouldn’t want to throw off their goalie’s rituals.
Brady Kim, a broad-shouldered senior, leads a pack of forwards, raising his hands jokingly to hype up the crowd.
Pulling up the rear—probably for dramatic effect—is blond, blue-eyed Noah Green, their captain and the embodiment of white cis male privilege, surveying the scene smugly.
Accepting the attention as his natural due.
I crane my neck to search the rest of the faces, but I don’t see the most annoying player of them all anywhere.
Good. I don’t need Luke Dawson messing up my morning.
“Oh my God, I can’t wait to watch you guys play in there!” a girl in a Hawks hoodie says. “I already have a countdown to the first game!”
A dude fist-bumps Noah with a grin. “It’s going to be an amazing season. You’re up against Washington first, right?”
Classic Hamilton Lakes. If you talk to anyone besides the jocks, you’ll learn there’s also a fall play opening this month (Miguel Aguilar practices their lines in the courtyard every day during lunch) and a robotics tournament next weekend (Sophie Choi from my physics class built an apparently unbeatable bot entirely out of leftover parts, and we should all hope she uses her power for good in the years to come).
But nothing can hold a candle to our sports teams. You’d think that was just a cliché from ’90s movies, but not around here.
In our town, jocks part hallways like the Red Sea and receive extensions on homework assignments before they even have to ask.
Hockey and football fill everyone’s social calendars in the fall; baseball and lacrosse take over in the spring.
Sports are the only reason this town is on anyone’s map, and the athletes know it.
Too bad that means the rest of us are basically invisible.
Noah’s mouth quirks up in that smarmy smirk of his, and he raises a hand like, Calm yourselves, my adoring fans. “It’s the best graduation gift a guy could ask for. We’re going to win some games on that ice this year.”
Like it was created just for him.
“I really wish they wouldn’t,” a dry voice says.
I turn to Marissa, who’s made her way to my side.
She rolls her eyes, her new chunky-framed glasses popping against her freckled skin and adding a nice sense of drama to her disdain.
Her ink-black, blunt bangs and death glare are both very Wednesday Addams, but her fluffy pink-and-purple sweater is way more Enid Sinclair. She contains multitudes.
“Okay, so, there go half of the people who benefit from… what, tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands of dollars? How much do hockey rinks cost?” I ask.
Marissa grimaces. “Now we know why they rejected your proposal for a Young Entrepreneurs Program.”
The reminder is a sharp twist in my gut. A sick feeling of longing, of exclusion, of unfairness. Every time I think I’ve gotten over the way no one in this town takes me and my fellow uncoordinated classmates seriously, something happens to reopen the wound.
I shake my head, fuming. Anger’s easier than hurt. “Obviously there wasn’t enough left in the budget for anyone else! Sorry, kids who’re hoping to forge a path out of this town. You’re on your own!”
“You’re going to be fine.” Marissa rests a reassuring hand on my arm.
She pulls a familiar pendant out from her neck, a delicate M made out of tiny pearlescent seed beads and looping memory wire.
“I’ve been getting so many compliments on your latest pieces already.
There’s still the grant! You’re the obvious choice! ”
I shoot her my best attempt at a smile. The Young Entrepreneurs Grant, given to one enterprising businessperson every year. Just what I need to get my jewelry-making business off the ground and hopefully buy my ticket to college. It’s a long shot, but at least Marissa believes in me. That’s one.
“Yeah, as long as I can keep my head above water this year. I really could’ve used some support from the school.
” And just like that, my cheeks are flushed with anger all over again, never far from the surface.
“I don’t understand how they don’t see the problem with investing in twenty students out of a thousand.
It’s so unfair! I mean, the hockey team is—”
“The hockey team is what?”
I freeze. The voice is low and amused and coming from right behind me. And, unfortunately, I know it all too well.
The universe couldn’t cut me a single break today, could it?
I whirl around to look up at Luke Dawson. And up… and up. His dark hair is damp from the shower, and he’s clearly just thrown on sweats and a hoodie, but that doesn’t stop all the gathered students from throwing him not-so-subtle sideways glances.
If you’re into guys, it’s probably the messy hair and the dark eyes and the breadth of his shoulders and the famous hockey butt that makes itself known even through baggy sweatpants.
If you’re not, it’s the whole “heir to a hockey dynasty” thing, top scorer for two years running.
(Hard to ignore even if you’re doing your best not to pay attention.) I’m sure that takes hard work—all those early morning practices are no joke—but I’m not convinced he wouldn’t be fawned over regardless.
Everyone’s so enamored with his dad’s legacy that he just goes by Dawson, as if to remind them of his bloodline.
And no matter what you’re into, it’s impossible to miss the relaxed, confident way he strides across campus. The way you move when crowds part for you before you even have to say Excuse me.
Good thing I’m immune to it all.
I cross my arms over my chest. If he really wants to know what the hockey team is, I’m happy to tell him. “A bunch of bullies on skates who have maybe ten good years left before they’re washed up and dreaming of their glory days?”
Dawson rolls his eyes. “Right. Well, since I only have ten left, this one’s gonna be busy. Can you cover my shift tonight?”
He’s already fiddling with his phone, barely looking at me as he asks. As if I’m simply going to say, “Sure, whatever you please, Lord of the Hockey Puck!”
I hate that we have to work together at his family’s restaurant, and it sure hasn’t done anything to change my opinion about hockey players. He rarely acknowledges me, taking care of his duties without any small talk. Too good for nonathletes, I guess. Like the rest of this town.
“What if I have plans?”
He looks up from his phone then, raising an eyebrow. “Do you?”
I frown. No, I don’t. I never have plans other than working, whether it’s at the Lakeside Diner, or building my business, or on school stuff. I can’t let up if I’m ever going to get out of Hamilton Lakes.
I need the money from this shift. Since it’s clear there’s going to be no school support this year, I need to save every cent I can.
My parents aren’t going to be able to pay my way through a good business program, which isn’t something someone like Dawson could ever understand.
I can’t imagine how much his parents have spent on coaches and equipment and ice time over the years, and I know he only works at the diner because it’s a family expectation to chip in. He doesn’t need the job like I do.
And the way Dawson swans around like hockey’s the only viable pursuit in this town—the way he assumes I can’t have anything important to do myself—well, it all just heightens my determination to make my business a success this year. He’s not the only one who works hard.
“My only plan is to have a conversation with Principal Castillo about what a gross misuse of funds this arena is.” I smile tightly. “But I’m sure I can fit in a shift around that!”
Dawson doesn’t even fake a smile back. “Cool. Thanks.” We stare at each other for a long moment filled with mutual disdain.
The heat rises in my cheeks, as it always does when I have to interact with the king of the jocks.
Noah may be the captain, but Dawson’s the one who’s had all eyes on him for as long as I can remember.
He’s the first to break the staring contest—I almost crack, my mouth twitching in a triumphant grin—giving Marissa a brusque nod before brushing past. At least six fans trail behind him. I don’t love the term puck bunnies, but if the jersey fits…
As soon as he’s gone, Marissa and I whirl to each other in outrage. “I can’t believe he acknowledged my existence,” she says with an eye roll.
“I can’t believe you asked him out in ninth grade,” I say.
We both shudder.
“Momentary lapse of judgment,” Marissa says. “Study hall goggles. Thank God he turned me down.”
“I’m not sure God had anything to do with it. More like the charms of Hannah Kennedy.”
We’re silent for a moment, remembering the way Marissa came out of study hall all smitten from Dawson’s flirtatious pencil borrowing, convinced there was a spark there. The smile he turned on her in the halls, the inside jokes he referenced from their shared hours of boredom.
The awkward silence after she shot her shot, when he told her he didn’t date during the school year. Too busy, focusing on his game, blah blah blah.
And then the way he turned around and went to homecoming with Hannah a week later, and barely acknowledged Marissa’s existence ever again.
“Jerk,” we mutter simultaneously.
Good thing he showed his true colors so early on.
It’s almost impossible to believe now, but there was a window—a brief, impulsive, unfounded window—when I’d also thought Dawson was pretty cute.
When I walked into his parents’ diner only to be informed that the dark-eyed guy with the sleepy smile was going to train me, the first thought zipping through my mind was: Fuck.
There goes this job. Because it’s going to be impossible to maintain any kind of good judgment around that level of off-the-charts attractiveness.
It only got worse that first week, as he patiently walked me through all the details of opening and closing, not seeming to mind at all when I messed up the fryer. He’d even made a few jokes at his own expense, and I’d gotten that swoop in my stomach that set off blazing red IMMINENT CRUSH alarms.
I couldn’t have a crush on my bosses’ son. I needed this job.
But then Marissa set her sights on him, and despite a brief moment of dismay, it made things a lot easier. Girl code. Thou shalt not pursue thy bestie’s object of desire.
When we both realized the truth, things got a lot simpler.
A lesson everyone must learn, I suppose—a cute smile and a nice butt can hide all manner of evils.
I’d felt so stupid, thinking even for a moment that Dawson might not be as egotistical as I’d assumed.
It was a rude wake-up call, like getting dumped out of a cozy bed and onto a cold, bare floor.
Never again. My own foolishness is one thing, but Marissa’s honor is another. Girl code commandment the second: hold thy bestie’s grudges until the end of time.
“Well, at least it taught me to steer clear of the hockey team.” Marissa sighs and hoists her backpack higher. “Meet you in the library after lunch?”
I nod. “Yeah. I need to squeeze all my homework in before Dawson’s stupid shift.”
Marissa wrinkles her nose, waving goodbye before heading toward the science wing.
I linger, taking one last look at the sparkling rink.
I hope they have the worst season of their careers.