Chapter 11 Dawson
That third helping of mashed potatoes yesterday was a mistake. I’m so slow busing my tables that Harper keeps shooting me even meaner looks than usual. If Coach Red knew how imbalanced my plate was at Thanksgiving…
But Coach Red isn’t in any position to tell me how to eat this year. And Dan will be fine with me ruining my career before it’s even started.
I sigh, glancing out the window to freedom.
The sky is a bright, clear blue, not a cloud in sight.
Sure sign the temperature’s low enough to break thermometers—the lake’s gonna freeze this weekend if it hasn’t already.
Inside, it’s quiet. One two-top where the same couple’s been accepting free coffee refills for hours; a family of five in a booth in the corner.
But otherwise, now that all the Black Friday deals are online, no one’s going out the day after Thanksgiving.
Especially not when it’s this cold outside.
Too quiet. Too much time to think.
I grab a tray of silverware to try to stay busy, but it’s no use. Losing our first game is a shitty way to start the season. And thanks to the holiday weekend, we don’t even have practice again until next week.
Not that Dan seems worried. I wrap a silverware roll so tightly my knuckles crack with the effort.
But my frustration needs to go somewhere.
He doesn’t seem to care that this might be my last chance to impress schools, and they barely got to see me play.
When I tried to get an answer—any explanation, something that showed he had a plan, or something I could do to get back in his good books—he just nodded and said, “I get your frustration, but I have to do what’s best for the team. ”
I wince and move on to refilling ketchup bottles.
What’s best for the team is me on the ice!
Nothing is worse than being benched while your team loses.
Ryan’s a great defenseman—faster than anyone I’ve ever played with—but he’s just not serious enough to make up for our failings when we’re falling apart.
And Alex… Well, he’s a great guy, but what was Dan thinking, putting him on first line?
We might skate well together, but he couldn’t get past Washington’s defense!
I grit my teeth. If Dan had played me more, we might’ve won.
But at this rate, I may as well kiss the dream of getting recruited goodbye.
On the back wall of the diner, my dad’s old jersey catches my eye—and the blank spot beside it stares me down with judgment.
Conspicuously empty, waiting for mine to join it one day.
After that last game, nothing seems less likely.
I’m counting down the minutes until my shift ends so I can head to Ryan’s annual party to celebrate hockey season.
The whole team will be there, as well as any friends we want to invite, and he’s been stockpiling drinks and working on playlists for weeks.
At least that’s one of us who’s just vibing.
Lucky asshole still has baseball in the spring.
“Um, Dawson?” I snap my head up to see Harper on the other side of the counter. She’s staring at me expectantly, like she’s said my name a few times already. “Can you check on those onion rings for my table?”
She starts pulling her hair up into a ponytail.
Her charm bracelet dangles, catching the light.
I can’t help noticing that she looks good with her hair up.
It makes those eyes look even bigger and greener.
Her fingers slide through strands of caramel and mahogany as she smooths out the knots and bumps. Each strand looks so soft—
“Did you get slammed into the ice one too many times?” Harper asks, raising an eyebrow. “Your reflexes are even slower than usual. Do I need to start concussion protocol?”
I roll my eyes, snapping my focus back to business. “Onion rings. Got it.”
She’s even colder than usual today. If I’d started to hope we were getting on better terms after that conversation in the library, whatever happened in math class reset us back to zero.
The restaurant empties even more, but she still manages to ice me out with the silent treatment unless it’s absolutely necessary to speak.
It’s mutual, I remind myself. Every time I get distracted by her eyes or her hair or the curve of her bottom lip, I just have to remember that she literally threatened to blackmail me.
So I focus on wiping down menus and brainstorming ways to fix our already miserable season.
Around five, Lindsey abandons her post at the hostess stand and grabs her coat. “All right, I’m out of here,” she says. “We don’t need three of us on duty.”
“What?” I frown. “Are you coming back?”
“Depends.” She shrugs on her puffer. “I don’t know how much longer I can handle these negative vibes.
Maybe leaving you two to take care of things will inspire you to mend some fences.
” I open my mouth to protest—what sense does that make?
—but she adds, “Besides, Sara texted. See you when I see you.”
Before I can call her out, she’s through the door, bell jangling overhead as she abandons us.
I exchange a look with Harper. “I hate Sara.”
She leans against the counter, tilting her head playfully. “What, does she read books?”
This shift can’t end soon enough. “She never makes plans with Lindsey. Just texts when she’s free and expects her to drop everything. Pretty messed up if you ask me.”
Her mouth makes a little oh. For a minute, she’s lost for words. Then she gives herself a shake and straightens up. “Well, Sara texted and Lindsey dropped, so. Here we are. You better not flake on me.”
There’s no way of knowing if Lindsey will be back in time to close with Harper—when she meets up with Sara, she could be gone for hours or days.
Leaving Harper to figure it out by herself is tempting, but her accusation makes me straighten up in outrage.
Besides, my parents would kill me if I left her here alone.
“I take my responsibilities seriously, okay? You’re the one who’d better not flake. ”
She lifts her chin, eyes flashing. “As if I’d give you more ammunition to try to get me fired. Again. Some of us need this paycheck.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks. Okay, not my finest moment, but I’d thought we were getting past that. Before I can try to apologize, she’s whirling away with the decaf to top up her table’s coffee.
It’s a relief when our last customer settles up and we can finally start the ritual of closing.
The cooks have taken off and there’s still no sign of Lindsey, so it’s only Harper and me.
I start running through the routine: just another series of motions encoded in my muscles, like lining up a shot.
Sanitize, flip the chairs, mop the floor…
“I’ll put these in the walk-in,” Harper says. She doesn’t even make eye contact as she gathers up the perishables and heads to the back.
My phone chimes with a text as soon as she disappears. I tuck my rag into my waistband and swipe my screen open.
Ryan: can you bring some ice tonight??
Ryan: I thought I was prepared but I just googled and bro
Ryan: turns out you need A LOT of ice for a party
I sigh. Thirty seconds earlier and I could’ve asked Harper to carry a bag back from the walk-in. But I give my table one last quick wipe-down and follow her to the back and through the open door to the fridge.
Harper whirls around from the shelves in the corner, a little flushed from the cold. “What? Didn’t trust me to”—she waves the jar of mayonnaise in her hands for emphasis—“stack the condiments on my own?”
The defiant tilt of her chin and cock of her hips is pretty adorable. Too bad someone so cute is also so annoying. I roll my eyes. “I’m just here for ice, okay?”
I brush past her, to the cooler in the back where we keep the extra bags. It’s even colder in the fridge than it is outside. My bare arms in this short-sleeve polo are already prickling with goosebumps. In and out, and then off to Ryan’s party—
But when I turn around, Harper’s standing stock-still at the closed door.
“You need help?” I ask, ignoring the anxiety prickling down my neck.
She wheels to face me, expression free of the usual contempt and teasing. “It’s locked.”
“It’s not locked.” I take a few quick steps toward the door, ignoring her noise of irritation, and try the handle myself. It doesn’t budge.
“What was that about it not being locked?” But even Harper doesn’t sound happy, for once, to prove me wrong. “I thought these things were supposed to have fail-safes so this couldn’t happen.”
“Yeah, well, something must’ve gone wrong.” I grab my phone, but shit—no signal. When I try to text Lindsey, the sending bar freezes halfway through.
“Lindsey’ll find us at some point, right?” Harper’s voice comes out pitched higher than usual. I don’t comment on it. Mine probably sounds like I’m still balls deep in puberty, too.
I clear my throat, trying to stay calm. “If she comes back. And even if she does, how will she know to look for us back here?”
I rub my hands up and down my arms. Has anyone ever frozen to death in a walk-in?
I shake my head to clear out the thought.
Surely not, right? But at this rate, I’m going to miss Ryan’s party.
The one thing I’ve been looking forward to after this hellhole of a week, and it’s slipping right through my fingers and instead I’m stuck with a girl who’d slam me into the boards without thinking twice.
Calm cracks in an instant, like too-thin ice.
I kick the door again, bang on it with my fists, yell for help as loud as I can. I don’t know how much is a real attempt to attract attention and how much is just me needing to shout, because fuck, could this week get any worse?!
But after a few minutes, I have to admit it’s not working, and I start feeling silly. I slowly lower my fists to my side, my throat hoarse.
“Feel better?”