Chapter 25
Baby, It Was Real, and We Were the Best
Wyatt
“Can I help in any way?”
Ruth spins around. She’s standing at the long mahogany kitchen counter downstairs. This is usually where she prepares breakfast for the guests, but today it smells like pumpkin and apple pie, a sweet scent that tickles my nose and awakens memories of distant days.
She smiles. “Just like old times?”
I nod. I’m standing in the doorway but don’t trust myself to step inside.
Something’s holding me back, a feeling like I was six again and me and Knox were about to play The Floor Is Lava.
It seems like forever since Ruth and I would stand in this very kitchen, baking things for Thanksgiving.
We had to keep Aria out of it, though, as no one was interested in blackened, stone-hard crumbs.
Ruth rubs her hands together to get rid of the flour, reaches for a second apron, and hands it to me. “Come on in, Wyatt.”
“Thanks.” It’s a pink apron with flowers on it, but I don’t care, not right now. “What do you want me to do?”
“Peel and cut the apples.” She pushes a bowl across the table, which I stop with my elbow before grabbing a peeler and getting started.
Ruth casts me a quick glance. She looks worn-out. “How are you doing?” she asks.
I put the peeled apple to the side and take another. “Shouldn’t I be asking you?”
“Well…” She waves her hand mixer through the air and shakes her head as if her health weren’t worth talking about. “Aging, Wyatt. It is what it is.”
“You’ve got rheumatism, Ruth. That’s bad. Honestly, I don’t know how you manage everything here as well as you do. If you need help, whatever it is, I’m here. I’ll take care of everything.”
Ruth works on the pumpkin with stiff fingers before smiling warmly at me. “Thanks, Wyatt.”
“Goes without saying.”
A few seconds go by. Eventually she puts the tip of the mixer in the sink and looks at me from the corner of her eye. “How are you?”
I pick up another apple before rubbing my nose with the back of my hand. “Truthfully?”
“Do I look like I’m interested in lies, my son?”
“No.” The juice of the apple runs over my thumbs as I quarter it. I clear my throat. “Not all that hot.”
Her lips grow small as she puts a pot on the gas stove and pours the pureed pumpkin inside. “Have you spoken with Aria?”
“Not recently.” It’s been almost two weeks since she stormed out of The Old-Timer.
The repairmen are still working on our house.
They had to tear down half the wall, which means that we’ve got to stay in the B it’s my life, but now I feel like a hungry dog being teased by someone holding a big bone out in front of its nose.
Soon, I tell myself, soon.
We’re in the last two minutes. Paxton passes the puck to Owen.
The way that Gray’s being excluded by the others would be funny if the situation wasn’t so serious.
Owen storms past the other team’s two wingers, which is risky enough to cause him to almost lose his balance.
I can tell by their aggressive movements and their impulsive edgework that Vancouver’s guys are pissed.
Owen has no choice but to pass off to Gray, who is immediately surrounded by Vancouver’s massive players and loses the puck.
Coach Jefferson freaks. He curses. Drops of spit fly from his mouth as he lays into Gray with words I didn’t even know existed.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, must mean something.
Thirty seconds. My stomach contracts. I don’t know if I can watch as Paxton chases after them but doesn’t get any opportunity to break through Vancouver’s wall.
It’s like a horror movie; everything’s dark, and you just know that any second something’s going to happen.
But then Owen traps the winger, who has no choice but to pass, and what happens next is exactly what the boys have practiced over and over: the puck skids across the ice, Vancouver’s center sprints ahead, but Caden and Xander rush out of their defensive positions and cut him off just as Paxton gets the puck.
I jump up off the bench and yell at the top of my lungs.
Pax races into the attacking zone, completely free, not a soul around to stop him, raises his stick, shoots, and scores. Time. The third period ends 3–2.
Aspen’s fans go out of their minds. Everyone starts chanting Paxton’s name like he’s a saint—some people are crying, and others are just shaking their heads.
Coach Jefferson grabs me and pulls me to him; he stinks, but whatever, I’m grinning from ear to ear.
After losing our last game, we just had to win this one, and although things weren’t looking so good, the boys were able to turn it around.
I happily watch them throw themselves at one another, a mess of people tugging jerseys and slapping helmets.
And yet, I still feel a stab of pain around my stomach.
I want to be the one out on the ice. I want to be the one to have my team’s arms around me when I’ve made the winning goal. I want to show everyone what I can do and what I fought so hard for.
Coach Jefferson hurries past me to the rink-board door to high-five the guys as they come off the ice and disappear toward the locker room.
I see our spokesperson Carl moving off behind them, trying to catch hold of what I’m guessing is Paxton to have someone ready to give an interview.
I watch them go and remember how, when we were kids, Knox and I used to imagine this moment.
We’d play hockey out on Silver Lake with our tiny legs and tiny feet, already acting like hotshot NHL players.
Afterward, we’d interview each other. Man, we felt like gods.
The vibrations of my phone bring me back to the now.
Aria: OMG! I watched the game on TV. WHAT A GOAL, PAXTON!
My throat fills with a sickening burn. Aria’s watching hockey games for him now, not for me, even though I was her number one, even though she was in the front row at every one of my games, her petite body in my oversized jersey, the number twelve finger-painted on her cheeks.
But now? Now she’s stanning him. Now she’s eagerly anticipating his moves toward the goal, and it’s his name on her lips even though he doesn’t even really know her.
Man, what an asshole I am. What a fuckhead I am for making her fall in love with an illusion that will only lead to her having her heart broken one more time.
I know I should stop. I know I am selfish and inconsiderate and terrible, but what can I do? I need her. I need her so bad, and she doesn’t see the Wyatt I used to be anymore.
I have no idea what I’m doing, no idea if this is kickstarting a new catastrophe or if it’s destiny winking at me, but as I’m writing my response, I know that Aria Moore just makes me absolutely overconfident.
Thanks, babe. Party at my place. I want to see you.