Chapter 15 Easton
Easton
I cannot sleep, and I blame Marcus and Macy and the stupid texts they sent me.
Macy: Double date TOMORROW!!! We’re going to the movies and you can’t say no.
Can’t say no? What is this, a dating dictatorship? Who made Macy the boss? As if it weren’t bad enough being told what to do by Harper…
Marcus: Yeah, dude, be ready at 6:30.
Great. He’s cosigning.
This whole situation has seemed to snowball, culminating in a double date with my best friend, orchestrated by his overly involved girlfriend. So here I am, staring at my phone, knowing there’s no backing out.
Another text pops up.
Macy: It’s gonna be so cute omg!
Cute??? I’d rather get hit by a hockey puck at full speed.
I don’t respond to the messages but schedule the date in my brain before plugging my phone in and setting it on my nightstand, dragging the blanket over my head.
It’s so fucking late.
I cannot shut my brain off.
It’s a spinning wheel, bouncing from one conversation from my day to the next, every hour playing on a loop, from Harper to Maddie to Marcus and Macy to my algebra teacher—who chewed me out after I fell asleep in his ninth-hour class. Back to Harper. Back to Maddie.
Like—would you mind if I popped in and did a video for social media? She stood in the hallway, fluorescent lights at her back casting a halo around her head. Or maybe I just imagined that.
Would I mind if she popped in to film a video? Hell no, I don’t mind!
Please do!
It didn’t occur to me in the moment to ask Harper’s opinion—I could feel the tension oozing out of her as she stood beside me, practically seething but determined to act unaffected.
Was Maddie only being nice so she could film content? So she could boost her own social standing and make it look like she was doing prom things? I don’t know shit about that stuff, but I’m sure high school drama is good for ratings.
She was so sweet, though—and Maddie Miller is never polite.
People can change, can’t they? Maybe she changed her mind about how she feels about me.
Bullshit. She didn’t wake up this morning and decide she wants to hang out with you. She didn’t change her mind about going on that date you asked her on.
I’m popular enough, but no one is voting me prom king. I have a six-pack some of the time—but that depends on whether or not it’s hockey season.
Ha.
My brain bounces back to Harper.
It’s not that I don’t like her—I do. She’s fun. And the more time we spend together, the more fun we have. But with Maddie Miller rearing her head, everything suddenly feels complicated. I’ve had a crush on her since middle school.
How am I supposed to focus on anything if she comes around?
And how am I supposed to act around Harper knowing she’s noticed how Maddie affects me?
Jeez, she gets so bent out of shape for no reason.
I shift on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position.
It’s no use. My thoughts are too loud, too chaotic.
I toss and turn some more, staring at the wall now and the ugly plaid wallpaper I’ve had since I was a kid that my parents haven’t taken down and probably never will because my mom is “MAD FOR PLAID!” as she has proclaimed more than once.
The wall gives me the same blank stare the ceiling gave me.
Then.
There’s a knock on the door—two firm raps. No hesitation.
I know it’s my dad before he even steps inside. He never waits for an answer. The door creaks open, and I hear the shuffle of his footsteps against the carpet.
“Easton?” Pause. “Bud?”
I don’t move. Maybe if I fake being asleep, he’ll leave.
No such luck. He knows I’m awake by my loud breathing.
“Still up?” His voice is even, no-nonsense, as usual.
I let out a slow breath and roll to my back, staring at the ceiling. “Yup.”
There’s another pause before the bed dips slightly under his weight as he sits at the edge. Not like Mom would, all soft and comforting, rubbing my back or brushing my hair off my forehead. Dad’s presence is heavier, more expectant.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
A quiet scoff. “Try again.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Just thinking.”
Dad’s sigh is short, sharp. “You seem to be doing that a lot.”
Yeah, no kidding. I have a lot on my mind he has no idea about. Things I can’t share because he’ll be pissed beyond belief.
My dad doesn’t say anything for a few beats, and I know he’s watching me—assessing. This is how he operates: silent, observant, waiting until he has all the facts before weighing in.
Finally, he exhales, fully ready to lecture. “Look, I don’t know what’s on your mind, but you need to sleep. You can’t go through life exhausted.”
Well, no shit!
Dude, does he think I want to be lying here with my eyes bugging out?
“So? You gonna tell me what’s keeping you up?”
I hesitate. Fuck no, I’m not going to tell him I stole the Parker Lane Prep mascot, that I got caught, that Harper Conrad is blackmailing me into being her prom date, that I have to be on the stupid prom committee—and now the girl I have a crush on is finally paying attention to me when I’m being pressured into asking Harper to the dance.
Yeah. Didn’t freaking think so.
Then, the inevitable: “You do realize how important sleep is for athletes of your caliber.”
I groan internally.
Great. Here we go.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve got to take care of yourself. You can’t perform at your best if you’re running on fumes. You think your opponents are lying awake at night staring at the ceiling?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
“You can’t lie here like this every night.” His voice is firm—as if I were doing this on purpose. “Bad habits start small. One late night turns into two. Suddenly, you’re sluggish at practice. You’re missing plays. And then what?”
I don’t have to answer. He does it for me.
“You lose your edge. And in hockey if you don’t have an edge—you’re nothing.”
I swallow, pressing my lips together. “Awesome.”
“Hey. Don’t be a smart-ass.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue, but I know better than that, so my mouth stays shut and I continue staring at the ceiling, willing this conversation to be over.
Dad shifts his weight like he’s debating whether to push the issue further. Just as I’m bracing myself for another lecture—
“What’s going on in here?”
Mom.
Thank god.
She sounds mildly annoyed because she already knows the answer: Dad’s doing his standard Bedtime Lecture. Her arms are crossed as she looks at Dad, looming at the edge of my bed, then at me. I’d rather launch myself out the window than lie here…
“We’re talking,” Dad says.
“No, you’re talking.” Mom laughs, stepping into the room. “At a guy who should be sleeping.”
I could kiss her for rescuing me.
Dad presses his lips together, not quite glaring but definitely not pleased. “He’s not sleeping, Alexia—he’s lying here wide awake.”
“Right. I’m sure giving him the ‘hockey is life’ speech at eleven o’clock is helping with that.” She rolls her eyes. “Out with you.”
Dad’s brows go up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Out.” She waves a hand toward the door. “We can stress about his career path tomorrow.”
Dad doesn’t move at first.
There’s a silent standoff between them, the kind that happens when two stubborn people both refuse to blink first. But eventually, Mom wins—because she is a lawyer and always wins. Basically she’s the only person Dad is terrified of.
With a sigh, he shakes his head in defeat. “Unbelievable.”
“I’m right behind you, babe.” Mom smiles at him sweetly, stepping aside to give him a clear path to the door but presenting him with her cheek so he can plant a kiss on it. “I want to say good night, too.”
He stands, muttering something under his breath—how someday I’ll regret not listening when I don’t get scouted by the NHL or whatever—but he leaves.
Mom waits until he’s completely out the door before turning to me.
“He loves those motivational speeches, doesn’t he?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “It’s his favorite hobby.”
She shakes her head, moving toward my bed. “You okay?”
I nod, my shoulders relaxing now that the lecture is over. “Sure.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s debating whether or not to pry. Then she reaches over, ruffles my hair, and sighs.
Like, don’t tell anyone, but I love it when she tucks me in.
Cheesy, right?
“He’s not wrong,” Mom says gently. “It’s late. You need sleep.”
“I know.” I roll to my stomach.
She sits in the space that Dad absconded. “Having a hard time clearing your head?”
I shrug. Yes. I am.
She begins rubbing my back the same soothing way she used to when I was little and she was trying to calm me down or comfort me. Except I don’t need to be calmed down and I don’t need to be comforted—I need my brain to shut off. Tune out.
“What’s on your mind, honey?”
Pfft. Only a mess so tangled I wouldn’t know where to start.
“Just…stuff. You know how it is.”
My mom nods in that way she nods when she wants to be sympathetic and understanding even though I’ve given her zero information to work with.
“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed sometimes,” she says quietly. “Whatever is bothering you will still be there in the morning.”
Little does she know the pressure I’m under.
Stealing. Trespassing.
And not only that, I was railroaded into a double date tonight, via group chat hell.
My first date. In all my seventeen years I’ve not been on one date and here I am: cornered into it.
Guilt assails me.
Cornered? Railroaded? Shit. I’d be embarrassed to say those words to Harper’s pretty face. She would be devastated.
On the other hand, she would kind of deserve it.
Mom continues rubbing my back in small, circular motions, then brushes the hair off my forehead.
My eyelids grow heavier.
“You know if you want to talk about anything, you can tell me,” her soft voice reminds me. “I’m here.”
I know. But I have a feeling she isn’t ready for the things I’d tell her, especially the trespassing-and-theft-of-a-mascot bit.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Mom pauses some more, hand on my back. “How was school today? I didn’t get the chance to ask.”
No, she didn’t.
As I mentioned, Mom is an attorney and gets home late sometimes, depending on what cases she has.
There are evenings I don’t see her at all.
Dad is the one who primarily drove me to and from youth hockey—and my sister to her stuff—since his schedule is more flexible.
I don’t resent her for being busy; she’s there when it matters.
“School was good.” I bite my bottom lip before deciding to roll to my back so I can see her face. Swallow my nerves for this next part. “So, uh. I was kind of thinking of…asking someone to prom.”
“Wow, Easton.” Mom’s eyes go wide. Her mouth falls open. “You are?”
She’s shocked, which is no surprise—I’ve never gone to a dance before, not even with a group of my friends.
“Do I know her?”
I shake my head. “Her name is Harper.”
I can see my mother racking her brain, moving around puzzle pieces, hoping to click the name Harper into place.
“What’s her last name?”
“Conrad.”
Mom loves this game. She always asks for a last name, goes to the database in her brain, and tries to make a match with anyone she may have also gone to high school with whose child this could be.
“Hmm. I don’t know any Conrads…”
No idea—not that I would tell her if I knew. No fucking way. I don’t need my mother doing a deep dive on Harper’s parents out of sheer nosiness.
“Does Dad know?” Mom asks suddenly.
“No.”
Mom seems amused. “I can help you come up with ideas on how to ask her, if you want me to.”
Guilt churns in my stomach, but I push it aside.
“Nah, it’s fine. I’m not going to make a production out of it.” I clear my throat. “Harper isn’t that kind of girl.”
We fall into a lull, and I know she’s already thinking up more questions, inching closer to the threshold of my patience. I do not normally spill my secrets to my parents—they know I’m close-lipped.
I go to school. Go to practice.
Come home.
Sleep, eat. The usual.
I do not confess my sins—do not pass go. If I told them all the dumb shit I’ve done, my mother the lawyer would haul my ass into the principal’s office so fast my head would spin.
“Should we go tuxedo shopping or do you want to wear a suit?” Mom says at last, pressing the issue of prom like a dog with a bone.
“Dunno.” I’m not in the mood to think about those details.
“Okay.” She pats me on the hand. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, hmm?”
Or not. “Sure.”
“All right. Good.” She is glowing at the thought of taking me shopping for dress clothes, practically beaming as she stands and gives my hand one last squeeze before heading to the door. “Just don’t forget—the dance is exciting, but it is not your priority.”
Who could forget when they are constantly reminding me? I bust my ass in the gym—and on the ice—almost every day of the week. Not to mention practice shots in the driveway, and that rink Dad builds in the side yard every winter.
“I haven’t forgotten.” I can’t escape from it.
She taps the doorframe, lingering. “Love you.”
“Love you.” I watch as she closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts yet again.
The room feels quieter now, the noise in my head slightly dulled by Mom’s brief visit.
I reach over and turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The ceiling is still here, the wall is still here—they’re just invisible now, holding all the thoughts I’ve let marinate. My secrets.
Well. One less secret. Now she knows about prom.
I close my eyes, willing sleep to come.
Two faces clash in my mind: Maddie Miller’s and Harper’s. I can still see Harper’s crestfallen expression in the hallway. The whole fucking situation is too complicated for my teenage brain to handle.
Too messy.
Am I the problem? Shit.
I don’t know much, but I do know one thing: Tomorrow is going to be another day of pretending everything is hunky-dory. Another day of trying to keep all my actual thoughts bottled up where they can’t do any damage.
And.
I have a date.
A double date with my best friend—but seriously, how bad could it be?
All I have to do is watch a movie and be a gentleman, yeah?
Harper is outgoing and talkative, so I won’t have to worry about any awkward moments.
Showing up at her house unannounced had the potential to be a disaster and she took it like a champ.
Yeah, bruh. It’ll be fine.
Finally, I feel myself drifting off, lids heavy. Brain foggy. Rhino mascot. Pizza. Wind in my hair, Marcus’s Jeep.
The hockey locker room.
Brown hair.
Blond hair.
Maddie and her pretty face lurk in the recesses of my mind.
Harper and her laugh.
Maddie and her smirk.
Harper…