Chapter 16
Nine and a Half Years Ago
Chase: Hi. It’s me. Your super fun skating partner.
Zoe: Hi?
Chase: So let’s discuss my favorite thing.
Zoe: I’m afraid to ask. Whatever it is, it’s probably illegal in several states.
Chase: That’s a good point. So let’s talk about my second favorite thing. Music. As in, what are we skating to? I seem to remember that I have veto power.
Zoe: Don’t let it go to your head. Okay, just spitballing here: something from Gershwin.
Chase: Gershwin? I haven’t been to one of their concerts. Good mosh pit?
Zoe: Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re joking.
Chase: I’m always joking. What from Gershwin?
Zoe: Rhapsody in Blue has good rhythm.
Chase: I say this with love, but what is it with figure skaters and dead-guy music? If I wanted to fall asleep skating, I’d hit myself with my hockey stick.
Zoe: Gershwin is jazzy! It’s fun.
Chase: Like I said, we have got to work on your concept of fun.
Zoe: What do you suggest, then?
Chase: So glad you asked! I have three ideas here. **Link, link, link.**
Zoe: Hold please
**Five minutes pass**
Zoe: So you feel like being rebellious.
Chase: Always. But is this so rebellious? There aren’t any judges at this thing, right?
Zoe: True! I’m just not used to having creative control. Okay, let’s do one of yours. But I get to choose.
Chase: Deal!
Zoe: See? I like fun.
Chase: If that’s true you would swing by my room and kiss me goodnight. I promise to make it fun.
Zoe: You know I can’t do that.
Chase: Fun to think about, though. Now go pick a song.
Chase is loading his cooler with snacks later that week when his phone chimes with a text from Zoe. Don’t come up here! Mayday!
Hmm. Their rooftop clubhouse must have some unwanted visitors. Roger, Roger. I’ll wait for the all-clear.
He finishes loading up their snacks. Now that their rooftop meetings are a regular thing, he’s taken to sourcing the food from the cafeteria and different shops in town, depending on his mood and his budget.
It turns out that he and Zoe have all the same tastes. They both love kettle chips. But not flavored chips, because those are disgusting. They both love cinnamon-sugar doughnuts but not glazed.
Tonight they’ll be dining on chips with guacamole. Zoe loves dip. It’s magical, she said the first time he brought some up to the roof. And we’d never have this at home. As usual, he kept his thoughts about her diet to himself. But it must suck to have your parents in cahoots with your coach.
He has a deep understanding of shitty parenting, though. In fact, there’s a call on his phone he’s deliberately not returning. The old man only wants to complain. He calls Chase only when nobody else will listen.
Zoe: Okay! It’s safe now.
He grabs the goods and heads out of the room, finding Joon-ho stretching in the hallway after a run. The kid narrows his eyes. “Why do you always go up to the roof alone, with a cooler?”
“It’s my office. I go there to think. You’re in for the night, right? Lights out is in an hour.”
“Yeah, Mom.”
Chase takes the stairs two at a time. At the top, he pauses a moment to be sure he isn’t breathing hard. Then he opens the door to the sound of music.
The first thing he sees is Zoe, arms over her head, her eyes closed as she sways to the music she’s playing on her phone. His heart swells when he recognizes the song—“Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak. It was his top choice of the three ideas he sent Zoe.
She isn’t singing along, though. It takes him a moment to realize she’s marking out some kind of choreography. Honestly, most of his focus is on her short-shorts, which show off those mile-long legs. She casually lifts one toe into the air at an angle most mortals would never consider possible.
Watching her move does something unfamiliar to his insides. The feeling is bigger than attraction. Whenever he sees her skate, or even smile, it’s with the bone-deep certainty that he could watch her forever, and every minute would be fascinating.
The door slips closed under his hand, and Zoe turns at the sound. And then her expression opens up, her eyes bright. “Hey, Hockey!” she says. “I like this song a lot.” She leaps forward to get closer to him. “Can we keep it?”
He nods, not trusting his voice. Then he folds her into a hug and inhales the apple scent of her shampoo. No one has ever been this happy to see him. Her body presses against his, and he can scarcely remember to breathe.
“Great pick. So moody, right?”
“So moody,” he echoes, releasing her. Mostly. Almost overnight, he’s turned into one of those guys who’s always touching his girl. His hand on her elbow or at the small of her back. Just to remind himself that she’s real.
“The lyrics are kind of dark,” she says. “And a little unusual for the showcase. But I love it desperately.”
He indulges in a quick kiss. Just one, right at the corner of her perfect mouth. “Tell me more about this showcase. Who comes?”
She does a pirouette, apropos of nothing.
Every time they’re together, she gets a little looser.
A little freer with him. “It’s a Saturday night performance over parents’ weekend.
Lots of other people come, though. Skating coaches from around New England and parents of prospective campers. Plus locals.”
He grabs the cooler bag and heads over to one of the lawn chairs. He sits down and pulls her into his lap. “So it’s a big deal for you?”
“Not for me,” she says. “For my mother, though. And you know how she gets when she’s unhappy.”
“Your mother? Wait…” He runs that sentence back through his head, and a bomb of understanding suddenly detonates in his chest. “Sister Walsh is your mother?”
She stares. “You didn’t know that?”
“Um…” He’s vaguely aware that he looks pretty stupid right now, but that’s not even the bigger problem. “You don’t look that much alike.”
But even as he says it, he knows that’s not really what tripped him up.
Sister Walsh is so cold to Zoe. Always. Sometimes Chase will enter the rink at the end of one of their private coaching sessions and hear the way she speaks to Zoe.
Sloppy extension! What kind of an axel was that supposed to be? Or Excuses don’t win medals, Zoe.
Sister Walsh never seems happy with anything Zoe does. Once, when Zoe landed a gorgeous triple-triple combo during practice, her mother only said “Finally” before walking away.
“People always say we don’t look alike. I guess I take after my father. Not that I’d know.”
“You have his last name,” Chase realizes. “So who’s this Mr. Carson?”
Zoe bites back a smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that.”
“Why?”
“He’s the reason my mother hates hockey players.”
Chase lets out a bark of surprised laughter. “Oh God. But… your uncle is also a hockey player? Does she hate her own brother?”
Zoe shakes her head. “Uncle Will is the exception who proves the rule. I think my uncle introduced them, actually.”
Carson. Something clicks. “Wait—your dad was Cam Carson?” He was a star player for Ottawa when Chase was playing in the peewee league.
“Theoretically,” Zoe says with an eye roll. “Every year on my birthday he sent me a card and a hundred-dollar bill. No note, though. Just signed, with a C-note.”
Ouch. “And then he died, right?” Chase remembers hearing about it at the rink. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Her brown eyes are untroubled. “I never knew him. And the child support checks from his estate funded my skating career. Up until I turned eighteen and the rest went to charity. That’s part of why it’s a disaster that I missed the Olympics. I lost my shot at sponsorship money.”
“Shit, really?”
She nods. “Working at this camp helps, though. The tuition helps keep my mom’s business afloat. And this is her biggest enrollment year ever.”
“Oh.” It’s a lot to take in. But something occurs to him. “You’re part of the draw, yeah? Because you almost made it to the Olympics.”
“I guess.” She shrugs. “But the almost part makes it a special kind of draw. So many of these girls are hate-watching me this summer. The bunheads smell blood in the water.”
He runs a hand over her smooth knee and thinks that over. “I don’t think that’s true. They worship you.”
She makes a face of disbelief. “Nobody worships someone who almost made it. There’s no glory in that.”
“Inaccurate. Stand up a sec?”
After she slides off his lap, he walks her over to the edge of the roof, protected by a waist-high wall.
He glances around the quadrangle below until he finds what he’s looking for.
“There. See those girls?” There are four teenage campers sitting on a blanket on the lawn, swatting mosquitoes but unwilling to go inside until curfew.
“What about them?”
“Look at their hair.”
Zoe squints into the fading light. “It’s… nice? What’s your point?”
“The bunheads don’t wear buns anymore. Most of them, anyway. That bitchy one—Melanie? She still wears a bun. But the rest of them…” He reaches up and wraps a hand around the thick braid hanging over her shoulder. He gives it a little tug. “I’ve noticed lots of these instead.”
Zoe turns once again toward the girls on the lawn, who are gathering their things. She takes a long look at their braids and frowns. “That’s just a coincidence.”
“It’s not,” he says, taking her hand. Gently he tugs her back toward the middle of the roof, where nobody can see them. “They dress like you, too. You tie your T-shirt like this.” He places his hand on her hip, where there’s a knot.
“That’s just to get the fabric out of my way,” Zoe says, her gaze softening as he gives her hip a meaningful squeeze. “I don’t like it flapping in the breeze.”
“Mmm,” he says, leaning in to trace his lips along her smooth neck. “I’m telling you, those girls would do anything to be just like you. And that only happens when you have their respect.”
“Oh,” she says. Although it isn’t clear whether she’s agreeing with his theories or she’s getting turned on. Maybe it’s both things, because she slides a hand up his chest and tilts her chin to give him better access.
He takes her warm face in two hands and kisses her softly. And when she whimpers, his body lights up like a stadium lamp. He parts her lips and deepens the kiss.
Lately, it’s always like this. Deep kisses and questing hands. When both of hers slide onto his ass, he quickly escalates the kiss from the juniors to the pros.
It doesn’t take long before they’re both riled up and desperate. He makes himself break the kiss and take a deep breath. There’s no privacy here.
She tucks her chin into his shoulder and sighs. And for a few minutes, nobody speaks. Until she suddenly says, “You called her Sister Walsh. Is that your private nickname?”
Who? “Oh, yeah. Your mom reminds me of the nuns who taught Sunday school. Like she wants to scare everyone and give them ten Hail Marys.”
Zoe draws back to look at him with sparking eyes. “That’s her secret dream.”
The nickname has another meaning, though, which he doesn’t bother to mention. Zoe’s uncle is his hockey coach. He’s the guy who said, Don’t touch my niece.
The niece who turned out to be Zoe.
God, he’s an idiot. But it probably wouldn’t have mattered if he’d figured this out sooner. He wouldn’t have been able to stay away.
He runs a fingertip down Zoe’s perfect nose. “I’m probably dead if anyone finds out about us.”
She laughs. “Me too. But they won’t. That’s why I told you not to come upstairs earlier.”
“Who was up here?”
“A couple of bunheads.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t we just talk about this? Were they wearing buns?”
She looks away, smiling. “Braidheads just doesn’t have the same ring.”
“True. How’d you get rid of them?”
“I told them I was working on a new piece of choreography and I come up here to work in secret.”
He snickers. “Good one.”
“Well, I am,” she insists. “We only have two weeks to come up with our program. It’s going to be amazing.”
“Really? Did you find a better skater than me to do this piece with you? Because I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m the worst dude at camp.”
She shakes her head. “This isn’t going to be about jumps. I mean—
we’ll jump, but you can do singles.”
The competitor inside him says, “I bet I could do a double.”
“I bet you could,” she agrees. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re going to have the coolest piece, because this song is sexy and kind of dark, and everyone else will be trying to impress Sister Walsh with Swan Lake and ‘Clair de lune.’”
“If you say so.”
She retrieves her phone off the asphalt roof. “You chose well,” she says. “It has a really strong beat and lots of slow glide on the guitar. It’s just perfect for skating.”
She presses play and then leans her head on his shoulder while Chris Isaak sings about his horribly broken heart.
He’s happily inhaling the scent of her hair when his phone rings rudely and his father’s number pops up on the screen. He sends it to voicemail. But then the asshole calls again.
“Excuse me a sec,” he apologizes. Then he crosses the rooftop before accepting the third call. “Hey, I’m here. Is something wrong?”
“You bet, fucker,” his dad slurs. “What did you do with my Sawzall? You sell it?”
Chase screws his eyes closed. “I didn’t sell anything,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. You’re the only one who sells off tools to buy whiskey.
“You owe me fifty bucks,” his father says.
“I gave you fifty bucks,” he says firmly. “The day before I left for my summer job, I gave you two twenties and a ten.”
“Well, it’s not here,” the old man sneers. “Looked in your room. Big mess. Might have a bonfire if I can’t find my fifty bucks.”
His chest goes tight. There’s nothing of value in his room, because he’s smarter than that. But his photo albums are there, and his team pennant. And every last memory he has of his mother.
“Fifty bucks, Chasey,” his father slurs. “You don’t cheat family.”
He never should have answered the phone. It’s really killing his high. “I might be able to Venmo you forty bucks,” he says. “I’d have to check my bank balance.” He knows better than to make it sound too easy.
“By tomorrow,” his father says, as if this were some kind of real negotiation.
“Fine. Later.” He ends the call and looks up to see Zoe watching him from her perch on the chair, worry in her eyes.
“Let’s have some guacamole,” he says. “It’s time for snacks.”
Then he finds his smile and pastes it back on again. He never wants Zoe to know the truth—that some days it’s hard fucking work being this laid-back and happy.
Zoe reaches for the cooler with a contented sigh, and he feels the tension drain out of his body again.
He sits down beside her and restarts the song. Zoe passes him the chips, and he takes one. “Cheers,” he says, tapping his chip against hers.
She smiles, and everything is right with the world.