Chapter 15 Clark
CLARK
We are up by one with two minutes left in the third period.
They’re my former team, still populated by some of the guys who gave me my first real shot in the NHL. And right now, I want nothing more than to crush them.
“Culpepper!” Coach barks from the bench. “Eyes up!”
I send out a silent prayer and then tap my stick against the post—once, twice, repeat—the ritual I know is foolish, but do anyway. It’s less about superstition and more of a cue to my mind and muscles to get ready to stop goals at all costs.
The puck drops and Liam wins the faceoff, sending the biscuit back to Pierre. The play develops fast as Boston’s center breaks through, skating hard toward me with the puck practically glued to his stick.
I read his eyes. See the deke. Drop into my butterfly just as he shoots glove side.
The puck makes contact with a satisfying thwack that vibrates through me.
I hold it up and the arena explodes as the whistle blows.
We still have forty-three seconds left.
“Let’s go, boys!” Liam shouts, his team captain voice rising above everything. “This is our house!”
My heart rate kicks up, but my hands are steady.
This is what I live for. The pressure. The pace. The impossible saves.
We recalibrate and the puck is back in play. Boston wants this badly, but they’re in scramble-mode even as they gain possession, passing the puck along the line. Their forward winds up for a slap shot.
I track it, adjust my position, and anticipate contact as the puck sails toward the top shelf. I reach, stretch, and stop it from entering our net as the game concludes with the sound of the buzzer. And that, my friends, is how a win is made.
Our team song blares through the arena along with chanting, cheering, and pounding feet.
The team rushes me, and suddenly I’m at the bottom of a pile of sweaty hockey players, all screaming and laughing. Someone’s helmet digs into my ribs. I don’t care.
In the locker room, it erupts like we just took the Cup.
“Playoffs, baby!” Mikey hollers, spraying everyone with his water bottle like it’s champagne.
“We’re not there yet,” Liam warns, ever the captain, but even he’s grinning.
“Culpepper!” Hayden slaps my shoulder so hard I nearly drop my glove. “That last save was insane. Did you see his face when you caught it?”
“I was a little busy,” I say, but I’m grinning too.
“Against your old team!”
“They taught me well.”
“Yeah, but we’re better,” Fletch adds.
Everyone cheers.
As the guys peel off their sweaty gear, replay key moments, and argue about whether we should create an official victory dance, I check my phone.
April texted during the third period.
April: That save was RIDICULOUS. How did you even see that?
April: You WON!
April: You’re probably busy celebrating. Text me later!
Still in my hand, it vibrates.
April: Congrats on the win! Moose, Scout, Buster, Purdy, Lulu, and I were rooting for you.
Yes, Lulu found her fur-ever family. After the adoption event at the Botanical Garden, I checked to see if she’d been matched with a home and since she was still with Love at First Wag, I couldn’t help but add her to the pack.
Plus, April loved her. Yes, I also need to start looking for a place with a yard. An entire field. Acreage at this rate.
And yes, April celebrated with a gotcha party, including pupcakes for all our four-legged family members.
Me: See you Friday night.
April: Our date at Spaglietti’s. Right. Yeah. I’m not nervous.
Me: It’s just pasta and me.
April: With cameras and the entire town watching.
Me: What if I promise a chocolate pistachio truffle from that new confectioner place in my building?
April: That’s tempting.
Coach Badaszek appears in the doorway, arms crossed, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “Good game, gentlemen. But don’t get cocky. We’ve got three more to win before we even think about celebrating.”
“Yes, Coach!” we chorus.
“Practice tomorrow. Bring your A-game.”
A collective groan goes up, but it’s half-hearted. We’re too happy to really complain.
Coach adds, “Culpepper, nice save tonight.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“Get some rest. Oh, and maybe invite that girl of yours to the next game. Team morale is better when the WAGs are in the stands.”
I stare at him. “April comes to most of our games.”
“Invite her as your girlfriend.”
“But, sir—” How do I explain that it’s fake?
“I said what I said. Now get out of here.”
The guys give me a look, knowing about Whitaker’s push to get me seen with women more for my “brand.” But they love and adore April and know that she’s my best friend, not my girlfriend, which spells one simple word. Fake.
Unless I’ve been wrong about the friend zone. My teammates treat her like we’re a couple. Pierre even once said we’re perfect together. My family adores her. Have I been blind to what’s truly between us?
I get home late that night, absolutely bushed. The dogs stir, but I hush them since I don’t want to wake April, who’s house sitting, as usual.
After I flop into bed, exhaustion swings the pendulum in my thoughts in the opposite direction of hope. I struggle with doubt as stress grows and warps my thinking. Between playoff anticipation and Friday’s dinner date—fake dinner date—my brain refuses to shut down.
Thankfully, Badaszek gave us the next morning off.
I wake up to find April looking adorably sleepy as she brushes her teeth and feeds the dogs breakfast. She’s wearing leggings and one of my old, soft, faded Knights t-shirts. Her curls are piled in a messy heap on top of her head and she’s not wearing makeup.
April is beautiful.
“Morning,” I say, bleary-eyed.
Her gaze comes into focus, likely remembering that I’m back. “Good morning,” she manages, turning in a circle as if looking for an escape route. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”
“We took a pink eye.”
Hers widen.
“No, not conjunctivitis. No one has pink eye. I shouldn’t try to make jokes this early. It was just shy of a red eye. Some of the guys had to be back for family stuff.” I wasn’t paying attention. Just fixated on getting home, to April, for our date.
April floats toward the coffee maker. “I need caffeine.”
“Let’s go to the bakery. My treat.”
“I should freshen up.” She looks stricken as if I’ve never seen her first thing in the morning.
“The dogs think you look good.” And I think you look great.
She wilts slightly, but pulls on her paw print sneakers.
We head out into what is indeed a perfect spring morning. The air smells like fresh grass. Trees are budding, flowers are blooming, and Cobbiton looks like a postcard.
When we get to the Busy Bee Bakery, I go in to order April’s latte while she waits with the dogs. I also grab us each a lemon poppyseed muffin. When I come out, she takes a sip and closes her eyes briefly. Then, as if coming to life, she says, “Do you mind doing the 4th Street loop?”
“On a day like today? I definitely don’t mind.” The sun is bright, but there are some clouds off toward the horizon.
“How’s playoff fever treating you?” April asks as we navigate the dogs around a particularly interesting fire hydrant.
“Intense. I can say with a high degree of confidence that Coach giving us the morning off is a red herring. Later, he’ll be having us run drills until we collapse.”
“Classic Badaszek.”
“He did say something weird yesterday, though.”
“How weird are we talking?”
“He asked if I would finally be able to get past the first date.” I’m not sure why I tell her this. Maybe I’m still half asleep despite my large cup of coffee.
April glances at me. “Well, you do have a pattern of first dates only.”
She noticed? I let out a long breath. That’s because they’re not with her.
“What did you tell Badaszek?”
“I told him that with the right girl, anything is possible. But then he gave me a look.” I wanted to think he was telling me April is special and not to mess it up. But Badaszek isn’t particularly feel-y. Definitely not touch-y. His life stance is more Take a puck to the gut like a man.
“Huh.” April is quiet for a moment. “Do you think he knows it’s fake?”
“With Badaszek? It’s hard to say, but historically speaking, the man somehow knows everything.”
We’re laughing about Coach’s omniscience when April’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and her entire demeanor changes. Her smile tightens.
“It’s my parents,” she mumbles.
“Want me to—?” I gesture vaguely, offering to give her privacy since talking to her mom and dad isn’t usually a walk in the park.
She shakes her head. “Thanks, but no. Still, I have to answer.”
I can hear her mother’s voice through the phone—sharp, clipped, demanding.
“Yes, I’m still in Omaha. Well, not right now. I’m in Cobbiton walking Clark’s dogs ... No, I haven’t reconsidered law school ... Because I have a job, Mom. A good job ... It’s not a hobby, it’s a career ... The Barkery is a business plan, not a pipe dream...” Her tone dips with each defense.
My jaw ratchets with every dismissive comment I can hear from her mother’s end.
It’s like April thinks that if she just explains her life choices the right way, they’ll finally understand. But they never do.
“I’m not wasting my potential ... Mom, please ... Yes, I know Dad thinks ...” She lets out a little groan of frustration.
The sky, which was clear and blue twenty minutes ago, is rapidly clouding over. A spring storm rolls in, matching the change in mood.
I want to grab the phone and tell her parents exactly what I think of their “real job” nonsense. Want to list every single thing that makes April exceptional. Want to ask them how they can’t see what everyone else does—that their daughter is brilliant and driven and building something meaningful.
But I don’t. Because that’s not my place. I’m just the fake boyfriend.
“Yes, I’ll think about it ... Okay ... Bye.”
She hangs up and immediately focuses all her attention on Buster, who’s stopped to sniff a fresh patch of grass.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.