Chapter 20. In Which I Help My Enemy with His Stick
IN WHICH I HELP MY ENEMY WITH HIS STICK
The loudest, echoiest disco music attacks my ears when I walk into the ice arena on Sunday evening. No one is on the ice yet, but a disco ball has been lowered from the ceiling, and all the lights are dimmed.
Jameson stands by the entrance in the boards, monitoring the single-file line for those waiting to enter the rink.
Most people I recognize. Nick Wanek is talking to Ophelia, who must’ve moved on from Luca breaking her heart at the peace party since the two stand so close. Cindy Wang, Samuel Rahr, and Eleanor Hunt are already here, too. All who I’ve learned are members of Luca’s cabin.
Everything is in motion.
To celebrate, I yawn so hard that my eyes water.
Thanks to the unification our bedsheet thieves caused, my cabinmates showed up to every 7:00 a.m. study session in the Food Laboratory this week.
Jade even brought real pencils and paper for once, fueled by her desire to crush Cabin Gamma.
We went over Professor Moustafa’s laboratory—electroacoustic research, automatic pitch registering, everything pertaining to the science of sound.
I’m used to waking up and studying this early. Mom makes me do college testing prep every morning and night. But when it also involves keeping Jade’s attention focused, Christiana’s anxiety steady, and Benedict’s swaying temper at bay, it drains everything I have.
But we’re studying as a team. Improving. That has to help us score better on the second-to-last test tomorrow regardless of whether our sabotage on Cabin Gamma tonight is successful.
“There you are,” Luca’s voice comes over my shoulder.
I turn around, and my eyes widen.
Luca isn’t in a basic sweatshirt or fleece today.
Instead, he’s wearing a full hockey uniform.
A white-and-blue jersey, shorts, shoulder and elbow pads, and a neck guard.
He even has a helmet tucked beneath his arm.
Despite his bulky equipment masking his physique, I’m still reminded of how strong he must be to carry all that weight as he zooms around the rink during games.
I prepare to succumb to the roaring anger that my body summons only for Luca, for it to scald every piece of me, but I falter.
“You really went all out,” I say, a little breathless.
“Gotta dress the part if I’m the teacher,” Luca says.
“Why aren’t you down there with your cabin?”
“You’re my assistant. You thought I wouldn’t wait for you?”
My chest flutters.
I must just be relieved. Jade, Christiana, and Benedict need every member of Cabin Gamma at the rink for at least a half hour to paint their cabin walls. It’s paramount that Luca be under my watch tonight.
And, I suppose, this is a good sign for all things making-him-fall-for-me.
I try to search for my anger again but still come up with less than I expect, just what feels like a few leftover embers. Did my time on the ice with Luca the other day get into my head? Just like in the canoe?
I can’t be swayed again. I have to follow through.
Luca lifts his gym bag higher over his shoulder before I can respond. “I brought something for you to wear, too, by the way.”
I glance down at my own thinly knit jade cardigan and charcoal slacks. Very much not an athletic vibe. I suppose that’s fair. “What is it?”
He pulls out his letterman jacket from his bag and displays it toward me.
I grimace. “Please tell me that’s been cleaned since the peace party.”
“Twice. And then some.”
So, I let Luca wrap his jacket over my back. His familiar woodsy scent tinges my nose. Heat flares up through me, one half fueled by the blow to my pride thanks to my memory of the party, the other half by something I refuse to acknowledge.
Luca is my enemy. I can’t let my guard down.
I pluck at the left shoulder of his jacket, which hangs loosely off me, flaunting how little muscle mass I have in comparison. Worse, the whole thing is brown. Not part of my allowed color palette.
Rory, take that off right now.
Listening to Mom may be unwise. It could offend Luca and put my plan in jeopardy. If disregarding my face routine the other night didn’t blow up the world, then I can do this, too, especially when it gets me closer to the Medal of Victory.
Luca punches me lightly on the arm. It still, unfortunately, feels less romantic and more aggressively friendly. But friendly is a huge step forward, considering he’s usually making jokes at my expense. So far, tonight, there’s been no Prince Charming, no jabs implying he’s smarter than me.
“Ready to teach?” he asks.
I nod.
Luca leads us through the bleachers and down to the boards. Next thing I know, I’m being let onto the ice by Jameson, gripping on to the wall for stability in a pair of skates. Of course, Luca’s presence is quick to pull attention. Eyes follow him, and me, as we skate together.
Nerves tighten my chest. Skating with the skill of a monkey isn’t explicitly against one of Mom and Dad’s rules, but it certainly challenges their generalized requirement to always be presentable in public.
“How do you want to start this?” I mutter to him, shutting out my doubts.
Luca shrugs, then tosses up his hands, his gold rings shooting off rays of light from the disco ball. “WHO WANTS SKATING LESSONS?”
Everyone goes motionless. Conversations stop.
A crowd congregates like Luca is a living, breathing Black Friday sale.
“I was expecting one or two students,” Luca mumbles on an awkward laugh. He looks to me. “Rory, grab us some trainers?”
I follow his eyes toward a corner of the arena, where PVC pipes are built into makeshift walkers. Seemingly, for people who can’t stand up straight on the ice. I look down at my own skates, which are wobbling every which way.
Luca shows me an encouraging smile. “You can do it.”
Sighing, I awkwardly wall-skate over to the trainers. It takes an embarrassing two minutes to pull off, and I nearly fall on my face twice. By the time I grab two trainers, I feel like I’ve run a marathon. The trip back, though, is a breeze, all thanks to the trainers supporting my weight.
Why didn’t Luca just have me use this on Wednesday instead of his much more unstable hands? Did he want to be closer to me?
That couldn’t be. Right?
When I return, a line has formed by the wall, each person waiting for their turn with Luca.
He’s currently holding hands with Cindy, one of the girls from his cabin.
As he guides her from the blue line at the center toward the red line at the end, her beauty stands out among the crowd.
Her black curls are so voluminous that they seem professionally done, and her overdone pink blush gives her an overall doll-like appearance, her heart-shaped face appearing even rounder and cuter.
Tension fills me, hot and tight. I guess our holding hands didn’t mean anything.
Why am I disappointed?
“Great, thanks,” Luca says to me, slowing to a stop with Cindy. “Can you pass out the trainers? I’ll walk around and give everyone pointers.”
I do as I’m told as his trusty assistant. A few nasty glares are sent my way when I hand the trainers off as replacements for Luca, but their recipients still stick around.
After, my assistant tasks become minimal. I spend most of my time looking around, making sure none of Luca’s cabinmates wander out of my sight.
When someone falls, I try to help them up without subsequently joining them on the ice.
When someone new wants lessons, I hand them a trainer.
Eventually, an intermission is called, allowing a horrific monster truck from hell to resurface the ice—a Zamboni, according to Luca.
One intermission later, everyone is skating with a buddy well enough to ditch the trainers or boards.
They mix with other seasoned skaters, looping around the arena to the old disco music.
I check the digital clock on the wall. Eight thirty. A half hour has passed.
According to our plan, Benedict, Christiana, and Jade should be done by now.
I remain on the ice for a few extra minutes, watching Luca offer advice to the others. In the name of science only. The slap shot problem still hasn’t been solved. Maybe, by observing Luca on the ice, I can discern some clues.
When Luca swings his stick, which should have a mass of about 0.
4 kg at around 72 mph, it should carry 80 joules of kinetic energy.
That puck’s speed should then depend on how much of that energy transfers during the collision.
If he wants to get back to shooting around 90 mph, then this math implies that he needs to put more energy into the stick—generate even more physical power in his swing.
But Luca is already so freakishly strong. Is that really true?
I’ll need to start a new notebook to write all of this down.
Luca skates up beside me and sighs out his exhaustion. He leans back on the boards with his elbows, then winks at me in his effortless way. “You look good.”
My heart gets shocked by an invisible defibrillator. “Huh?”
“You should hang on to it. My jacket. It looks good on you.”
I try to form a word, a sound, but my mouth has never felt drier.
Luca thinks I look good. In a brown jacket.
Do I really?
A smile breaks across my face. I can’t help it, even if the compliment comes from him. “Thanks, Luca.”
Luca blinks back at me. His expression shifts in a way I struggle to understand. A slight lift of his brow, a bit of awkwardness in his posture.
Maybe I’m freaking him out. I tend to do that.
“How’s your slap shot coming along, by the way?” I ask to change the subject. I can’t bail just yet. I need to leave naturally to avoid suspicion.
Luca groans. He lets his head fall backward dramatically, his dark curls shaking loosely behind him. His neck pulls taut, his Adam’s apple and collarbone becoming a prominent focal point. “It’s not. At all.”
I try not to stare. “Do you have your stick on you?”
“With my gear. Why?”
“Can I check it out?”
He regards me curiously, but he doesn’t ask more questions. He skates to the exit of the boards, then fetches his stick from the bleachers.