Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Brody
Olivia’s cheeks are an endearing rosy pink, flushed from exertion and embarrassment. I had to chase her down, and now that
I’ve caught up with her, she is still withdrawn from me as she sits half-dressed like a cat centaur in the open van.
When she bailed on our plans at the last minute, she said she was called into work. This doesn’t look like a donut emergency.
“Here, I found your tooth.” I hand over the chicklet that landed at my foot. “You’re going to want to put that in milk and
get to a dentist ASAP.”
“Thanks, but that’s a Tic Tac.” She tosses it in her mouth.
I look at the photo of Chilly on the side of the van, and then over to her. Comparing the two, it looks like a school poster
for the before and after effects of drug use. Rough day for the cat.
“What’s going on? Did the mascot guy call in sick today and you volunteered or something?” I ask.
Her hair is slick with sweat against her scalp. She sits there, despondent, staring into the distance. “I’m Chilly,” she says
robotically.
“This is a first, but I don’t have a sweater or scarf to give you, sorry.”
She looks up at me, flinching at my smile. Her glassy eyes are on the verge of tears. “No. I am Chilly. I’m the mascot guy.” She delivers it like an epic plot twist, and I never saw it coming. “Mascot woman, technically.
It’s actually a bit misogynistic of you to assume they’re all men. The majority are incredible former collegiate athletes,”
she says more conversationally.
I start to say sorry for being presumptuous but realize I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. “Why didn’t you tell me? This
whole time I thought you worked at Five-Hole Donuts.”
Olivia leans back on her arms, her legs dangling out from the side of the sprinter van as she settles into a comfortable position.
“Lying about being the mascot was part of the job but lying about all the other stuff wasn’t.”
“What other stuff?”
“My last name isn’t O’Chairlock.”
I bring my hand to my mouth. “Wait a minute, are you even half Irish?”
She shakes her head somberly. I press the pads of my fingertips into my temples, willing my head to stop spinning.
“I’m lightheaded. I need to sit down,” I say.
She shimmies to the side, making room for me to plop down next to her on the edge of the van. We sit facing opposite Andy’s
house—thankfully, because I’m sure they’re all peeping at us from the window. How am I going to explain this one to the boys?
“My last name is Hinckley. My dad, Kevin Hinckley, played for the Freeze. It’s how I wound up with this job.” She picks at
her bushy green fur, balling up the threads between her finger and her thumb and flicking them into the wind.
“Why couldn’t you tell me that?”
She turns to me with a quivering bottom lip. “Because my dad’s career ended after a dirty hit from behind delivered by a very famous Erik Parker.”
“Ah.” Words don’t form, just an indistinguishable sound coming from my dropped jaw. It’s the sound of someone landing on their
ass after the rug is pulled out from beneath their feet.
My stomach knots. I knew Olivia and I clicked right away; our bond was effortless. Growing up as children of professional
athletes means we have unique shared experiences. Having complicated feelings toward Erik Parker and my family’s hockey legacy
makes us members of an even more exclusive club. It’s why she was never starstruck around my dad, why she never asked me for
his autograph, and why she didn’t invite herself to Parker family Christmas. I reach for her hand, weaving my fingers between
hers until they perfectly interlock.
I don’t know Kevin Hinckley. My dad never mentioned him or the hit, but if there’s one thing I can relate to, it’s being disappointed
in Erik Parker. Olivia never had to hide this secret from me. She never had to lie about who she was.
“Don’t feel bad for me. Not yet.” She pulls her hand out of our unbreakable connection. “I tried to sabotage you earlier this
season. I hated the idea of the Parker legacy bleeding into the Freeze’s history and the idea of your dad in the Hall of Fame.
I convinced you to cut your hair. I tried to ruin your game by swapping your sticks, oversharpening your skates, and putting
Icy Hot on your jock. Then I tried to make your dad look stupid at the library, and when he didn’t show up, I was willing
to let you take the fall instead.”
I jump up, slowly stumbling back. The truth hits me like a wave—hard upon impact and then an all-consuming rush swallowing me whole. I faintly hear her firing off a hundred “sorrys” a minute, but I’m submerged in water. My movements slow, my vision clouds, and my hearing is muffled.
Her complicated feelings toward my father are justified, but to hate me by association . . . That makes her just like everyone
else. She assumed I was like him. No, she assumed I was worse than him.
“This whole thing has been a lie.” I say the words out loud as I realize them in real time.
She stands up, the bottom half of her costume pooling around her ankles. Underneath, she’s wearing a tight black bodysuit.
She looks like a villain, and she’s been acting every bit the part.
“No. Not all of it. I have real feelings for you,” she pleads.
“Maybe now you do, but the only feeling you had for me a few months ago was hatred.”
She tries to take a couple steps toward me, but stumbles over her costume. “I mean, sure, in the beginning I had ulterior
motives, but so did you. You didn’t seem to mind how genuine our connection was when you were using me to avoid your dad.”
She peels her legs out of the costume, slowly freeing herself from the visibility of her lies one limb at a time.
“Those two things are not the same. You knew I was telling my dad about us to keep him away. I didn’t know about any of this.”
I motion to the pile of fur on the ground. It lies there lifeless like roadkill.
This is too much to process on the side of the road. If I stay here, I’m going to say something I regret. My dad would have
already caused a scene, which is exactly why I storm off toward my car. With each step, I try to feel angry at the situation,
but the betrayal is too heartbreaking to be mad.
Things have been so good for me lately. Without the constant pressure of living up to the perfect Parker family standard, I’m enjoying playing hockey—and more importantly, life is fun.
My mom and I have never been closer. I have a standing volunteer slot at her library where I help her host a children’s book club.
The Freeze are in the Stanley Cup semifinal, and we have a fighting chance to come out on top this year.
When I close my eyes to picture the next month, I see myself lifting the Stanley Cup over my head. Every time I visualize
it, Olivia’s there. She’s rushing onto the ice at the end of the game to jump into my arms and celebrate with me. I can’t
believe she tried to ruin me intentionally and secretively. It’s somehow worse than what my dad was doing. At least he was
honest in his attempts to destroy me emotionally. He disguised it as parental advice or good PR, but Olivia disguised it as
love.
I tug on my car’s door handle, but Olivia pulls me back. Her hand is momentarily on my wrist until it drops back to her side
like a returning pendulum. Standing in front of me, she shakes with remorse. I so badly want to wrap her in my arms and take
away all her pain, but disappointment prevents me from giving in to what feels natural.
“I can’t believe you were responsible for the Icy Hot jock,” I say, shaking my head. My balls were on fire that night. So
was I, but that’s not the point. “I thought Hammer and Jordy were initiating me to the team with a prank. I retaliated by
filling their trucks with Ping-Pong balls. Do you know how many Ping-Pong balls it takes to fill two F-150s?”
She wipes the tears streaming down her face with her palms, dragging her hands across her face aggressively as she slowly
crumbles into a hard cry. “A lot,” she whimpers.
“Yes. A lot of Ping-Pong balls.” I open my car door and turn to leave but realize I have more questions. “And where are my
missing sticks?”
“I sold them on eBay.” Her chest shakes as she lets out more tears.
“eBay?”
She stops sobbing to say, “I donated the money to charity.” She peeks up at me through her hands. “Stop AAPI Hate,” she adds.
With her forced smile and chipped front tooth, she looks like Lloyd Christmas.
“Okay. Well. Thank you.” I guess even at her worst she isn’t a complete monster. I cling to my car’s door as it anchors me
in place.
“I promise I was going to tell you everything during All-Star Weekend, but then your dad showed up and my sister was in the
car accident. I kept coming up with excuses and talking myself out of it. Things were so perfect with us, and I didn’t want
to ruin the season or throw you off your game.” Her explanations ring hollow.
“Isn’t that exactly what you wanted to do?” The longer we talk, the angrier I get. I’m so mad I could scream, but instead,
I go mute.
“No, not like this. I love you so much, Brody. I was completely wrong about you, and I learned very quickly what type of person
you really are. You’re selfless, and thoughtful, and introspective, and goofy, and kind. Maybe a bit gullible, but you know
what’s important to you and, dammit, you go after it. You’re nothing like I thought you were.” She reaches out for me.
“And neither are you.” My voice breaks and I have to bite down on my lip to distract myself from my growing urge to cry. “The
next few weeks are really important to the team. I’ve never come this close to winning and I can’t have anything or anyone
jeopardizing that. I need space. I need to focus on my game.”
I get into my car and slam the door before she gets any closer, before I have to hear any more.