Chapter 23 Wake-Up Call
WAKE-UP CALL
CLEO
IT’S A TUESDAY, BUT I HAVE NOTHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO TONIGHT. I’M GOING TO MISS MARJORIE and Geraldine. And, of course, Mats. He was so cold yesterday at the arena, but I can read him now, and he was hurting. Because of what I did. I’ve really fucked up.
Becks drops into the seat beside me at lunch. I drew the short straw in the Who Has to Sit with Oscar the Grouch? contest. So, here I am.
Are you trying to cheer me up? Because it’s not working, I complain.
Becks has been remarkably patient already.
First, I unloaded the breakup on her. Then I told her about my trip home, and my hopes that Mats would appreciate everything that I said to Jordan.
Then she had to suffer through my second round of misery when Mats wouldn’t change his mind.
But my bestie is a woman of limited patience.
She’ll be sympathetic for a few days, and then she wants you to buck up.
Oh, come on. You know it doesn’t take you long to get over a breakup. You’ll be telling hilarious bad boyfriend stories in no time. Her get-over-it message is right on schedule.
That’s when I dated jerks. It’s easy to get over a bad relationship, but this is the best guy I’ve ever dated. Besides, I have no bad boyfriend stories about Mats. He’s gorgeous and smart and considerate and fantastic in bed. I rest my forehead on the table.
How fantastic? Becks is used to me spilling all the dirty details.
I lift my head. You know what? I’m not going to relive the excellent sex that I’m never having again. That seems like fucking self-sabotage. Awesome, I’ve reached my peak sexual experience at twenty, and from now on, it will all be downhill.
Becks opens up her chicken wrap. Just trying to find the silver lining.
I never even got to act out any sexual fantasies with him, I moan.
There’s silence as we both contemplate what it would be like to have the hunky Mats realizing your dirtiest thoughts. Fire doesn’t even cover it; it would be solar core.
Fuuuuuck, Becks fans herself.
Also, I sensed that Mats might have had certain dominant fantasies that he would never ask for. I blame his inner feminist. But what if I had suggested them first?
Am I the world’s biggest idiot for fucking up our relationship? I ask.
You’re up there. Maybe that guy who attached a jet rocket to his Chevy and drove into a cliff would be first.
I sigh. He was an urban myth. Therefore, I am number one.
She bites into her wrap, then lifts it in salute. Congratulations.
I hope Mats is doing okay. He looked so defeated when I last saw him. I hate that I hurt him with my stupid family issues.
Becks grimaces. I saw him at the rink this morning. He looked… tired.
I groan loudly. The universe never sends me nice boyfriends because I don’t deserve them. And all those strange women on campus have probably heard about our breakup and are busy DMing him again. Awesome, I fucked up a relationship that most women would kill for.
I notice a new message on my phone.
Weird. Coach wants to see me ASAP. What’s that about? I wonder.
It means ‘as soon as possible,’ explains my smart-ass friend.
Genius. But it’s not like her to message. Usually, she’ll grab me at practice.
Here’s an idea: Go see her and find out, Becks suggests. Of all your problems, this is the only one with an easy solution.
Please, I haven’t been that bad.
Sure, I had my crying jag, but I’m pretty sure Becks doesn’t know about that.
And I’ve been pretty good at putting on a happy face.
Well, if not happy, at least not unhappy.
I’m not my usual energetic self, but nobody can be like that all the time.
Of course, I’m distracted and forgetful and dozy, but that will pass.
Besides, a boyfriend like Mats is as rare as a solar eclipse, so I’m due for another in about 375 years.
The cherry on top of my life sundae is that my brother and dad are still unhappy with me, even though I’m not going out with Mats. Just because I dared to tell them the truth. Fuck my life.
I put away my lunch containers. Thanks for keeping me company, anyway.
Becks makes a face. Ugh. I can’t believe this, but I actually wish you would prank me. I can’t stand this meek, sweet side of you.
I don’t even have a snappy reply, so I just take off.
Since I don’t have a class right away, I head to the arena.
Coach Burton is in her office with Connie Lundstrom, a former Minks player who works part-time as her assistant.
Both of them look up at me with worried expressions.
There’s a tension in the room that I don’t like.
What’s wrong? I look between them, but nobody even cracks a smile.
Lundy, maybe you can get things set up for the, uh, you know. Burty motions with her head to the hallway and Lundy leaves, shutting the door behind her.
A closed door. That’s never good. I flop into the seat across from my coach.
She massages her temples, then looks up at me. Cleo, there’s no good way to break this news, so I’m just going to come right out with it. You’ve been accused of using drugs to enhance your on-ice performance. So, we’re going to have to test you.
What the fuck? This makes zero sense. I train like a maniac, but that’s it. I’m notorious for not even following a proper athlete’s diet, as Mats can attest to. I flush with anger.
That’s bullshit. I’ve never taken anything. I don’t even take cold meds, not after everything that happened at the Olympics.
Coach nods, her jaw clenched. Look, I know you. And I’ve already argued this with Roger Gordon, but unfortunately, it’s out of our hands. This is part of an investigation that the St. Viola police are conducting.
For a moment, it feels like the breath is knocked out of me. I’m sorry, the police? Is everyone getting tested?
No. Just you.
I shake my head. Sorry, Burty, but you’re going to have to explain this one to me. I have no history of anything like this. It’s totally fucked. This whole deal feels like a joke.
She winces. Okay, I’ll level with you. It’s all going to come out in the next few days anyway. We’re keeping things confidential as far as the team goes, so no one is supposed to know that you’re being tested. However, it’s foolish to think people won’t put two and two together.
My guts clench in worry. I swallow hard and wait.
The police investigation is based on information that an athlete from Monarch is selling ephedrine and amphetamines to high school athletes.
The claims were that they could improve their performance enough to make D1 or the NHL.
She sniffs scornfully at the idea. Ridiculous, right?
But the sales pitch was that another athlete using their hookup for ephedrine is suddenly having her best season ever.
She’s leading her team in scoring for the first time.
At first, I can’t comprehend this whole idea. Yes, I’m the leading scorer on my team. And yes, I play a balls-out, high-tempo style that might make you think I’m on something, but still—why me?
But you can’t just say something like that! I exclaim. It’s like me saying that Taylor Heise is my bestie. Where’s the fucking proof?
Coach sighs. Because your brother said it. Your brother has been using his Monarch email address and connections to the college to fool gullible athletes into buying performance-enhancing drugs.
But where would he even… I begin, then it hits me.
I bet he’s partnered up with Nick Johnson, right?
His family owns our town's pharmacy. And Nick took that stupid selfie with me.
All the times I thought that Jordan was genuinely proud of me, posting my photo on his socials, he was just using me. Once again.
She waves this away. I don’t know who else is involved, only what pertains to you.
I shake my head. Fucking Jordan. You know, I feel like everything bad in my life happens because of him.
Burty nods sympathetically and pats my hand. She’s not the touchy-feely type, so that’s a big deal for her.
I exhale loudly. Okay, well, bring on the test. I’m clean, so I’ve got nothing to worry about.
Great. The sooner we get the results back, the sooner you can be back on the ice, Coach says.
What? I can’t play hockey? I stare at her with zero comprehension.
She yanks her short hair like she’s ready to tear it out. Sorry, I should have mentioned that straight off. You’re suspended until we can prove you’re not on anything. That’s the college policy.
But why? Because a couple of bullshitters said I was on drugs? That’s not proof of any kind.
She nods. Oh, I agree. But if we let you play, that means our opponents could challenge the results of any game for use of a suspended player.
How long will it take to clear this up? I ask.
Burty grimaces. Test results will take fifteen to twenty days.
Fuck me. I say what she’s thinking. The Minks finished first, so we get next weekend off. But the following weekend we have our first playoff game, and it’s single-elimination. If we lose that game, we’re out. Even if I’m back by the second playoff game, it could already be over.
Believe me, I’m not happy about this. It’s our best shot in years; you’re playing so well, and now Smitty’s back in form. At least we have the by-week to rest up and practise. Then she scowls. But you can’t practise with the team, either.
I clutch a hand over my guts where there’s a churning mix of fury and despair.
Yes, I’ve been miserable over missing Mats, but at least I had hockey.
Hockey is the one constant in my life. I love my teammates.
I love practices, scrimmages, and even team meetings.
And I love games most of all. But that’s all gone right now.
And by the time we get my test results back, my season could be over.
And all because my brother fucked up once again.
I stumble out of the coach’s office, and Lundy is waiting for me. I’m going to escort you to the clinic, where we have an appointment with a school technician who is going to take blood and urine samples from you. And you can’t leave my sight until it’s done.
God, you sound like you just stepped off the set of Law and Order, I say, my voice dull.
She giggles nervously. I just looked up the whole procedure in a handbook for drug testing after a championship. I’ve never done this before. Lundy is only a few years older than me, so it’s easy to relate to her. She’s a former player who is doing Burty’s internship program for coaching prospects.
And then, in the stupid way my brain works, I realize that hers is the job I want when I graduate: finding out if coaching is something I could do. But what a fucking time to realize this. It’s like asking a police officer if you could ever be a cop—while you’re being arrested.
I can’t help but laugh, because if I don’t, I’ll cry. Fuck.
Let’s get this over with, Nellie. Lundy’s voice is gentle.
I feel like a criminal as I’m escorted through the student medical clinic into a private room. There’s a technician there, who explains that I’ll be giving urine and blood samples. There are multiple consent forms to fill out.
First, she takes the blood sample, which is easy, since I have very prominent veins. Then I have to pee with the door partially open, to make sure I don’t mess with the sample.
I know you’ve seen a lot more in dressing rooms, Lundy, but this feels like a fucking invasion of privacy, I complain, since I seem unable to pee with her watching.
Well, it’s not like I’m enjoying this either. Her eyes dart everywhere since she clearly doesn’t want to watch me, but has to. The technician seems almost bored, like she needs me to get on with it so she can get back to work.
At least I have nice underwear on. Although that thought takes me right back down the Mats track, which is not where I want to go. He used to admire me, and what would he think now? I’m an accused drug user. He’ll never want anything to do with me now.
Do you think they’ll take the captaincy away from me? I whine. Maybe I’m catastrophizing, but I’m fucking entitled.
Nellie, I have no clue about any of this. I only found out an hour ago. At the sight of my forlorn expression, Lundy adds, I’m sure if your tests come out clean, then things will go back to normal.
But what kind of captain causes all this fuckery right at the most crucial time of the season?
On one hand, it’s not my fault that my brother is such a fuck-up; but, on a broader scale, it is.
Because I have rescued Jordan time after time, and now he seems to think it’s his due.
He believes that everyone owes him something because his life hasn’t turned out the way he wanted.
I finally pee and hand the sample tube over to the technician.
As I wash up, I glance at myself in the mirror.
I’m struck by how miserable I look—so unlike my usual sunny expression.
This day has been humiliating; the lowest moment of a completely fucked-up week.
And it’s all because of my family. They’re a fucking anchor on my life.