Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
“Oof. That’s brutal,” D-Low says as Stanton scores another goal. There’s a collective groan from the crowd as parents and students at Moonshot High School watch their team fall behind by another goal.
My stomach twists as I watch Whitney on the bench. She claps her hands twice, trying to rouse her guys, then yells something out at the ice. A couple of them perk up, and their expressions show a renewed determination, but most look like they’ve given up.
“They’re playing scared,” I note quietly so only D-Low can hear.
He nods his agreement. “There’s some real talent out there, but man, I’ve never seen so many turnovers.”
He barely gets the words out when Stanton intercepts another long pass.
“Come on, Jonathon!” one particularly annoyed fan yells from our right. Judging by the frustration on his face and the way he singled out one player, I’m going to guess it’s his dad.
I remember the kid from camp. He’s the one with red hair they called Pepper. He got rattled easily, but otherwise, he was a good puck handler and had a nice shot.
Stanton scores another goal, and while the team celebrates, Whitney subs out fresh guys.
Pepper skates for the bench, head down. Landon falls beside him, also taking a seat, saying something to his teammate that has Pepper’s mouth in a tight line as he nods.
Landon cuffs him on the shoulder as a sign of encouragement before Whitney steps up behind them, blocking my view as she speaks to them.
“Tough job,” D-Low says, reading my thoughts exactly.
“Yeah.” I wish I knew what to tell her or how I could help in some way.
The final buzzer sounds, and there’s lackluster applause from all around the arena as the JV game comes to an end 6–0.
“I’m going to grab something to drink.” D-Low stands. “You want anything?”
“Nah.” I keep my gaze locked on Whitney. She shakes hands with the Stanton coach, then follows her guys down the tunnel toward the locker rooms.
Fuck. I feel like I just lost. Fans are standing, stretching, heading out for the break between games. I pull out my phone and open up my texts with Whitney. The last messages are wishing her good luck and now I have no clue what to say next.
I tap out several things, immediately deleting each one as soon as I reread them. I’m racking my brain for any words of wisdom. Minutes pass and still I can’t think of a single thing. I’m about to type out “sorry” and hope that’s enough when she sends me a text.
Whitney
Well, that sucked.
Relief whooshes through me at her directness and I chuckle a little.
Me
I’m sorry.
Whitney
Thanks. Are you staying for the varsity game?
Me
Yeah. We’ll be here.
Whitney
Fingers crossed this one goes better.
While I’m waiting for D-Low to return, I scroll through my other unread messages.
My dad has recently discovered reels and sends me several a day.
I watch each one—his feed must be ninety-nine percent political humor, but I indulge him anyway.
As soon as I heart the last one, my phone rings in my hand.
I put it to my ear, answering before the ringer can annoy those around me.
“Hey, Dad. I can’t talk right now. I’m at a game.”
“You don’t play tonight, do you?” It’s my mom. I don’t even bother asking why she has dad’s phone. They switch like their devices are interchangeable.
“No, it’s a local high school game.”
“Oh, how nice,” she says, and I can hear the happiness in her tone.
“What’s up? Did you need something?”
“No, well, yes. I ran into your old coach, Coach Carson, at the grocery store today.”
“How is he?” I rest my feet on the bleacher in front of me. Whitney returned to the bench and stands next to Grady as the two watch the varsity team warm up.
“Good. His wife, Wendy, just retired and they’re considering moving to Florida.”
“Sounds . . . warm.”
She hums her agreement. “Anyway, he mentioned that the high school is having a ceremony before he goes, honoring him and some of the players he coached.”
Shit. I know what’s coming even before she continues.
“And that they’ve been trying to contact you for a couple of months.” Her tone is pointed, and I swear I can feel her no-nonsense mom glare all the way from Washington.
“Mom, I can’t drop everything in the middle of the season for some award banquet.”
“This isn’t some award banquet. It’s a big deal. You’re a big deal. The school and Coach Carson want to honor you.”
“Nobody besides you and Dad, and maybe Coach Carson, gives a shit about me or my career.”
“That isn’t true! Everywhere I go, people ask me about you and how you’re doing.”
Funny, they didn’t bother asking me anything when I lived there.
Mom’s sigh is loud, even over the noise of the arena around me. “I know school wasn’t always easy for you, but you deserve to have your achievements recognized.”
I glance around at the small rink, at the kids on the ice, their classmates watching, and Whitney nervously biting on the corner of her lip as she stares at her clipboard. High school was hell. The only bright spot was hockey. I don’t need to go back to have them pretend like they suddenly care.
“Think about it, okay?” she asks, voice soft. “For Coach Carson. He was good to you.”
He was the best. He’s probably the reason I’m where I am today. “Yeah, Mom, I’ll think about it.”
“Hi!” Whitney meets up with me and D-Low after the second game. “You two didn’t have to wait.”
The arena is cleared except for parents and friends waiting for the players to emerge from the locker room.
I step to her and wrap both arms around her back loosely. “I wanted to see you before we left.”
The team heads out on another road trip tomorrow and it’ll be a few days until I can see her again. There was no way I was going to leave without talking to her.
She rests her head on my chest for a moment. “Thanks for coming. Sorry we didn’t give you more reasons to cheer. Varsity pulled off a win though.”
“I know how frustrating it is to lose, but it makes the wins all the more sweet.”
Her lips quirk up in a small, not all that convincing smile.
“Not that it helps right now,” I add.
“No, it does. Just seeing you helps.” She steps back, grin pulling a little higher before she glances to D-Low. “Nothing better to do tonight?”
“I love supporting local hockey,” he says.
“Erin is busy, and the rest of the team is spending time with family before we leave,” I tell her.
“And that.” D-Low nods.
“Well, we’re honored to be your last choice.” Whitney laughs a little, sounding more like herself. “The boys were excited. Though disappointed you saw such a terrible game.”
“Can we buy you a drink?” D-Low asks.
As usual, I’m slow with my words, but it’s what I was thinking too. Well, exactly what I was thinking was I’d like to spend all night with her, but I’ll settle for a couple hours.
“Yeah, that sounds good, but I have to hang here a bit. Grady had to leave early so I promised to stay and lock up after everyone is gone.”
“We can wait,” I say, looking to D-Low to make sure he’s cool with that too.
“Absolutely.” He stares out at the ice. “Any chance I could borrow a pair of skates before the Zamboni clears the ice?”
“They won’t do that until tomorrow morning,” she says. “And you’re welcome to anything in the supply closet. But if you get hurt on my ice—”
He holds his hands up in understanding. “We’ll tell the media it was our idea.”
“I’m not worried about the media.” She tips her head toward the locker room. “The boys would be devastated.”
A rough chuckle leaves my lips.
D-Low and I are shooting around while Whitney sees to things around the rink. Movement near the bench catches my eye. I pause and lift a hand to one of the JV players, then skate over to him.
“Hey. It’s Landon, right?” I ask him.
“Yeah.” His hands are shoved in his jean pockets and an old, ratty duffel bag is slung over one shoulder.
“Tough game tonight.”
“Been a tough season,” he says, frustration bleeding into his features.
“Heading home?”
“I’m waiting for a ride.”
“You want to hit a few?” I ask. If anyone needs to blast a few shots into the net tonight, it’s him. Nothing makes me feel better than shooting pucks until my arms ache.
He sets his bag down and steps out onto the ice in his sneakers. Without all the padding of his uniform, he looks almost too skinny, but his chest is broad like someday he’s going to fill out into a big guy.
“This is my buddy, Danny,” I say, introducing him as we approach D-Low.
“Number eleven?” D-Low asks, holding out a hand to the kid.
“Yeah.” Landon dips his chin slightly.
“You’re fast. I haven’t seen anyone skate like that since I met Shep.”
The compliment hits him unexpectedly, and Landon cracks a smile before he seems to catch himself and remembers he’s pissed. “Thanks. Doesn’t really matter if I can’t get the puck in the net.”
D-Low hands him his stick. “Let’s see what you got.”
He accepts it, then holds it out in front of him, rotating and testing it. “This yours?”
“Yep.” He nods. “I never go anywhere without it.”
“It’s nice. What’s the flex on it?”
“Eighty. I like a whippier stick.”
“Me too.” Landon wraps his other hand around it. “And the curve?”
“Custom.”
“That must be cool,” he says. “To have your pick of equipment.”
Landon is busy admiring D-Low’s stick and misses the look we share. It’s been so long since either of us thought about things like the free, customized gear that it’s easy to forget a time when we had to use whatever was available.
I pull the pucks we’ve already fired out of the net and bring them back to the center line.
“Should we see who can get three pucks in the net first?” I ask.
“You want to do a shoot-out with me?” he asks, disbelief making his voice lift higher. “Why? You saw the game. We’re crap. You’ll easily win.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain.” I take my position and shoot. The puck sails over the top of the net.
“Ooh, so close,” D-Low says with a laugh. He looks at Landon. “Let’s see you hit that crossbar and show him how it’s done.”
When Landon realizes we’re shooting to hit the top of the goal, he lights up. He gives his head a shake. “I’m never going to hit that from this distance.”
“You might be surprised,” I say, and skate back to give him room.
He takes a few seconds to set up, glances from D-Low to me, then mutters, “Here goes nothing,” before he sends a puck sailing down the ice. It goes high and right, but isn’t much farther off the mark than mine.
“Not bad,” D-Low says, and accepts his stick back from Landon.
His shot is low, finding the back of the net, but narrowly missing the crossbar.
We take turns, the three of us, until I get the first ring of the pipe. It bounces out, so it doesn’t technically count, but it’s the closest I’ve come.
Landon’s loosened up now. He looks more sure of himself, but beyond that he seems to be having fun. I am too.
“This is it,” D-Low announces as he lines up in front of the net. “I can feel it.”
“You said that the last three times,” Landon chirps back.
I chuckle. “He’s calling your bluff.”
D-Low fires, more powerful than his last attempts, and this one hits the crossbar and falls into the net. He flashes a grin my way. “Unfortunately for our new friend Landon here, he had no way to know that people telling me I can’t do something only makes me work harder to prove myself.”
“So you’d say I inspired you to hit that shot, then?” Landon asks, still smirking.
D-Low joins me, laughing at the kid. He’s a real spitfire when he comes out of his shell.
“Why am I not surprised to find the three of you still out here?” Whitney asks, stepping onto the ice. She looks at Landon. “Is your ride here?”
“Uh . . . they were running late, but I should probably check again.”
Whitney nods. “I’m happy to drop you somewhere, if needed.”
“No. That’s okay. It isn’t far.” He walks quickly to the bench and picks up his duffel bag. He shifts, not quite making eye contact. “Thank you. That was fun.”
“For us too,” I tell him honestly.
“Good luck on your season,” D-Low calls out to him.
“Thanks.” He tips his head in our direction, then turns and heads out of view.
“What was that all about?” Whitney asks us.
“Just playing around,” I say.
“I haven’t seen him that excited since the beginning of the season.” Whitney frowns.
I step forward and take her hand, threading our fingers together, while D-Low skates off to the bench and unties his skates.
“Are you all done here?” I squeeze her hand lightly.
“Yeah. Finally. Sorry it took so long. Do you still have time to grab a drink?”
“I have all the time you want.”