Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s late October and although I’ve seen Miguel most days he’s home, it’s usually with some combination of family, friends, or team members present.
He’s been busy with games and I’ve been burning the midnight oil, getting things ready for the salon’s grand opening in less than two weeks.
The Knights have a home game and the wives and girlfriends are especially excited because the Ice Maidens have put together a spooky season performance between periods. I get dressed, pulling on Miguel’s jersey as usual, even though we’re not official.
I find Mama waiting by the door, gripping a broom. In Italian, she asks, “What are you supposed to be?”
I glance down at my shirt. “Um—”
“Signora Cruz, I presume?” she asks.
I wince. “I think that name is taken.”
“By Carlotta? No, tonight, we’re wicked witches.” Mama cackles.
Sounds about right. “Only tonight?” I mutter.
When we get to the arena, the Zamboni driver prepares the ice dressed as the Headless Horseman.
On the Knights’ side, there are an equal number of fans dressed in Knights gear as there are people dressed in full costume—a few as hockey legends but most as ghouls, zombies, and other typical Halloween fare.
The fans of the Reno Rebels are mostly in team merch.
The game is fast-paced, with Beau blocking every goal the visitors attempt. But our guys don’t make any either, even though it’s a treat to watch Mikey out there.
I’ve been coming to hockey games since I was old enough to sit through one and always admired the skill required to do three things at once: skate, defend or attack a goal, and avoid over two hundred pounds of force attempting to slam a player into the boards.
But it wasn’t until I fell in love with Mikey that I saw just how attractive guys kitted out in uniform, savages on blades, and waving sticks could be.
Well, just the one. I only have eyes for him. Like right now. I blow him a kiss and then go feral when Welter from the Rebels tries to body-check him.
The two get into it with gloves coming off, but the refs intervene and they both go to the penalty box.
During the break before the third quarter, goose eggs are still on the scoreboard.
The arena abruptly goes dark and streaks of glowing neon dart across the ice as spooky music broadcasts.
The Ice Maidens appear through the haze of a smoke machine.
Everyone gets excited as they do a quick performance and then throw candy into the crowd.
It’s fun, but it brings to mind the strange incident with the smoke machine at the shop not long ago. There hasn’t been anything else suspicious and I wonder if some kids were bored and figured they’d prank the new business in town.
I have a brother and he was best friends with Mikey, who has four brothers and never has any of them done something to me so rascally and random, at least not that I know of, so they’re not suspects, but who could it be?
The Knights come into the third period fierce. Beau is on his game as usual, but the Rebels play dirty, trying to handicap the home team with checks and hits rather than skill.
Apparently, our guys don’t appreciate that and instead of playing dirty back, they get deadly. I’ve never seen a group of hockey players move so swiftly or skillfully. They’re a veritable blur as they streak across the ice, almost like ghosts.
You see Hayden Savage, the right-winger one minute, then he vaporizes and is somehow at the other end of the rink the next.
Redd is on offense and then disappears to play defense.
All the while, Mikey hustles, but I can tell he’s conserving his energy.
I’ve seen him play enough to know when he shifts from fourth gear to fifth and I anticipate it in three, two, one.
The guy is unstoppable as he performs a hat trick—scoring three times on the Rebels with less than twelve minutes left in the game.
The fans are in a fervor and I am too, screaming myself hoarse because the MVP tonight is mine.
I want to give him a post-game kiss, but don’t get a chance because they have to leave almost immediately to travel to an away game ahead of a storm up north.
The next day, it’s after dark and I’m unboxing supplies for the salon when I receive a fruit bouquet, also from Mr. Sensational. This is great timing because I’m starved.
Strawberries are out of season, but they’re delicious even though I stab myself with the skewer.
Mama must’ve heard me curse in Italian under my breath.
She chides, “Young lady.”
“Sorry, Mama.”
Her eyes light up when she sees the spray of fruit. “We were going to do these for your wedding.”
“At the time, I thought it was a good idea.” Rubbing my finger, I’m glad we called it off so none of our guests, young or old, got stabbed in the eye.
“Where’d it come from?”
I shrug, but I have a hunch and he’s over six feet of pure muscle, hockey tough, and has a weakness for Rice Krispies Treats. I’m still working on my pumpkin pie recipe, but I’ll make him some of those for when he gets back.
Mama riffles through the cellophane wrapping and says, “A card to Junie.” Unlike my friends, she breezes past boundaries and reads it first. “From your secret admirer.”
My cheeks warm and my heart flutters. Mikey doesn’t know this yet, but he’s already won me back.
Mama grunts. “He’s going to have some competition at Thanksgiving.”
“Who’s having what?”
“Your secret admirer is going to have some competition with Mikey,” my mother repeats slowly as if I’m dense.
I squint, trying to understand, but despite her speaking in Italian and me using English, there’s no language barrier. “Do you mean we’re having Thanksgiving with the Cruzes?”
“Carlotta and I have been planning the meal. Of course, there will be lasagna, but I’ve come across several corn-based dishes that we may enjoy, including polenta.”
Reflexively, I say, “We can’t spend Thanksgiving with them.”
“Of course we can,” Mama says as if that’s final.
“What about the food fight or the time the boys put gummy worms in the green beans or—?” She used to say the Cruzes were ruiners—much like the Roman Empire—especially of holidays, birthdays, and special events.
It never made sense that we’d spend them together when things would routinely go so wrong, but it was like the moms wanted to prove that they could be the one to rise above it and make things perfect—or see the other one crash and burn.
Her gaze softens and she says, “Being mad and hating someone isn’t the same thing.”
I stagger, thinking about this for a moment, when I realize she and Carlotta have fully reconciled. I no longer have to play offense or defense between the families.
The feud is over, which means Mikey and I don’t have to choose sides or be loyal to one or the other. We can be to each other. Be together.
A sigh escapes at the same time as my mother makes a splatting sound, like the kind a little kid would do by sticking their tongue out of their mouth and blowing. Only, no, she’s crouching on the floor.
The sound comes again and I whip around as eggs fly at the windows of the salon. Forget the angry old man shaking his fist at kids who ride their bikes across his lawn. I fly out the door and start chasing the car down the street, but it speeds away.
I glimpsed the Nebraska license plate but only committed the first two numbers to memory—six and two.
I’m about to call the police, but Mama insists we consult Armando—Mr. Cruz—first.
As if I’m a kid being dragged to wherever my parents want me to go, an hour later, I’m sitting at Miguel’s kitchen table with a plate of day-old spaghetti in front of me. I don’t care what anyone says, the dish is better the next day. Italians know this.
Four of the five brothers are embodying Don Corleone and his mob thugs right now, even though they’re half-Mexican. They speculate, question, and crack their knuckles.
“Quite honestly, it sounds like something you guys would do,” I say, referring to the brothers’ shenanigans back in the day.
Charlie clutches his chest. “Ouch, Juniper. That hurts. Have a little faith.”
Paulie says, “We wouldn’t sabotage our own worksite—or you, despite the fact that you broke our brother’s heart.”
My cheeks match the tomatoes on the counter because I am so in the wrong right now that I want to crawl under the table. Considering recent events, it also feels like I have egg on my face.
Undeterred, they confer about the details of what transpired.
“They think they can try to run us off the block?” Mr. Cruz says, New York accent thick.
“They want to drive us out of town?” Joey adds.
Tony says, “We’re not going to be threatened.”
“When did my hair salon become a group enterprise?” I ask.
“We’re family,” they all say at the same time.
I shrink in my seat a little because they didn’t feel like family after Mikey and I called off the wedding. After Dad died. Or was I the one who pushed them away?
The slouch goes deeper as they discuss the egging and I fixate on the family comment.
Although Mikey made it clear where his loyalties were, they never turned away from me.
No, I distanced myself from them. In much the same way, I knew Papa’s dream for us was home ownership in a nice town, they’ve always known that I wanted to have my own salon.
And here they are, showing up for me without question.
My bad. My very, very bad.
Gumming up courage in the face of five fierce men and two fiery mamas, I say, “Guys, I’m sorry for being—”
They shake their heads without letting me finish, dismissing a need for an apology like it was no big deal and they’ve already moved on.
The door flies open and a sweaty Miguel fills the frame as the October wind whips behind him. His shoes are untied and his eyes are wild. “I came as fast as I could.”
Searching the room, his gaze lands on me and his shoulders lower on an exhale after he sees that I’m okay.
Mr. Cruz says, “Everything is under control, son.”
“Tony texted and said, Family meeting.”