Chapter 11
TRICK
Between a light skate, classes, the team lunch, then study hall, then practice, I have no time to get to the UNH Coop. We file from the team study hall in the facility to the locker rooms for practice.
Checking my phone, I re-read the text from Fifi. ILYF, S. Then I run into Bog’s back.
“Thanks for the image.” I punch his shoulder, wishing he wasn’t right about coach’s proclivity to punish me.
I hurry ahead of the line and grab a practice jersey from the pile, then head to my locker.
“You in a hurry?” Bog asks as I strip off my clothes.
“Yeah. First on the ice, first off. Assistant Coach Winnick is running practice today.” I nod in the direction of Winnick at the other end of the room talking to the equipment manager.
“I thought you wanted to be the first on and last off the ice?”
“I need to go to the Coop and get a team jersey.” He looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili, so I add, “It’s for Kathleen to wear at the BC game tomorrow night.
” It’s for Fifi, but I’m not telling him that.
More fucking lies, though this one is more for my ego than any worry about Bog leaking the info to my family.
I’m not ready to give up my free and easy man-about-campus reputation.
“You should get an extra team jersey from the equipment guy.”
“I can’t do that.” I dart my eyes in the guy’s direction like he’s going to overhear us plotting grand theft.
Bog shrugs. “Why not? Sully got one for his gf.”
Sully stops on his way past us.
“Isn’t that right, Sully?”
“Whatever you say, Bog.”
I whisper, “You got your girlfriend a jersey from the equipment manager?”
Sully nods. “Tell him you ripped your jersey. Don’t tell him it’s for your gf.”
“He’ll give me an XL and it’ll be way extra big for her—I mean for my sister Kathleen.”
Sully shrugs and moves on.
Bog smirks. “That’s what you get for being a big guy.”
I flash him my middle finger and he laughs while I finish dressing.
“Who is she? Is it that hot girl who visited the rink?”
I snap my head up and frown. “I told you—it’s for Kathleen.” Tension clamps my jaw tight.
“You’re giving big secret vibes. Must be a special girl. Not your usual thing.” He nods like he knows something I don’t know. Probably does, which is not a comforting thought.
I should just tell him. “Look, Bog, I know you won’t make a big deal—”
The locker room door bangs open, interrupting me. There’s only one person who enters this room that way. Coach Zabra.
“Listen up. Today is press day. There’ll be a few reporters and photographers and the school’s TV station who want to get some good footage. Play nice. It’s mandatory.” He turns to me. “And no grandstanding. The press wants to talk to everyone.”
“You sure about that, coach?” one of the freshmen yells, followed by snickering. I don’t turn my head to see who the ballsy guy is, but I hope coach doesn’t take it out on all of us.
“Shut your fucking mouth.” He points a finger at some poor sucker, probably a freshman since I don’t recognize the voice. “My office in ten.”
I let out a breath of relief that coach doesn’t add a team reprimand. I should feel sorry for the stupid fucker because I’ve been there, but I wasn’t that stupid, so I don’t feel bad. Some guys need to learn the hard way.
What the coach does to me isn’t teaching. It’s a grudge and that’s on him.
We file out of the room after Coach finishes his non-inspirational speech. Behind his back, Bog, Sully, Van, and I call it the drag down talk and actively work at not letting the negativity get to us.
After practice I’m surprised, but in a good way, to see Fifi near the rink’s gate standing out in the crowd of reporters and photographers.
My mind immediately spins to making up an excuse for my parents about why I’m not going home again tonight—not that I need one, but they’re already teasing me about having a girlfriend, and I don’t want to add fuel to that fire.
If I’m not careful, Mom will assume I have a girlfriend, and she’ll clue in my dad. Then I’ll have to decide what to tell them when they start asking to meet her. The truth? Or make up more lies, deeper lies, a whole web of flimsy lies. Shit.
The consequences of getting involved with Fifi—no, Sofia Rossi—are falling on me too fast. But as my skates hit the rubber when I step through the gate, I school my expression to erase the scowl I know has taken up residence on my face.
The last thing Fifi deserves from me is a frown because her showing here lights me up like a puck lighting the lamp when it hits the back of the net.
“Fifi.” I nod, realizing my teammates are watching. Double shit.
Her smile might require sunglasses today, and I’m suddenly worried about the health of my retinas.
She surges forward, touching my sweat-soaked jersey as I take my gloves off.
To her credit, she doesn’t cringe. I spot the assistant equipment manager and toss her my helmet and gloves.
She catches them and jogs away to take care of the smelly items, but there’s nothing I can do with the rest of me.
“I hope you don’t mind that I came by. I didn’t realize there’d be so many people and cameras.”
“It’s press day, but don’t worry about it.
” I step aside behind a trio of freshmen who aren’t on the press’s radar, and she follows.
Someone calls out my name, and I duck. One of the young players turns to me and starts to say something, but I put a finger over my lips, letting him know to keep my whereabouts quiet.
He nods, going along, probably because of coach’s comment to me about grandstanding.
Fifi bends and whispers, “What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be talking to the press? They’re calling—”
“Not now. I’d rather talk to you.”
She grins. And then the sunshine in her expression literally disappears like a cloud suddenly decided to hover.
“What is it? Something wrong?”
“No—I mean yes, technically. But it’s not too bad.”
Wiping as much sweat off my hands as I can on my pants, I dare to get closer and put my hands on her arms—or rather on the furry pink coat covering her arms. “Tell me.”
“My parents are coming to the game and insist I go to dinner with them and Vince after the game, so—”
“No big deal.” I grin, letting go of the tension across my shoulders, nearly slumping with relief. “My parents are taking me to dinner—my whole family really. So we’ll meet up after that. You can text me when you’re done, and I’ll come over—”
“Except there’ve been quite a few social media posts of us together. Sorry—Nina can’t help herself.”
“And?”
“People on campus know we’re together.”
“And?” I say this, but my shoulders coil with tension, and I feel the sting because I’ve been holding back on my friends like I was doing the right thing, keeping us quiet.
“I’ve heard comments. Gossip. One of Ricci’s friends works at the rink, and they said they’re going to try and catch us together and put us on the jumbotron.”
“Fuck. This whole thing is so fucked up.” The words escape before I think. A glance at her expression tells me she’s upset. “Shit.” I take a deep breath and let it leak out, taking a moment. “Sorry, it’s—it’ll be fine.” I swipe my hand through my hair, scowling in frustration.
“I just thought I’d warn you. We won’t be seen together, so they can’t take our picture—”
I wave a hand in front of me, indicating the crowd of press all with cameras as we stand here together. Fuck.
Her expression goes from apologetic to unhappy as she backs away from me until she hits the cement wall.
I get the vibe that she’s unhappy with me.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, looking away from me.
“I messed up. I guess I should forget about spending the night tonight.” Her tone is more upset than disappointed.
There may even be a hint of anger there.
“Fifi, no. I’m sorry. I overreacted.” I lower onto my haunches and pull her down next to me. Noticing the freshman—Harry—turning to check on me, I give him a nod. He’s been standing guard, deflecting his friend when he turns our way. I owe the guy after this.
I turn back to Fifi and tell her straight. “I don’t like all the lies we’re telling.”
She stares at me, telling me everything I need to know without a word, her face losing its color, literally turning whiter than the ice.
“Talk to me,” I say after a beat of scary quiet because I don’t like the message I think she’s sending. She remains silent. Speechless isn’t something I’ve seen from her. She’s always been more than open, sharing what she feels and thinks—whether I’ve wanted to hear it or not.
Thinking of something to say to change her expression, I go with the first thing that comes to mind. “I have something for you.” I’m not expecting my impromptu gift to help matters, but I bought it for her, and I still want to give it to her, damn it.
“A gift?” she says as if in disbelief. “Another book of poetry isn’t going to help un-fuck this up.”
“No.” Shit. “I got you a team jersey—with my name and number on it. It was supposed to be for you to wear to the B.C. game.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?” She shrugs, looking confused. “Would have been cool.”
“I get you can’t wear it now with your parents there. Maybe you can wear it to another game.” I smile as her face softens. And for some perverse reason, my need to see her in my jersey gets stronger.
“I’m sorry, Trick. I don’t like lying either. I thought you…”
“What?”
“I thought you were giving up on us.”
“Hell no.” I put an arm around her and pull her to a stand with me, as she murmurs another apology.
“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. This is what we signed up for. You can’t control your parents' surprise visit. I’m a douche for getting frustrated about needing to keep things secret. Not that I’d go blasting it around about seeing you.”
“Right. We’re not exactly serious, are we?” Her short laugh seems forced.
I take her chin between my fingers, forcing her to look straight into my eyes. “We’re serious in our own way, but not telling-our-parents-serious.”
Her mouth curves, and the small movement is enough to open up a universe of possibilities.
“I’ll wear your jersey after the game when I go to bed at night, with nothing else—except maybe you next to me.”
“You want me to spend the night after the game? It could be late.”
“Will you?”
“You have to ask? I was kind of hoping to come over tonight. To give you the jersey.”
“You have to ask?”
I close in, dipping my head to steal a kiss. The velvety feel and sweet taste of her mouth draw me in—
“Jennings, where the hell are you?” Coach’s loud voice booms over the din of multiple animated conversations.
Harry immediately steps aside, probably out of fear, and I immediately step in front of Fifi, blocking her from view.
“Right here, coach.” I move forward, and Harry, without my prompting, takes my place blocking Fifi. I don’t know how much of our quiet conversation he overheard, but he’s earned my respect and a puck-load of gratitude.
“I owe you, man,” I whisper as I move forward to take an interview with a guy holding a microphone and standing in front of a TV camera.
Noticing it’s not the campus TV station, and that all eyes are on me, reporters holding out their phones and recorders, I shift gears faster than a wing on a breakaway and get into hockey business mode.
But in the back of my mind, I’m thinking I’m going to have to suck it up and ask—no, beg—the equipment manager for an extra jersey as soon as this media circus is over.