Chapter 3
IT’S A HARD-KNOCK LIFE
Winter
When my shift at Boones finishes, Tracey Lynn gives me a six-pack of fritters to take home. She’s aware that my family’s financial situation isn’t the best. Staying anonymous in a small town is tough, and while charity can be a hard pill to swallow, food is a gift I can’t and won’t say no to.
I strap my hockey bag to my bike and pedal to the laundromat. There’s a washing machine at the cabin, but it’s broken, and getting someone to look at it costs fifty bucks. So until I teach myself how to fix a washing machine, this is my plan. I’m used to that anyway.
As I empty the bag into the washing machine, I discover a hole in the bottom, which explains how I lost my skate this morning. In a way, I’m lucky BJ found it. Otherwise I’d have to use money from my secret tuition stash to buy a new pair.
It’s already closing in on five thirty by the time I get home.
I have a message from my mom that she’s staying to work the dinner shift at the diner.
She used to work at the one in Lake Geneva, back when we were living in the trailer park on the edge of town, but it’s too far to bike all the way there, so she works at Tom’s Diner in town now.
She’ll be exhausted by the time she gets home.
Last night she and my dad were arguing until well after midnight, and then I accidentally woke him up with the toaster oven this morning, so she ended and started her day with his bad mood. It’s not uncommon, but it still sucks.
I hang most of the laundry on the line, then head for the deck so I can drape the rest over the railing.
The cabin is perched on a bluff, and the railing is the only thing between me and a two-story drop to the moss-covered rocks below.
It’s wobbly in places, and most of it needs replacing, but it’s a huge step up from the trailer park where we sometimes have to live.
Technically, I can move out if I want, since I’m nineteen, but my part-time job helps with bills my parents won’t be able to cover otherwise.
I do the dishes from this morning so the sink is clean, then make myself two peanut butter sandwiches, scarf them down, and make a third to take with me to the arena.
When everything else is taken care of, I hop into the shower to rinse off. It’s kind of pointless since I’ll get sweaty all over again on the way to the arena, but the novelty of having our own shower hasn’t worn off yet.
Even though a helmet and hockey gear don’t scream sexy, I rim my eyes with dark liner, throw on a coat of clear mascara, and rebraid my hair.
By the time I’m finished, it’s closing in on six thirty.
The bike ride to the arena takes about twenty minutes.
Rose messaged half an hour ago asking if I wanted her to pick me up.
But that would mean giving her my address, and I don’t want her to see where I live.
Not now, probably not ever. So I tell her I’ll meet her there.
She responds with at least half a dozen gifs ranging from excitement to a girl shoveling popcorn into her face. I think I’m going to like Rose.
I grab my hockey gear from the railing. It’s still damp, but it’ll have to do.
I make sure the hole in my bag is covered with a piece of cardboard before I jam in all my equipment and my single skate.
I find my stick and secure it all to my bike with bungee cords.
I’m about to head out when my dad’s rusted-out Buick comes chugging down the driveway.
The driver’s side window is rolled down, and a cigarette dangles from his yellow-stained fingers.
We can barely afford basic groceries, but there’s always money for smokes and beer.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Dad steps out of the car, an open can already in his hand. I’m sure he cracked it once he was off the main drag.
I bite back a sarcastic response, since I think it’s obvious, and tap the end of my stick instead. The tape needs replacing, but I ran out last week and haven’t had time to pick up more. “I got invited to play with some friends.”
“The lawn needs to be mowed.” He chugs his beer, throat bobbing as he drains the can, and tosses the empty toward the recycle bin. But he misses, and it rolls under the deck.
“The mower needs oil. I’ll pick some up on my way to the arena so I can take care of it after my shift tomorrow.” That was not at all my plan, but I don’t want my dad to hijack my night with more household chores. And if I tackle the lawn now, I won’t make ice time.
For the first time he looks directly at me. His eyes narrow and his nose wrinkles. “What the fuck is on your face?”
“It’s called eyeliner.” I internally cringe at my patronizing tone. My dad’s sharp tongue is something I’m accustomed to, but I’m not always immune to the sting.
“You look like you belong on a stripper pole.” His gaze rakes over me, pausing at my bandaged knee.
“Except no one would pay money to see you without clothes since you’re built like a boy and you act like one too.
” He pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket and taps one free.
“Pick me up a pack of smokes on your way home.” He turns and walks away.
Our life would be a hell of a lot easier if my dad’s vices didn’t eat half his paychecks.
I shake off his shitty words and push away on my bike. Once I’m on the dirt road that will take me to the arena, I allow the excitement to set in.
By the time I reach the main road, I only have twenty minutes to get there, and it’ll be faster to take the road instead of the trail.
I pedal hard, gaining speed as I race down the hill, needing momentum to get up the next one.
My thighs burn as I downshift, pushing hard to keep my speed from waning.
Once I reach the top, it’s downhill and then flat for about a mile or so.
I’m a few miles from the arena when the hum of an engine signals a vehicle approaching from behind.
I hug the edge of the asphalt, not interested in taking another tumble today.
A familiar metallic blue Jeep passes, giving me extra room.
The brake lights flash, then stay lit as the Jeep comes to a stop in the middle of the road.
My stomach does a flip as I slow my approach, hitting the brakes and dropping my foot to steady myself as I reach the open passenger-side window.
BJ’s hand rests casually on the steering wheel. His smile is easy, eyes warm. “Hey, Winter. This seems like divine intervention once again. You on your way to the arena?”
I arch a brow. “Divine intervention is a bit of a stretch since this is the only way to get my skate back.”
He taps the steering wheel, grin widening. “I would have brought it to Boones for you tomorrow if you didn’t show tonight. You want a ride the rest of the way?” He points to the roof. “I got a bike rack. It’ll only take a second to clip it in.”
I bite my lip, considering. Rose seems nice, and BJ seems genuinely apologetic about almost hitting me today. A ride in will save my legs and get me to the arena on time. Plus he’s damn nice to look at. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”
“Great.” He inclines his head toward the shoulder. “I’ll pull over.”
“Sounds good.”
BJ pulls ahead, puts the Jeep in park, and hops out as I detach my hockey bag. While he secures my bike on the rack, I toss my bag and stick into the trunk alongside his. I follow him to the passenger side and am momentarily perplexed when he opens the door. Then I realize he’s being polite.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” I’m not used to guys with manners.
He grins, his smile both disarming and lopsided. “No problem. Hop on in.”
I climb up and settle into the passenger seat, breathing the scent of his cologne and something vaguely cinnamon-y as I fasten my belt.
BJ rounds the hood and waits while an approaching truck passes before he takes his place behind the wheel.
“Thanks for the ride.” I run my hands down my thighs, feeling awkward.
“It’s my pleasure, and I owe you after this morning. I really am sorry.” He gives me a chagrined smile and checks his mirrors before he pulls onto the road.
I steal furtive glances, checking out the pretty art decorating his right arm.
“How’s the knee and the road rash?”
“It’s fine.” I washed and dressed it all after my shower. My knee is banged up, and the back of my leg is raw, but it’ll scab over in a day or two.
He glances at me before refocusing his attention on the road ahead of him. “Fine is usually what people say when they’re the opposite.”
“I play hockey. I’ve had worse injuries.” I tap the scar on my chin and change the subject. “So is BJ short for something?”
He grins. “It is.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “You gonna tell me what it stands for, or am I supposed to guess?”
His smile widens. “Depends on whether you want a direct answer or the fun of trying to figure it out.”
“Should I assume your parents aren’t assholes and it isn’t short for blow job?” I slap a hand over my mouth, wishing I could shove those back in my stupid word hole.
BJ throws his head back and laughs. “You would be correct. My parents aren’t assholes, and you aren’t the first or the last person to say that, so you can stop being mortified. I hang out with a lot of hockey-playing dudes, and their brains reside in their jockstraps.”
I chuckle, shifting in my seat so I’m angled toward him. “Okay, does the J stand for Junior, or is it a hyphenated name?”
That earns me another lopsided grin. “Well-played. The J is for Junior.”
“Okay, cool. Well, that narrows things down to names that start with B. What about Brad?”
“Nope.”
“Brent? Bill? Bernard? Bobby?”
“All nopes.”
“Bartholomew? Brandon? Brayden?”
He shakes his head.
I continue to lob B names at him, but none of them hits the mark.
He tosses me a hint. “Remember I said I spend a lot of time with hockey players.”
I tap my lip. “Oh wait! Is the B your last name, not your first?”
“You got it.”