12. Mason
MASON
The Verona High arena was half the size of our home rink, but it was packed out with Viper fans.
The Hawks had been given only a sliver of seats, barely enough to hold the three busloads of supporters who’d come along.
There might’ve been fewer of them, but they made themselves known, stretched out from behind our bench, cheering, screaming and wearing red, white and gold.
After one period, they were a sea of frenzied spectators who were bloodthirsty for a win, especially against Verona.
But even with the entire student body shouting for the win, there was only one set of eyes that mattered.
My father stood at his seat. The flailing bodies of other fans never came too close, unless asking for an autograph, as if his space was carved out from the foundations of the arena.
Calder took his spot on center ice for the second period face-off.
My father’s blistering focus drove me to the center line, to my wing position on Calder’s left.
Electric energy arced between the six of us on the ice.
The Verona wing skated to a harsh stop, showering the red line between us with ice shavings.
Ryker glared at me, lips twisted in a snarl, his face mask doing little to diminish the intensity.
There’d been no greater satisfaction than handing him his ass in the first period in front of his home crowd.
Hawks were up 1-0.
The ref held the puck before speaking to Calder and the Verona center with the whistle in his mouth. He blew the whistle at the same time he dropped the puck, and showing why he’d been voted MVP for the past two seasons, Calder swept the puck back to the left wing and we were on the attack.
Flying down the ice, Calder passed to Erik, who spun, slammed the player covering him into the boards and ditched the Verona defenseman trying to stop him to catch the pass, then buried it in the back of their net.
The satisfying swish of the net and goal horn sounded within the first minute of the period.
Stunned silence filled the arena until it broke out into Hawthorne Prep chants.
Maybe our goal had snapped the two-time state champions back to reality—that what happened last year wasn’t repeating itself.
Calder and Erik grinned at me. A savage attack was never beneath us, if that was what it took to win.
The Verona center passed Ryker the puck, and Bourne, our other defenseman, blocked him hard, but Ryker kept possession.
With Ryker distracted, I sped toward him from behind and didn’t slow my speed until the satisfying smash of his body against the boards. But his shot hit the back of the net.
2-1.
Despite the whistle signaling the penalty, I felt no remorse. Not even with the twist and pinch of my hand inside my glove.
The slam against the glass snapped the world behind the clear wall into focus. In slow motion, I took in all the Verona High spectators wearing their green and white. All except for one. She sat in line with the rest of them in a black coat and yellow scarf, like a bumblebee visiting a field.
Lilah. A small electric pulse arched through me between breaths.
She wasn’t here to see me. She was here for Ryker, nestled in with the rest of the Verona Viper fans. She’d come to watch me fall. Watch me fail.
I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
My two-minute penalty was worth it. I downed my water while keeping my gaze locked onto the ice, if only so I didn’t scan the crowd.
Ryker was subbed out almost the entire time I was in the box.
I took off my glove and shook out my right hand below the line of the boards.
With a grimace, I flexed and bent it, trying to stop the cramping, tightening my fingers against my will.
Not now, not with my father and Lilah here on a game that would prove we had what it took to take Verona down.
The penalty timer ticked toward zero. I shoved my hand back in my glove, yanked open the door and sprinted out of the box.
With the clock counting down to the end of the period, Ryker raced me toward the open puck.
And from my left, a massive blur, slamming me against the plexiglass and the Verona center.
My hand was pinned between the glass and his teammate’s helmet.
Pain radiated through my newly pieced-together fingers.
A whistle sounded.
Erik recovered the loss and, flanked by Calder, got to the net. The siren sounded and light spun above the Verona net.
Ryker skated away to the penalty box with a satisfied grin.
And then the period was over.
3-1.
We all filed off the ice and into the locker room. I should’ve seen the center coming. Stupid move. I clenched my fist and pain shot across my palm.
My father stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes boring into me.
I kept my eyes locked onto the coach and stopped myself from massaging my hand.
On our walk out of the locker room, my father gripped the back of my neck and pulled me in close. “The hand?”
I opened and closed my fist at my side, ignoring the ache at the base of my palm running to my wrist. “Won’t be an issue.”
His mouth twisted. “See that it’s not.”
The next period was a stalemate with six penalties between both teams, but we kept the lead with turnover after turnover.
Guys were subbing in and out constantly.
No one wanted to lose this game.
My hand tightened even more, but I couldn’t ask to be subbed out.
Turns out I didn’t need to.
On a breakaway with the ice in front of me wide open, I shot toward the Verona goal.
A spasm of fiery muscle tightness clenched my hand.
My stick slipped from my grasp and I dove after it, ending up in a heap against the wall.
The pain of crashing paled in comparison to fucking up in one of the most important games of the season.
I could feel the blinding stab of disapproval from my father as I scrambled to my skates.
A hush in the crowd was split by cheering from Verona fans.
Coach shouted at me to get my ass over there and I was out. On the team bench. Instinctively, my eyes shot to my father’s seat in the stands—his carved position at center ice. Empty.
I made it to the cleared spot on the bench and scanned the stands. His suited back marched up the last step to the lighted exit without a backward glance, the flash of his phone against his ear. Was he calling Bair? Maybe telling him his other disappointment of a son had fucked up.
I slammed my stick against the bench, wishing it would shatter in my hands before yanking my gloves and helmet off and tossing them onto the rubberized floor. I dragged my hand through my hair, legs bouncing up and down, slush puddle of ice melting onto the floor.
With my father gone and no blur of the game to keep me focused, there was nothing else to distract me from Lilah.
I couldn’t stop myself from looking at her. Two women sat beside her, and they exchanged words, but she might as well be sitting alone. The arena was empty to me. None of the other faces mattered.
Lilah sat on the opposing side, right behind the bench.
She wore orange headphones like she was showing up for her aircraft carrier job in her spot behind Ryker’s team, squeezing them tighter against her head when the Hawthorne side of the arena erupted in celebration at the sound of the final buzzer.
Boiling waves of emotion rolled through me.
The Hawthorne Hawks had beaten our national championship-stealing rivals in a matchup people touted as a rematch for the finals last year. We’d re-cemented our supremacy on the ice. And my father had left. He didn’t care about the Hawks winning, only me. I had to be the best, always and forever.
Verona players skated by us for the good-game line-up handshakes.
I’d expected a shoulder check from Ryker, but he kept it civil. Was it to seem like a good guy to Lilah? A good guy who hadn’t done a damn thing to protect her. She should never have been here, let alone at that party. What kind of asshole let his girl go to a college party without him?
The Vipers made it to their side of the ice, and Ryker rushed to her all over again. A live reenactment for my viewing torture.
I needed to look away.
He squeezed her tight and picked her up.
I had to look away.
She laughed.
And I stared like I’d lost my mind, maybe trying to grind the sharp edges of this image into my head. Truly understand it and not let stupid, weak feelings run my life anymore.
Look away!
He rubbed his face against Lilah’s cheek before setting her down. Not as intimate as it looked from the video angles I’d seen. More like a wet dog shaking itself over an unsuspecting owner.
Then there was a blur from his side. Another girl ran up to him and flung herself at him before kissing him. He sunk both hands into her hair as they attacked each other’s mouths.
Lilah stepped back, smiling and talking to an older woman, who she helped down the last couple of steps from the stands. They were feet from Ryker. Lilah had to see this.
Tunnel vision took over with Lilah at the other end.
The other girl hung on Ryker. He tucked her hair behind her ear before kissing her again.
Lilah stood there and laughed with the woman who had to be Ryker’s mother.
Realization crashed into me, almost sweeping me away in a tidal wave of elation only to be followed by the rip current of regret. The rush of it all blared in my ears, drowning out everything except my heart thundering like I’d been forced to do sprints until my legs collapsed.
Lilah and Ryker weren’t together.
The images etched into my brain of them on the security cameras. Their laughter. Their closeness. Their touching. Had I been wrong? Had my father been wrong?
Without my father’s voice grinding glass in my ears and shooting pellets of humiliation my way, the clarity of the whole thing sharpened into focus so clear my eyes hurt.
Calder clamped me on the shoulders, face bright red with sweat dripping from his hair, as wet as if he’d stepped out of the shower. “We won. Why the hell do you look like you totaled your damn car?”
Not my car. Worse, so much worse. A hole punched straight through my chest and filled itself with twisted, jagged shame and guilt.
From across the ice, Lilah looked up, like she could sense the intensity of my gaze.
She locked eyes with me before slicing her gaze away.
An intense primal need to fix this flooded me. Fix everything. Skate across the ice, throw myself at the glass and kneel before her filled with every sorry that had ever been uttered inside my own head. And none of it was good enough.
Ryker’s family enveloped her and they filed out of the arena.
Galen stepped in front of me, breaking my full body lock. “Time to go.” His tone was as somber as his face.
In the locker room, celebrating took on a fevered pitch. We’d won—even with my fuckup, we’d beat them by two. The rematch we’d all been salivating for. But I couldn’t think of anything beyond getting changed and out of the arena as quickly as I could.
Tripping over my shoes, gear hastily tossed into my duffel, I burst out the doors and into the parking lot, wildly scanning for Lilah.
The Hawthorne Prep buses pulled away from the curb, and students hung out the windows, shouting, screaming and cheering when I hit the pavement.
Ryker and half his team spilled onto the lot and into the awaiting cars of friends and family there to console them, but I didn’t care about anyone there. Only one person.
Lilah waited, leaning against the side of a car, rubbing her temple.
I took a step toward her then froze.
Ryker’s mother came over and put an arm around her before guiding her toward the car.
She shouldn’t have been here. She should be at home resting. Following the concussion protocol the doctors had laid out for her.
I hated Ryker even more now, knowing he wasn’t with Lilah. She wasn’t his girlfriend, but he still needed her to show up at his games and cheer for him when she’d been in the hospital a month ago. Selfish prick.
A maniacal laugh escaped into the night air, drawing a few glances.
Like I was any better.
The people around her blocked Lilah from my view like a shield trying to protect her. I wanted to run to her, explain everything, beg her to understand, but even in my mind, the words weren’t enough.
It could never be enough.
I had to make it enough.
A replay of every fucked-up thing that was my fault when it came to Lilah ran through my thoughts. The way I’d turned the school against her. Lilah being at that party and getting hurt. How I’d fucked with her in the sewing lab every chance I got to steal a little bit more of her peace.
I dragged my fingers through my soaked hair, teetering on the precipice of losing my shit.
Our whispered conversations, and how I’d used them to turn the first months of her senior year into a nightmare.
I bent, bracing my hand against the team bus, trying not to puke.
Ryker opened the rear door of the driver’s side for his girlfriend and then jogged around to his passenger side.
Lilah climbed into the passenger seat of Ryker’s mom’s car.
I stood, muscles locked, unable to move.
Galen banged his duffel against my side. “You okay?”
Lilah’s eyes locked with mine in the side-view mirror. She dropped them, her silhouetted reflection turning away from me.
She’d never forgive me. And I couldn’t blame her.
Emotions collided in my chest—anger, self-loathing, disgust—all pointed straight at me.
“No, I’m not okay.”