Chapter 36 Skate For Something Beau
Skate For Something
Beau
I’ve never felt more out of my depth than I do standing in the middle of the borrowed gym, watching JJ try to teach hockey players how to dance. I glance at my watch again, wondering where Celeste is.
He claps his hands and shouts, “Again! On beat this time! Remember, hips, not shoulders, Dev.”
In a twist that surprises nobody, Dev is doing neither. He’s standing with his arms crossed, shifting from one foot to the other.
Beth is filming with tears in her eyes, trying not to drop her phone from laughing. “This is going to break the internet in the worst way.”
“That’s the point,” I mutter, but I wipe my clammy palms on my track pants.
JJ spins toward me and bows with a flourish. “Beau, you’re not exempt. Get your pretty-boy ass over here and hit the chorus.” That boy is getting way too comfortable around me, his captain.
“He’s right, Beau. How are you ever going to make it up to my sister if you don’t step up your game?” Celeste finally saunters in, slinging her purple duffle bag on the floor. She tilts her head to the side to study the catastrophe that is my team.
“Weren’t you supposed to be here ten minutes ago?” I ask.
“Weren’t you supposed to not be an asshole? I seem to recall describing to you, in great detail, what I’d do to you if you hurt my sister.”
Fuck, she’s right. “I’m sorry. Thanks for coming, Celeste.”
“That’s better.” She claps her hands, turning to face the crooked lines of hapless hockey players. “Cut! This is all wrong. Way too complicated for your untalented asses. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
She fires off a list of instructions, then does a full-speed demonstration followed by one a sloth could keep up with.
“That’s the plan. Now I’m going to go through it with you step by step.
Hopefully, you can wrap your hockey-playing brains around it.
” Hail opens his mouth as if he’s going to protest, but Cole shoves his shoulder into him, and he thinks better of it.
The routine is intentionally simplified. An artful remix of some trending dance mashed up with old-school choreography and some hockey moves that shouldn’t work but do. Celeste is unsurprisingly a genius at this.
Stumbling through the first run, I trip over JJ’s foot, and almost end up in Dev’s arms. But he saves me with a smirk and a hand on my elbow. It’s humbling.
“At least you’re better at this than cooking,” he offers.
“Not a high bar.” But maybe something I can work on while I’m embracing new skills.
We go again. This time, I sort of hit the beat. Cece would be proud. Or horrified. Probably both. I’ve never been one to put myself out there for intentional humiliation, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do at this point to prove myself to Luna.
JJ lights up. “This is going to be iconic.”
We break around sunset. Everyone’s got sore limbs and flushed cheeks. We’re exhausted and sweaty, but also excited and hopeful.
I hang back to help clean up, folding chairs and collecting empty water bottles while JJ keeps practicing the steps. He’s going to show me up at the event, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Keep piling on the embarrassment.
Beth pauses on her way out, tossing me a Gatorade. “This was a good idea, Beau.”
Cool drops splash my face when I catch the bottle. “I don’t recall suggesting a dance routine. In fact, I’m pretty sure I vetoed it from the beginning.”
“Yes, but you resurrected the scrimmage. You charmed the rest of us into participating, and you did learn the dance. I thought you were going on my permanent shit list. But if you pull this off, and perfect your grovel, I might give you a second chance. You did something good here. And regardless of what happens between you and Luna, you should be proud of yourself.”
I don’t have a response to that. At least not a good one. I’m not great at receiving compliments. Don’t have too much experience.
So I offer a quiet, “Thanks,” as I twist the cap and try not to let it hit too hard. Try not to let my hopes soar too high.
Beth said I need to work on my grovel, and she’s right. But the thought of putting my intimate thoughts and feelings out there for everyone to dissect is terrifying, so here I am.
The logical part of my brain says there’s nothing intimidating about this place. But that doesn’t stop my palms from getting sweaty, and it doesn’t slow down my heart rate. That’s all I need. To have a full-blown panic attack in the waiting room of my therapist’s office.
I glance around the room looking for something to focus on. The smooth fabric of my slacks, the cool blues and purples in the painting of a flower garden on the wall, and the smooth hum of the elevator moving up and down are enough to bring me back into myself.
The wooden door to her office swings open, and she gives me a smile. “Mr. Whitaker, you can come in now.”
Up until now I’ve done all my therapy sessions online, so it’s strange to see her face. She’s got a tidy brown bob of hair that hits her chin, and kind brown eyes behind blue cat’s-eye glasses.
“How are you doing today?” she asks after I settle into the chair.
“Good.”
She doesn’t say anything. Folding her hands on her desk and waiting for me to fill in the space. I thought I was good at that trick, but I’ve got nothing on her.
“I’ve been working with all the hockey players to get the charity scrimmage back up and running.”
She nods. “The one you were planning with Luna?”
“Yes.” I lean forward on the couch, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the carpet. The quiet in Dr. Patel’s office is comfortable but not soothing. Not today. But I needed to come in and see her in person. This is that important.
“And are you concerned the event won’t go well?”
I drag a hand through my hair. If only that were it. “No, I’m sure it will be fantastic. It’s the speech I’m planning to make. I keep going over it in my head. I keep rewriting it. Obsessing over it. I’m afraid I’m not going to be strong enough to do it when the time comes.”
Dr. Patel nods once. “What comes up when you imagine actually giving it?”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Panic. Mostly. Like… heat behind my eyes, tight throat, that feeling like I’m about to fall through a trapdoor.”
“Sounds like a strong physical response.”
“Yeah. Like I’m going to screw it up. Say the wrong thing. Or not even be able to get the words out. Or that my words will be splashed all over the internet. Ridiculed.”
She studies me with no judgement, only compassion. “What’s the story your brain’s telling you about that outcome?”
I lean back a little, trying to focus on the feeling of the smooth leather chair supporting my back. “That if I mess this up, it’s proof I never should’ve tried. That I’m not cut out for this… vulnerability thing. I don’t deserve her.”
“Have you had to be vulnerable in public before?”
I give a half-shrug. “Not like this. I mean, I’ve talked to my sister.
Cece. And I’ve been trying to be honest with my roommates, even with Coach.
But this is different. It’s Luna. And it’s a speech.
With people watching. In person. Online.
This means something, and I don’t want them taking that away from us. ”
She pauses for a moment as if she’s absorbing the words. “What’s the goal of the speech for you?”
“To tell her the truth. Not just about why I disappeared. About all of it. That I was scared I couldn’t step up and live my dream. That I didn’t think I was good enough to choose her and still live up to my promises to my father. That I’m still trying to figure out who I am.”
She nods. “So, it’s not just about winning her back. It’s about telling the truth.”
“Yeah.” I study my hands. “Even if it’s too late.”
“That sounds like growth, Beau. You’re moving from outcome-focused to values-focused. You want to show up with honesty and integrity even if you don’t control the result.”
Somehow the therapist babble makes sense. “Not how I would have put it, but yeah.”
“You mentioned panic. Let’s think about tools for managing that. What’s helped you before in high-pressure situations?”
This one I’ve got. “Breathing. Focused breathing before games.”
Dr. Patel smiles gently. “That’s a good start. Another thing that can help you get through a difficult moment is finding an anchor. A physical object to remind you why you’re doing this. Tactile grounding is useful in emotionally intense moments.”
I need something that reminds me of her to get me through this. Is there something, anything? “I still have her bracelet. She left it in the glove box. I was going to give it back that night.”
“Perfect. Keep it in your pocket. Touch it if you feel yourself spiraling. And remind yourself this isn’t about the crowd. It’s about her. And about you finally saying what matters.”
I reflect on that, nodding slowly. The tightness in my chest hasn’t disappeared, but the pressure has shifted. There’s still fear. But underneath that there’s something steadier. Something like resolve.
“And remember,” she says, “you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be honest. Vulnerability is not a performance it’s a practice.”
The night before the event, I’m pacing around the outdoor rink more anxious than I’ve ever been to play a hockey game. This is so much bigger than just a game, though.
JJ’s up on a ladder, zip-tying a disco ball to the faded scoreboard. The decorations are a little chaotic. A little messy. Which is probably why it feels exactly right.
“Are we sure this won’t fall and concuss someone mid-scrimmage?” I ask.
JJ pauses, considers. “Define sure.”
Not helpful.
Dev’s setting up lights around the perimeter. Cece is sitting on an overturned milk crate, sketching a last poster that says Skate for Something in a colorful graffiti art style.
Everything is in motion. The ice is smooth. The signage is posted. The dinky old community rink has been cleaned and repaired to give it a second life.
All that’s left is Luna.
I scroll through my texts, then lock the screen before I can do anything stupid. I promised not to reach out. This has to come from the people she trusts.
A buzz hits my wrist. It’s a group chat alert from Operation Soft Launch 2.0, which Maisie created against my will.
Maisie: We’ve got her.
Beth: Took some guilt-tripping, light manipulation, and Celeste giving pitiful eyes, but she’s coming.
Maisie: As a thank you, I’ll require a one percent finder’s fee from your Whitaker family trust fund.
I let out a half-laugh, half-sigh and stare at the rink. The sun’s dropping low, casting gold across the boards, lighting up the rough edges like they’re meant to be there. Maybe the rough edges are the ones that help you learn. I exhale and rub the back of my neck.
“This isn’t about winning her back,” I say out loud, mostly to myself. As if I can convince myself it’s the truth.
Cece, still sketching, doesn’t even look up. “Sure you’re not.”
“Seriously. I just need her to know.”
Because yeah, this isn’t about grand gestures or dramatic confessions. It’s not even about forgiveness.
It’s about proving to her, to the team, to myself that I can show up when it counts.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough to start building something real again.