by Julie Cross
Dad’s forehead wrinkles. “Who?”
“Steller,” I say, keeping my voice low. He’s dropped out of school, working three jobs, about to be a father, and is barely staying afloat. Jody was born while my dad was still in college. Maybe Mike doesn’t have to give up everything. “He’s got more talent than Jamie and Leo combined. Can’t you work something out for him? There must be some kind of family housing at SMU—”
“Can’t do that,” Dad cuts me off. “I’d lose my pull around here. Everyone’s pissed at Steller.”
“But—” I argue.
He’s looking over his shoulder now, making eye contact with another Otter alum. He flashes a grin and then turns back to me. “I’d better go hang out with Jamie’s parents some more. They’re almost ready to crack.”
I can’t stay in here and listen to Keith Tanley the Great stories on top of hearing everyone’s advice and warnings about next game. I storm out of the tent and stand in front of the bonfire. My phone is blowing up in my pocket. I pull it out and read a group text from Claire about O’Connor’s staying open later on game nights. Dozens of responses follow her text. I glance sideways at the O’Connor’s booth and then shut off Leo’s voice inside my head. My feet move on their own in her direction. This isn’t going away anytime soon; might as well stop fighting it.
Chapter 15
–Claire–
I hate the way my stomach flutters when Tate approaches the booth. My body is betraying me. The carnival is in full swing now, live music, bonfire, people everywhere.
“Hey,” he says, giving me that smile again. The one that’s still younger Tate and yet it’s morphed into something sexy and dangerous.
I nearly drop the paper plate in my hands but manage to get the walleye horseshoe to the customer. I keep my gaze focused on the cash box while I’m placing seven dollars in it. “Hey…”
“So, I got your text—”
“Right,” I say. “I sent that text to everyone.”
Why did I have to point that out? Like I’m covering up something.
“I figured.” He looks right at me, so direct and purposeful, like when he’d spotted me in the bleachers at the end of the game. Except much closer. “So what’s that about?”
I stare at Tate’s hands, resting on the counter of our booth. “Uh, yeah, late-night hours. Thought it might be a good thing on”—the catcalling gets louder and I trip over my words—“game days—I mean nights.”
Ron, a linebacker for the football team, and Kyle Stewart, one of Tate’s teammates, walk closer.
“Nice costume. What time do you hop up onstage and give us a weird little jazz-hand show?” Ron winks, and the grin on his face turns my stomach.
Kyle coughs back a laugh. “I hardly recognize you without your gang of misfits.”
“Misfits?” I ask.
He waves a hand toward the choir kids who Mrs. Stevenson is leading in a candlelit version of “O Holy Night.” I performed the same song two years ago.
“I hardly recognize her without the back of Pratt’s head in her line of sight.”
On the counter, Tate’s fists are now clenched. Today is a terrible day for these idiots to mess with me. Especially after that therapy session with Dad, the call from the hospital billing office…I need someone to blame for all the bad.
I fold my arms over my chest. “I’ve learned a lot about brain injuries over the past few months. You know what happens to people who take too many pucks to the head?” Both of them snicker at this, and it only fuels my fire even more. “They end up with permanently flaccid male anatomy. There’s a nerve in the brain that connects to the—”
“Claire,” Ned says quietly. “Break time?”
The immature asshole hockey/football players act like I’ve just been called to the principal’s office. I toss my apron onto the ground and exit the booth.
I move quickly away from town square, down the block. I reach the movie theater, which only shows hockey films during the season, and push open the door before diving inside. Leonard, who runs the place, is absent from the ticket and snack counter, probably to join the carnival while a movie is playing. God, it felt good to snap at them, but I need to get my head on straight before I go back to the booth. Ned was right. It is break time for me. Unfortunately, the more I lean against the wall, replaying that interaction, the more pissed off I get. Like I need to punch something.
I only get a second to myself before Tate walks in, looking around for me.
“God, I hate this place!” I push off the wall and pace around the theater lobby. Standing still isn’t helping. “I hate the stupid ice sculptures, the special varsity hockey tent that’s heated. What the hell is up with that?”
Tate approaches me slowly.
I point a finger at the door. “You know what that is out there?”
“A carnival?” he guesses.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, still fuming. “It’s nothing. And Stewart and Ron? You know what they are?”
Tate nods. “I can think of a few adjectives.”
“They’re future DUI holders,” I snap. “In fifteen years, they’ll be living paycheck to paycheck, stumbling out of O’Connor’s at closing time after a long night at the alumni table, driving snowmobiles to work because their license got suspended. And then our wonderful town will give them a special award on the stage at the carnival with all the kids looking on, proud and ready to be them in twenty years.” I glance at Tate, who opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off again. “It’s so stupid. Caring about this stuff, making it important when people can…they can just—people have bigger things to worry about than a high school hockey game. Some people—” I can’t finish. The lump in my throat is too big to speak. I don’t want to fall apart. I’d rather be pissed off. I need to be pissed off. We should all be pissed off.
“Hey…” Tate moves closer, like he might touch a hand to my shoulder, but I must have seemed freaked by this because he stops right in front of me. Unlike me, Tate speaks softly, calmly. “You’re right. Fuck them. I’m over it, too. Who cares what anyone thinks?”
He looks at me with those big green eyes, his forehead wrinkled. I take a deep breath that seems to pull me closer to Tate; my feet shuffle a few inches in his direction. He lifts a hand and I follow it as he reaches out and rests it on my arm. Just the weight of it heats my skin, even through my jacket and sweater. “I’m sorry I haven’t asked if you were okay. I should have asked. Things were so weird between us that all I could think about was—”
I place a hand over his mouth to stop him. He looks so genuine and stressed. I can’t listen to more of this guilty speech. I’m full of a million different kinds of guilt from my dad’s situation and from what happened with Tate and his dad last fall; watching someone else suffer the same fate is too much. So much for misery loving company. “Consider yourself forgiven.”
“Thanks.” He exhales, his fingers still wrapped gently around my arm. “Have you seen him tonight? My dad.”
My muscles tense at the thought of running into Keith Tanley. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure of bumping into him. Not since last fall.”
“He won’t remember that night,” Tate says in a rush. “He never remembers—”
My eyebrows shoot up. “So it wasn’t just a onetime thing?”
“No,” he admits. “But it was really bad that night.”
I nod slowly, trying to reassure him, but inside I’m thinking, God, this is not okay. I look him over and watch his hand drop from my arm. I step closer and slide my fingers along the silver tie around his neck. “You look so grown up.”
The seriousness vanishes from his face. His mouth quirks up in that sexy half smile he’s recently developed. “Yeah?”
Another step closer. My heart picks up speed. He smells like smoke from the bonfire—one of my favorite scents. “And you’re taller than me now.”
“I noticed,” he says, dropping his voice to almost a whisper. “Claire?”
�
�Hmm?” My fingers are still gripping his tie.
“Last year…” He takes a breath. “I hated seeing you and Pratt walking off somewhere alone.”
His gaze is so intense I’m momentarily speechless, caught up in this haze of Tate and his perfect words. But then… Wait— “You saw us?” I mean, I was pretty sure, but when he looks down at his feet and nods, the idea is cemented. “Did you tell anyone?” He lifts his head, worry all over his face, and I know. God. I suck in a deep, frustrated breath and reword my question. “Who did you tell, Tate?”
To his credit, he looks me right in the eyes and says, “Haley.”
“Haley,” I repeat with a nod. “That’s great. Just great. Why the hell would you tell Haley? I know I didn’t give specific directions not to tell anyone, but seriously? I can’t think of any possible reason for you to tell her.”
That smell…the campfire. It’s bringing me back. Except things look different now.
“Haley was at my house that night.” Tate lifts a hand, rests it on the back of his neck. “Jody called her when she found out about my arm, and she came over. She and Jody waited up for me. When you didn’t drop me off right away, I didn’t want her to think…”
I blink a few times. “Think what?” I put myself back in the car that night and try to untangle this mystery.
“Claire,” I hear Tate say. He looks all serious again. “Promise me something?”
“What?”
“Promise you won’t settle for any guy who doesn’t think you’re perfect.” He drops his gaze to his hands. “Because you are. Perfect.”
My eyes widen. I turn to face the windshield, uncomfortable with where this conversation has gone.
“I mean perfect for someone,” Tate corrects, clearing his throat. “Sorry. That was weird.”
I release a nervous laugh and look over at him. “Probably the pain meds talking.”
He scratches his head. “Yeah, probably.”
“Nothing. There was nothing for Haley to think.” Color creeps up Tate’s neck. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have told her. It was stupid. I’m sorry, Claire.”
My heart bangs against my chest. I’m not sure I want the truth. I’d rather blame someone else, but still, I press him further. “I don’t get it. You walked into the house at two in the morning with a broken arm, Haley was there waiting, wanting to make sure you were okay, so how did Luke Pratt end up in the conversation?”
His eyes roll upward, toward the ceiling. “I just—I felt guilty, I guess. Maybe over nothing. I mean, I knew she was waiting for me. Jody texted me while we were at the ER. So I told Haley that Luke was an asshole to you and you were upset and needed to talk.” He looks at me again, squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “I’m sorry.”
I stare over his shoulder, my breaths quick, erratic. Tate told Haley that I needed his help. After I kept all his secrets. And she believed him. If there was ever a reason to knee someone in the balls, it would be this.
“I think…” Tate says, slowly, carefully, “that I wanted to be there with you. In that car. More than I wanted to be with Haley and—” His eyes meet mine. “And that’s why I felt guilty. You were leaving, and I needed things to be okay with Haley. I needed her back then. It was confusing, and that’s not a good excuse, but—I’m sorry, Claire.”
My desire to punch something fizzles out with his confession.
“So you—” I stop and then start again, barely able to hear myself speak over the pounding of my heart. “So back then you…had a crush on me?”
He nods. “Immensely.”
My breath catches in my throat, sticking there along with any words I may have thought about uttering.
Tate releases a nervous laugh. “Can’t believe I just admitted that.”
The banging in my chest grows louder, faster. I lift a hand, resting it in his hair. When our eyes meet again, his face is inches from mine. His gaze drifts to my mouth.
I shift my hand to his cheek, then to his tie, sliding my fingers down it. He really does look so much older, so much like…like someone I could kiss. For real.
But the door to the theater opens and Leo pokes his head in. I drop my hands from Tate’s tie and take a giant step backward as the cold air whooshes between us.
“There you are,” Leo says, sounding relieved. “Dude, we gotta do the ceremony thing.”
Tate peels his eyes from me. “Huh—oh, right. The ceremony.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He looks so disoriented.
I’m expecting him to take off, but he angles himself in a way that blocks Leo’s view of me. Between us, his fingers brush mine and he leans in to whisper, “You can be mad at me—you probably should be mad. But I really am sorry. If I could do it over…”
I swallow the lump in my throat and then give his fingers a squeeze. Relief fills his face before he turns around to follow Leo back outside.
My body falls back against the wall. I cover my face with my hands and groan as loud as I can. It helps. A little.
On my way back to the booth, I smack right into Haley. My face heats up just seeing her, knowing… Ugh.
“Shoot, sorry, Claire!” She bends over to pick up the event program she dropped on the ground, and when I get a good look at her face, she’s all red-eyed, mascara messed up. Her eyes widen, seeing my reaction. She sweeps a thumb underneath her eyes. “I’m a mess, right?”
I grab a paper towel from our booth and wet it with a few drops from my water bottle. Haley holds still while I fix the mascara issue. “Everything okay?” Did you happen to walk past the movie theater a few minutes ago?
“Yeah, I guess.” She shakes her head. “It’s just Tate…and the game… I can’t talk to him and I can’t stop that I love him; he needs my help feeling, either, so basically, I don’t know what to do.”
She loves him.
My insides twist with guilt. But why? I didn’t really do anything wrong. Suddenly it becomes clear why Tate lied to Haley last year. Until now, I hadn’t realized how guilty you can feel from…not what actually happened but what didn’t happen. Because I wanted it to happen.
Want. Present tense.
Chapter 16
–Tate–
ME: want to hang out?
Six hours later and Claire still hasn’t replied. If I could take that text back, I would. I thought that’s where things were headed after last night. I thought— It doesn’t matter. Instead of hanging out with her, I’m staring at my parked snowmobile, trying to figure everything out. The door swings open and my mom appears in the doorway.
“Why aren’t you calling your dad back?” she demands. “He said he’s been trying all morning.”
“Huh.” I turn my attention to the tools on the floor in front of me, pretending to search for the perfect one. Behind Mom, Roger is working his way into the garage with two huge raccoon traps.
“I’m not playing middleman between you two,” Mom says. “Be a grown-up, Tate, and call him back. He wants you to come for a visit. I think that’s nice. He’s been there a year and you haven’t been down yet. Any college visit is a great opportunity.”
I sigh. “I just don’t have time, okay?” Then I play to her pushy academic side. “You were right, junior year is hard. And now that I’m taking Steller’s place…”
Her shoulders drop an inch, her face relaxing. “But why not communicate this to your father? He works for a college, surely he’ll understand.”
Yeah, right. “I tried.”
“Fine,” she concedes. “I’ll talk to him. During the holidays you’ll visit, got it?”
I shrug, not committing one way or another. This seems to satisfy her. For now at least. She heads back to the house and Roger enters the garage and places the traps in the corner.
He pauses by the door, turning back to me.
“Have you seen Mike Steller recently?” Roger asks. “I ran into him at the Stop and Shop the other day.”
Since he walked out of the game, he means to say, I�
�m sure.
“Uh…” I dip my head to wipe at an imaginary smudge on the side of the snowmobile. “Not exactly.”
“Bakowski really did put a ban on seeing Mike,” Roger says, not as a question, so I don’t respond. Then he adds, “You know, I doubt anyone over at the trailer park pays attention to people coming in and out. I bet Mike worked all night and is probably there now…waking up soon.”
It took a while for word to get out about Mike being the father of “that pregnant girl over at the trailer park’s” baby, but since his big exit from the game, pretty sure everyone is now in the know. And it’s another reason to shun him.
I chance a sideways glance at him. Is he really doing this? Telling me to go see Steller? Is something wrong? All I do is mumble, “Good to know.” But later, after Roger’s left the garage, I pull out my phone and punch in a text.
ME: want to hang out?
Unlike with Claire, I get a reply within twenty seconds.
MIKE: sure. U got a death wish?
I laugh. Apparently I do.
ME: be there in 20
...
“Don’t move a muscle,” Mike directs me. “Listen. Watch.”
I’m standing behind a homemade goal the little kids in the trailer park built for the pond close by. The second Mike stepped a skate onto the ice this afternoon, all ten or so of them in their beat-up skates went wide-eyed and cleared out quick. I don’t know if they were starstuck over Mike or if it was more out of fear of the new town outcast.
Mike skates toward the goal. His puck-handling is smooth and fluid for someone who’s been a goalie for years. “Tell me where my shot is headed.”
I lift my glove, bringing it toward my face. I’m feeling vulnerable all of a sudden even though I’m behind the goal, with the net between Mike’s shot and me. But I’m not in full gear, only skates, a glove, and a helmet. Mike—who probably hasn’t had a ton of recent shooting practice, considering he played goalie—is about to launch the puck somewhere.
“Don’t move!” he reminds me.
