Off the Ice (Juniper Falls)

by Julie Cross

  I’m stuck on the drunken-kiss issue when Haley walks toward me, her nose bright red from cold, a giant card and pen in her hands.

  “Want to sign the card for Claire O’Connor’s family?”

  My stomach drops. My heart speeds up. “What happened?”

  “Davin O’Connor caught a cold.” Kennedy snorts beside me. “That’s what happens when you run around naked in thirty degrees.”

  Haley gives him the death glare of all death glares. “Shut the hell up, you insensitive prick.”

  I can’t even process this argument because I need to know more. “What happened?”

  “Claire’s dad is back in the hospital,” Haley explains. “He’s got some kind of infection. They flew him in a helicopter to the Mayo Clinic last night.”

  Feeling even more nauseated, I stumble away from my group and the line I’m supposed to be in, ignoring Haley’s card. I grasp my phone in one hand, staring at the screen, trying to figure out what to say to Claire.

  No wonder her mom was yelling her name like that last night. It had sounded urgent, but I think I’d dismissed that part as my own panic at us getting caught.

  No wonder she never texted me last night.

  I sigh with relief that Davin’s alive. That Haley’s card isn’t a “sorry for your loss” card.

  ME: I just heard. I’m so sorry. Pls tell me if you need anything.

  We’re stuck standing outside the movie theater for twenty minutes before it’s time to start the parade. I’m just about to hop on our giant float covered in JFH green and silver when she replies.

  CLAIRE: ok

  I try to read something about her state of mind in that two-letter answer but come up empty.

  The head of the Women’s League walks up to me and my teammates before our float has started moving. “How much time do you boys need to get ready?”

  “Ready for what?” I ask at the same time Jake says, “Five minutes, tops.”

  Haley elbows me in the side and whispers, “The shoot-out, Tate.”

  The shoot-out? Oh…the Otters Past and Present shoot-out. I didn’t even think about it. Of course someone has to be goalie. Jesus, that means—

  I lean sideways, looking around. Two floats up from ours is the alumni float, and sure enough, my dad’s old letter jacket with the number sixteen on the sleeve is clearly visible.

  “He’s got gear to put on,” Leo answers when I don’t speak up. “Probably ten minutes, right, T?”

  I nod. “Um, yeah, sure.”

  “Don’t look so excited,” Kennedy says from behind me. “Only the entire town will be watching. I’m sure the alumni will go easy on you. Especially considering all the trouble you’re having with your hand.”

  I spin around to face him, my forehead wrinkled. “Nothing is wrong with my hand.”

  “Oh.” He fakes surprise. “I thought that was the reason all the pucks keep sinking into the net above your shoulder. Figured you couldn’t lift your glove hand or something. Guess you just suck.”

  Obviously Kennedy Locust has a death wish. I should report him to a hotline or something so he can be put on suicide watch. Luckily my teammates are up here with me to keep me out of trouble.

  But Jake is whispering to Haley. Red is too busy accidentally bumping into Leslie and then pretending to save her from falling off the float. I glance back at Leo, and he quickly looks away from me and out at the crowd.

  “Look.” Kennedy elbows me in the ribs, then points to Jake and Haley. “Someone’s stealing your girlfriend…”

  “She’s not my—” I stop mid-sentence when I see Haley poke Hammond in the side. He flashes her a grin that clearly says, I’m thinking about you naked.

  “And there’s the game changer,” Kennedy whispers. “You don’t want her, but you can’t let someone else have her. That’s so cliché, Tate.”

  “You know what?” I say to Kennedy through my teeth. I do my best to fake a smile and wave when we pass the Spark Plug, which has the biggest crowd out in front, probably due to the hot coffee and pastries. “I think you need to mind your own fucking business.”

  “Do I?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be smart?” I step closer and stare down at him. I’m a whole head taller. “This is about the stupidest thing you could do right now.”

  An arm shoots out between us. I turn around and Leo is shaking his head.

  “Dude, enough.”

  It takes me several long seconds to realize that he’s talking to me. He’s shaking his head at me. How is he not ready to toss Kennedy onto his ass on the street?

  ...

  “Listen,” Leo says while we’re huddled near the goal. “Happy is pushing seventy. Don’t need to worry about him scoring.”

  Lewis Happenstein, aka Happy, is one of the oldest alumni in town. I lean out of the huddle and catch Happy at the other end of the rink, his gray hair patchy and wild, his skating still smooth and sharp but slow. His knees are clearly shot. I swallow back a gulp of nerves. If Happy scores on me, I’ll never hear the end of it.

  “My dad’s been training,” Hammond says. “His slap shot is still game.”

  The seats in the ice rink are quickly filling. The cheerleaders are standing across the first row of bleachers leading chants. Tons of people have signs with numbers they’re cheering for, either supporting the alumni or the current Otters. In this famous yearly shoot-out, no one cheers for the goalie; no one thinks about the goalie unless he screws up. Except, with me in full gear and everyone except the alumni goalie in regular clothes, no pads, I feel more visible than I’d like.

  “Tate, what about your dad?” Cole Clooney, our only freshman, asks.

  My mouth goes dry. Dad is laughing with Rhett Hammond, all while tossing a puck from the end of his stick and catching it there. Everyone in our huddle waits for my response. I shake my head. “I’m not…I’m not sure.”

  “Then let’s assume the worst, okay, T-Man?” Leo looks right at me, like he’s trying to read my mood, to see if I’m on my game or not. Technically this is supposed to be for fun, not high pressure like regular season games and playoffs. But already, I’m sweating, my stomach in knots, my head working way too hard despite all Mike’s advice. Maybe I’m freaking out over nothing. I mean, this is supposed to be fun, right? If I screw up during the shoot-out, that shouldn’t be grounds for a town lynching, right? No college scouts. Aside from my dad, of course.

  “Pratt’s gonna score,” Owen Jensen states flatly. Then he glances at me and adds, “He’s playing juniors. No one will expect you to beat Pratt.”

  Leo gives the guys some pointers on Ricky Stone, the alumni goalie, who is under thirty and played college hockey for four years. He’s probably decent.

  Coach Bakowski, who’s playing referee today, blows his whistle, signaling that we should get into positions soon. Leo loses the toss and the alumni choose to go last. The Otter radio announcer is miked up, his voice booming through the arena, introducing our first shooter, one of our senior forwards, Ryan Colter. His shot is rushed and Stone easily stops it. Boos and cheers erupt along with the scoreboard lighting up.

  0–0

  Happy uses the door to get out onto the ice, instead of climbing over the side like everyone else. The crowd claps and whistles for him. He takes his time circling the ice, waving while the announcer gives us his history and stats from back in the day. My stomach flips and flops so many times I lose count waiting for him to actually take a shot. When he does, the doubts fall away. I drop to my knees and let the puck bounce off my pads back out onto the ice. Happy surprises me by skating up and holding out a hand to me. I remove my helmet and glove and shake his hand.

  “Leave it to Happy to keep things family-friendly at the annual Past and Present Otter Shoot-out,” the announcer says. “Next up for the Otters is sophomore Owen Jensen, playing in his first shoot-out…”

  Owen makes a decent attempt at his shot but comes up empty. After him, Larry Jones is announced. I block Larry’s sho
t almost as easily as Happy’s. Then Jake pulls off a shot I’ve never seen and sinks it into the net. All the young people in the crowd explode with cheers and wave their #37 signs.

  “That’s where it’s at!” Leo shouts.

  The scoreboard changes showing: 1–0.

  “And next let’s welcome our state senator Mr. Rhett Hammond, who is about to showcase what happens when hockey players take desk jobs.”

  Rhett Hammond gets into position at center ice, and I’m feeling pretty good about my chances of blocking him. But when I anticipate the slap shot Jake mentioned, he makes a quick turn and taps the puck right into the net. I spin around staring at it, shocked.

  “And the Hammond family seems to have the scoring bug today! Too bad we’re out of Hammonds.”

  Rhett skates past me, grinning big. “With age comes wisdom, son. Never underestimate the power of a good setup.”

  I glance over at the bench, holding my hands up as if to say, What the hell? Jake slaps a palm to his face and then mouths, We got played.

  I shouldn’t have let Jake’s insight influence me, but all I could think was slap shot and…well, yeah, we got played. Before I can even fully process this, the scoreboard changes to say: 1–1. Then my dad is at center ice.

  “Playing is his third Otter shoot-out as an alumni,” the announcer says, “going head-to-head with his own flesh and blood, let’s welcome the man stolen from Juniper Falls by the Wolverines and then the Hawks, someone who loves the game more than anyone I know…Keith Tanley!”

  He gets the loudest cheers thus far, and he takes even more time than Happy did to soak it all up. Watching everyone yell for him, wave their signs, whistle, seeing that cocky grin on his face like he’s got no doubt I’ll fall short, I get pissed off all over again. It’s like there’s boiling water inside me, the same as when Ron and Stewart started talking shit at the carnival. The tension ripples down my body, and when my dad finally takes his shot, I dive to my right and snatch it up with my glove.

  When I pull myself upright again, Dad is only a couple of feet away, so I can clearly see the smirk drop from his face.

  “Oh! What a catch by young Tanley! This is the future of our town, folks. Looks like knowing your competition has its advantages.”

  I’m breathing hard, my pulse pounding. Dad snatches the puck from my glove and stares me down. I can’t tell if he’s pissed that I blocked his shot or surprised. All I know is that I want him to go back to center ice and do it again. And again.

  “It’s been well over a decade since the alumni have seen defeat in the annual shoot-out, but this could be the year for our young players.”

  The score remains 1–1, even after Leo takes his shot and another alumni from after Dad’s time takes his turn. Cole Clooney had been shoved to the last spot just in case we closed the deal early and didn’t need him. Positioned at center ice, his back to me, Cole looks really small.

  “Is it me, or are these new Otters getting more scrappy every year?” the announcer jokes.

  My helmet is off, so I get a clear view of Cole leaning forward then taking off with such speed and precision, it’s obvious we’re seeing another Jake Hammond type in development. When Cole sinks his shot, our entire bench erupts. I almost rush over to join the celebration, but Pratt hops onto the ice and I’m back in the game.

  “You go, little man!” Jamie shouts from the first row of the stands where he and a lot of the other guys are watching.

  “Okay, now that was a surprise! I think the young Otters put in a ringer.” The announcer turns to Coach. “Got anything to say about that? Freshman in the annual shoot-out? What’s next? Grade school kids? Girls?”

  A lot of laughter follows that, along with some boos.

  “Former Otter, State runner-up, and leading scorer for his junior team down south in some state we can’t remember because who cares…?” Several people shout Arizona at the announcer, who seems to be enjoying the drama. “Wearing his former number twenty-one jersey is Mr. Luke Pratt!”

  I snap my helmet into place and dig my skates into the ice.

  “A score here will tie things up, and we all know what that means!”

  “Round two!” the crowd yells.

  “The last time we went into round two was 1986.”

  All I can think about when Pratt skates at me is Claire leading him up the steps, his hand in hers, his filthy gaze roaming up and down the back of her…and her red eyes later. I shake the thought from my head and focus on Pratt’s shot. I skate forward, farther from the goal, anticipating his move.

  He surprises me with a late shot. The puck heads for the goal, over my shoulder. I turn around and throw my body in front of the goal, feeling the puck smack against my chest. I come down hard on the ice, half my body inside the goal, the other half outside of it.

  Bakowski blows the whistle, sharp and short, before skating toward us. He stops in front of me, ice flying through the holes in my face mask. He rolls my body halfway over, revealing the puck beneath me. The entire arena is quiet. I blink, trying to get rid of the stars flashing in front of my eyes. I hit the ice pretty hard.

  Bakowski straightens up and gives a signal to the announcer.

  “No goal!” the announcer says, getting a huge response from the crowd. “Tate Tanley has morphed into The Flash and actually succeeded at being in two places at once. I need to see a replay of that amazing save! The young Otters take the shoot-out victory for the first time in years!”

  I get to my feet and take off my helmet, only to be rushed and knocked over by Leo, Jake, and the other guys.

  “T-Man!” Leo thumps me on the back. “What the hell was that?”

  As a tradition, the winners of the shoot-out get to throw pie in the face of the losers. Cole is paired with Happy and instead of pieing him, he hands it over and Happy scoops a chunk of cherry pie, offering it up to Cole. Rhett Hammond snatches the pie before Leo can shove it in his face and throws it at Pratt. “You were the money shot, kid; what happened?”

  Pratt shrugs, like he doesn’t care, but he looks as embarrassed as my dad. Leo steals my pie, and a food fight breaks out on the ice. Finally Bakowski uses his whistle to stop us, and the announcer calls the shoot-out over.

  “And let’s hear it for our goalies today! They had to stay on the ice the whole time.” The voice of Otter radio looks over at me. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m putting my money on Tate Tanley getting us to State this season; who’s with me?”

  I think it’s supposed to be a peace offering to the town who’s been freaking out since Steller walked in the first home game, or maybe a snub at Mike. But I catch Mike’s dad, glaring at the ice, and then he storms down the bleachers and heads out of the arena.

  My dad puts up a front, like he’s happy I didn’t screw up, but every time he looks my way, the grin is gone. I don’t care what he thinks or what he may have expected me to do, I’m done hanging out in his shadow. In fact, I hate his fucking shadow.

  “Let’s hear it for our father/son duos,” the announcer says, shoving Dad and me beside each other, along with Jake and his dad.

  “Pratt went easy on you,” Dad whispers to me. “So did I. You’re gonna have to step it up.”

  I stand there holding perfectly still, my muscles twitching to move, to break something or throw something. But I don’t.

  “Bakowski says you’re a head case,” Dad continues. “He can’t push you like he needs to.”

  Finally, I turn to face him. “Thanks for the encouraging words.”

  “You need to know, Tate. You’ll thank me later.” He skates away and waves at the crowd.

  The excitement from earlier is long gone. I glance over my shoulder and catch Clooney ducking his head, suddenly very interested in his stick. Did he hear any of that?

  Pratt hadn’t gone easy on me and neither did my dad. But knowing this doesn’t make things different. My dad being selfish and insecure offers me no security or comfort at all. Quite the opposite.
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  Chapter 24

  –Claire–

  Severe encephalitis is rare but not unheard of.

  It could be the result of a viral infection or his weakened immune system.

  We’re treating him with anti-viral drugs and steroids.

  The conversation floats around me like a dream. My neck is stiff and angled funny in this hospital recliner, but I can’t seem to wake up enough to convince myself to move.

  Encephalitis…

  His brain is swollen.

  Finally, I gain enough consciousness to open my eyes and stretch. My mom and Uncle Ned are standing right outside the room, in the brightly lit hallway of the hospital. Dr. Weaver—the woman who removed Dad’s inoperable tumor—is beside them, her long white coat dangling in my line of sight. Another doctor, probably a doctor-in-training, is next to her, and they’re taking turns speaking.

  It took three days, a helicopter flight, and four very scary seizures to be able to say the word: encephalitis.

  I glance over at Dad, my insides tensing at the amount of tubes and cords surrounding him. And the ventilator. Uncle Ned is right; he hates that thing. He was on one right after brain surgery and in what little speech he was able to produce after they removed the device, he basically said, Never again. And here he is again. A tube jammed down his throat, a machine expanding and deflating his lungs.

  I want my dad back.

  After wiping the drool from my face and smoothing down my hair, I get up and pat Dad’s hand before joining everyone in the hall. I heard them while I was sleeping. I wonder if Dad can hear them?

  Uncle Ned smiles when he sees me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Hey, Princess. You ready to go back home with me yet?”

  He’s been asking me that for three days and I keep saying no. He and Aunt Kay have been taking turns watching the bar. I’m pretty sure Ned basically closed down his towing business to help out this week, and no one in my family can afford losing even one day’s work. But I keep thinking if I leave, something bad will happen.