by Sara Hubbard
“He was kind of awesome,” Brad says. “He gave us an excuse to say ‘fuck’ all the time.”
“But that’s not how you say it. It’s almost the same, but there’s a difference.”
“Yeah, but to us, he was Mr. Fuck.”
“Poor guy. That’s a very unfortunate name.”
“What’s with the date?” Brad asks. Turns out he didn’t know what it meant after all.
“I don’t know,” I say solemnly, shaking my head. I fire up my laptop and wait for the homepage to load. “My source told me the date, and that was all he’d say.”
Brad clucks his tongue. “Fuck told you that?”
“I can't say. But it doesn’t seem like you'd be surprised if he did.” I pull out my phone and plug it in. My battery died on the way home, and I’m sure I have a dozen calls missed from Mom and probably my sister, too.
“Fuck hated athletes,” Brad says. “More than once he tried to get guys on the team suspended for shitty grades.”
“Isn’t that standard policy at schools? If you can’t make the grades, you don’t get to play, right?”
He wraps his arm around Emily, and she nestles in tight. “Sure, I guess. But in the policy, it said it was up to the teacher. If the teacher saw improvement or knew someone was getting help, they could waive the suspension on us. A guy from my baseball team overheard Fuck giving a teacher a hard time about it. Pretty much told her if the teachers didn’t start cracking down on athletes and grades that they’d lose their positions.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“What a prick,” Emily says. “He ever try to get you suspended, baby?”
“More than once.”
“What about Ozzie?” I ask.
He frowns, and though he wants to resist answering, I guess the topic of Fuck pisses him off enough to open his mouth. “No way. Ozzie was a fucking A student.”
“Huh.”
“You seem surprised?” Brad adds. “You don't think jocks make As?”
I sigh before turning my head in his direction. “That’s not what I said. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
His face softens, but only a little.
“It’s cold in here.” Emily cuddles him a little closer. Is she talking about the mood? He grabs the blanket at the bottom of the bed and pulls it up over her legs.
“Mr. Fuck didn’t like Ozzie much,” I say. “Is that just because he was on a team?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. But then…”
“What?”
“Nothing. It's none of my business and certainly none of yours.”
“Please, Brad. I won’t put any of it in a story. I want to know, for me.”
When Emily elbows him, he rolls his eyes, but he also starts talking. “This stays in this room?”
I nod. “Of course.”
“You can trust her, Brad.”
He sighs. The look on his face says he doesn’t trust me at all. But it doesn’t stop him.
“Ozzie didn't come from money—at least, not like the other guys at our school. Not sure how he got in—scholarship, I’d guess, but I don't think Fuck liked it. He was always after him in the halls. Picking him up for stupid shit. Oz couldn’t walk past his office without Fuck telling him to cut his hair, or tuck his shirt in, or pull up his pants. It was noticeable. I could have stood next to him with my shirt unbuttoned, wearing flip-flops and shorts, and he'd pick on Oz, but not me.”
“I don't get it. Ozzie is such a nice guy. There’s something I’m missing. Something big. It must be about what he did to get community service.”
“I don't know anything about community service. The guy I knew was quiet, and he studied a lot. He didn't seem like a criminal to me. Personally, I think it’s bullshit. Probably a rumor.”
“Were there rumors about him in high school?”
Brad uncrosses and crosses his feet. He stares at me. “I don't spread rumors.”
“That's fair. Rumors suck.”
“Yes, they do,” Emily agrees.
My phone beeps as it turns on.
I quickly read a message from Ozzie.
Practice tonight. Call you after.
I ignore the message for now. Once I have Google open, I tap in the date Fuck gave me in the search field. There are millions of hits for that date—as I suspected there would be. I tap my pen on the desk while I think. I narrow the search down to Nova Scotia. I mean, how much headline news could there be in a small province in one day? Over eleven million, that’s how many. I add his name and there is nothing. Just for shits and giggles, I add his first name only. And there are seven. Now we’re getting somewhere.
I suck in air as I bring up an article in a newspaper from the town of Clements. My head snaps in Emily’s and Brad’s direction, and they look at me curiously. A boy who looks like a young Ozzie is on the front cover with tears in his eyes.
Chapter Eleven
Brad and Emily spring from their seats and surround me. Emily’s cold hands grip my shoulders. Damn, she’s freezing! I can feel her fingers through my shirt. But the chill fades the longer we stare at the screen.
“Fuck me,” Brad says in a whisper.
“Oh, my God,” Emily adds.
Yes. Fuck me and oh, my God. They've taken the words right out of my mouth.
“It’s got to be him,” I say. I let out the breath I’m holding.
“It looks just like him, though it says his name is Clayton Harley.”
The image is of a fourteen-year-old boy being held back by two police officers as he tries to enter a burning house. A look of sheer terror and dread claims his face. His eyes are wide and his soot-covered face is streaked with tears. No matter if Clay and I stay together or not, I won't forget this face. Not for as long as I live. Nor will I be able to remove it from my mind each time I look at him.
His parents, David and Sophie, his younger sister Hannah, and their family dog all died in the fire. The only survivor was Clay. The hairs on my neck stand on end as shivers walk up my back. My stomach rolls with nausea. I can’t imagine what he must have felt. Or how he could ever get over such a tragedy. I don’t think I could.
“We had family days and he never came,” Brad says quietly. “I thought he was like most of the other kids, had parents too busy to come, or just sent their kids away to have someone else raise them. I never knew… That’s fucking awful.”
I slump back in my seat, still staring at the young, devastated boy. I run two fingers across my lips, thinking. What do I do with this information? I can’t ask him about it or he’ll know I looked into his past. But I can’t ignore it either. Nor can I ignore that he might have been a criminal, though given that this happened to him, I can understand why he might have acted out or done something he shouldn’t. My heart is breaking for him right now. Never would I have thought a caring, sweet man like Ozzie could be someone who survived such a traumatic event. Sure, he’s secretive, and that isn’t surprising if he has a criminal history, but this? He's emotionally available, though he claims he hasn’t had a lot of relationships. Maybe this is why. Something like this would mess me up forever. I would never be the same. He doesn’t fit what I would imagine this boy to be as an adult.
“You’re quitting the story, right?” Brad says, an edge to his voice.
I nod. “I said I was.”
“Not quitting the story that idiot editor wants, but quitting it all together, right?” Emily adds.
I nod again. I thought I could ignore that sick feeling inside my gut that told me not to do this story. I thought if I wrote something complimentary that it wouldn’t matter if I broke his trust and ignored his right to privacy, because I wouldn’t be hurting him—not really. But my excuses don’t feel justifiable anymore. Partly because I’ve gotten to know him, and it’s shitty of me to use his trust against him, but also because he’s been through enough and he’s made it clear he doesn’t want to be talked about. Jack will have to get the story on his own. And my career? Well, I’ll just have t
o get to where I need to be without a spot on the paper. If all else fails, I could find some experience online. I’m sure I could find something if I look hard enough.
I pick up my phone and scroll through my messages until I find Ozzie’s. Then I press call.
Brad and Emily lower themselves to her bed, each of them sitting silently. Brad reaches for her hand and Emily takes it before curling up against him.
“That’s just so awful. I can’t even imagine,” she says.
Ozzie doesn’t answer his phone. It goes to voicemail after the third ring. The phone beeps, and I can't find my voice so I end the call and set the phone down. I put my hands on the desk and take a deep breath.
“Where would Ozzie have practice right now?”
“I don’t know. Probably the main rink,” Brad says with a shrug.
“Thanks.” I spring from my seat and grab my jacket hanging on the back of the door before yanking it open and breaking into a run.
It's almost eight o'clock when I get to the rink. The lights are still on inside and the door is unlocked. A man walks by the main hall once I’m inside. He nods to me but doesn’t say a word. I don’t know if I'm allowed to be here. Can people come to watch practices? I can’t imagine why that wouldn’t be allowed.
I head to the ice and hear yelling before I push through the double doors. Inside, the whole team is on the ice, including Ozzie. I guess him being benched was just for the games. They skate hard, the sound of the ice shredding under their blades loud enough to echo through the large space. A man in black pants and a sweater starts screaming at them.
“Skate, you pussies! Skate! The season is over and you think you can fuck around! We don’t stop until I say stop! I want a hundred percent or you assholes will do it again!”
Wow, that's a lot of profanity from a university coach. The guys are in a line facing the net, they race forward to one of the lines and race back, then they race forward again to the next line and back. They keep doing it, over and over and over.
I search for Ozzie, and it’s not hard to find him. He skates harder and faster than all the others, always reaching the line and turning before the others get there. He doesn't see me. I don’t want to interrupt him or distract him, because I don’t want him to get yelled at any more than he already has, so I quietly creep over to the stands and take a seat on one of the cold plastic fold-down chairs.
Hockey is dull—in my opinion—but practices aren’t. At least, listening to this coach scream and throw pucks and toss pylons around is mildly amusing, although I wish his anger wasn’t aimed at Ozzie or his teammates. Ozzie does a doubletake in my direction when he skates by and gives me a lopsided smile, his purple mouth guard peeking out. Unfortunately, his coach doesn’t miss our exchange.
The coach looks my way and gives me the stink eye before skating over to Ozzie and blocking his way to the blue line he’s skating toward.
“What are you grinning at, asshole?”
Ozzie shakes his head, fighting a smile.
“That’s it.” He blows his whistle while still in Ozzie's face. Ozzie flinches and the players do a hockey stop, ice shards flying upward. “On your knees, bitches, that’s where this asshole wants all of you! Say thank you, Ozzie!”
After some moaning and groaning, all the players say, “Thank you, Ozzie!”
“I can’t hear you!” He holds up a hand to his ear.
Enthusiastically, the team cheers, “Thank you, Ozzie!”
They get down in the pushup position. The coach blows his whistle and, in unison, the players pump off pushups, while still holding their sticks, until the coach blows his whistle. Then they get back up and on their feet. He blows it again. They get down. “One, two, three, four…” He moves his hands through the air in a wave motion, like he’s the conductor of their music. I lose count of how many times they do this. I curse the coach silently. Is he always such a power-hungry jerk?
When they’re finished with their punishment, they split up in two groups, each group going to one end of the rink. They take turns firing pucks at the net. If you’d asked me how long a practice lasted for, I would have guessed a half hour. Maybe. From the time I arrived until now, it’s been over an hour and half, and they were here before I got here. When the red digital clock reads 21:45, the coach blows his whistle one last time.
“That’s it, ladies. See you bright and early.”
Ozzie tips his head back while some others glare at the coach. There is a dull roar of moans. They clear the ice, Ozzie somewhere in the middle of the pack. I stand and walk over to the door by the ice. Ozzie skates over to me. He’s so tall on his skates. He unclips his helmet. His damp hair falls over his sweaty face, and he smooths it back. It looks incredible sexy on his flushed face. His lips are rosy, and he licks them before he says, “Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?”
“Did I get you in trouble?” I ask.
“It was worth it. Hard for me to focus with a girl like you watching me.”
I chuckle nervously, tucking my hair back. He touches my face, electrifying the space between my thighs. His hand is so warm it burns against my flesh. I take a deep breath and stare at his face, reminded of what he’s been through. I can’t help but frown.
“You all right?” he asks.
I nod, but I don't think I am. I raise myself up on my tip toes and take his chin in my hands. After a long look in those beautiful blue eyes, I kiss him tenderly. His gloves make a dull thudding sound as they fall to the ice. He wraps his arms around my middle and lifts me up. My legs dangle in the air, and he holds me tight, kissing me back with an intensity that’s not fit for watching.
When I pull away, he lets go of a breath and presses his forehead to mine. “What brought that on?”
“Can we go to your place?”
He chuckles quietly. “You won’t have to ask me twice. In fact, unless you beg me to shower, I’ll carry you home just like this.”
I sniff the air, and though his sweat and aftershave aren’t a bad blend of sexy, I think a shower’s a good idea. I peck him on the cheek after giving him a small nod.
“Give me twenty minutes.” He sets me down and starts to skate to the exit leading to the change room. He stops and turns on his skates, skating backward for a few beats, grinning at me. And I’m smiling like an idiot.
“How’d you know where I was?” He gets to the door and pauses.
“You left me a message, fool. And Brad was in my room with Emily. He told me where you practice.”
“Brad just became my second favorite person.”
“Who's your first favorite?” I tease.
He flashes me a wink. “You. As if there was a contest.” He disappears through the door, and I’m struck with those cliché butterflies that I used to complain about, but wouldn’t trade for anything in this world. Not even a spot on the paper.
Chapter Twelve
He’s one of the last ones to come out of the dressing room, freshly showered with towel-dried, messy hair under a baseball cap, red cheeks, and bright pink lips. He’s carrying his big hockey bag again, but he stands tall, the weight nothing for his strong, broad shoulders. Beside him walks that same guy I met when I almost took a puck to the face, though his name escapes me. Did I even get his name?
“Hi, again,” I say to his friend. Then to Ozzie, teasing, “That took a while.”
“Pretty boy had to clean himself up,” his friend says, rolling his eyes.
Ozzie shoves his friend in the shoulder, almost knocking the guy off balance. With his bag on an angle, it takes him a step to the side to right himself.
“I’ll see you guys back at the house,” his friend says.
“We could all walk together,” I suggest, but the guys exchange a conspiratorial glance, and he shakes his head.
“I’ve uh…got some things to do. I’ll see you there.” He mock-salutes his friend and walks away, hockey bag hefted over his shoulder like Ozzie. Only when his back is to us does his name finally come to me: M
ichael!
Ozzie waves a hand in front of me. “After you.”
We stroll to the exit doors, and he pushes one open for me to pass through. Another corridor and another exit door and we’re out front. It’s warmer tonight, but there is a crispness in the air that has me reaching to put my hands in my pockets.
“Your coach is really colorful.”
He laughs out loud. “Isn’t he, though?”
I love the way his nose crinkles when he’s trying to be funny.
“Does he always talk to you guys like that?”
“Only when he’s not mad at us.”
“Oh… Oh! Really?”
Ozzie grips his bag with both hands and bounces so it’s higher up on his shoulder. “He’s not the worst I’ve had. He’s a great teacher and he’s got some great plays, but he’s got the warmth of a snake.”
“I saw that,” I say. “I’ve seen serial killers on television with more empathy.”
Ozzie touches my shoulder and nudges me to the left to avoid a divot in the sidewalk that I didn’t notice.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“He’s a good coach, then?”
“He’s one of the best. We should have won playoffs this year.”
But he was benched. That’s why Jack said they lost. “So why didn’t you...do you think?”
He looks away, his shoulders tensing. “Not our year, I guess.”
I eye him, and when he finally looks my way, I can tell he’s hiding something. It gives me pause. I could prompt him... I’m dead curious why he didn’t play. But he could have been benched for no reason at all. His coach is a jerk. Maybe he just talked back or pissed him off.
“Someone told me you didn’t play in the playoffs,” I say innocently. “That must have been hard. Playing all season and then not getting to play at the end.”
He stiffens and slows his pace. With a furrowed brow, he speaks, his tone dismissive, “Shit happens.”
“Is something wrong?”
He shakes his head and reaches down to massage the back of my neck. “No. Not at all.” He forces a smile. “What have you been up to the last couple of days?” he asks, changing the topic so quickly I think he’s given me whiplash.
