by Lexie Syrah
“Don’t mind if I do!” Sacachelli flashes me his slimy grin and easily lifts the puck off my stick. “Smell ya later!” He snickers and turns, taking the puck with him.
I look down at my empty stick, then back up at my brother in the bleachers. Stupid Kevin. His voice rings in my head again: “Rookie mistake, Hayden. Think you’re going to make it to the NHL when you lose a puck that easily?” If he hadn’t come here, I wouldn’t have lost the puck!
I roar, and my muscles spasm beneath me as I force myself down the ice with a ferocity I haven’t had all summer. Sacs is lolly-gagging ahead, still laughing, getting ready to pass to Evans, who has a clean shot at the net.
Screw that.
I throw my whole body against Sacachelli. He sails across the ice like a rag doll.
I don’t care. This is hockey. The puck is right in front of me. I pull my stick back and smash it against the puck.
The puck sails across the ice, missing the net by a foot.
“ARGH!” I scream, throwing my stick to the ground and whipping off my helmet.
Evans drops his stick and rushes over to Sacs. “Dude!”
I throw one glance toward Sacs, whose clutching a bloody nose, but looks otherwise fine. Evans is holding a glove to his spurting snoz.
Shit.
I’ve done it again.
All of Coach and Kevin’s words from last season come roaring down on me. Every single one of their disappointed lectures.
I storm off the ice and into the locker room. I throw everything into my duffel bag in a quick huff. I want to get out of here before I have to talk to anyone. Especially Kevin.
But of course, I can’t get that lucky. As soon as I step out into the parking lot, I see him leaning against my Jeep.
Kevin was always faster than me.
“I don’t feel like talking,” I yell from across the parking lot.
“That’s perfect,” he calls back, “because I do.”
My whole body tenses up and I avoid eye contact as I approach him. Kevin’s gaze is so intense that once he gets you in his tractor beam, you can’t escape.
I stand beside him and fumble with my keys. Kevin may be older than me, but he’s slightly shorter, even a little smaller. It doesn’t matter. Standing next to him, I always feel three feet tall.
“What are you doing here?” I grumble.
“I’m worried about you,” he says. His voice is low, a purring rumble like a car engine or a coffee machine. “I haven’t seen you around our house.”
“You mean your house?” I say.
“You know Eleanor and I always want to see you upstairs.” He scratches his thick blond beard.
“Okay. Thanks.” Living in my brother’s basement suite was supposed to give me independence. I don’t need him and his fiancée babying me. I stopped being a kid over a year ago, when Mom and Dad…
I shake my head. I’m not going to give Kevin the satisfaction of a real heart-to-heart.
Kevin walks around to the other side of the Jeep and gets in.
I throw my bag in the back and slam the door. “Where’s your car?”
“Eleanor dropped me off.” Of course, he planned this whole thing.
I start the Jeep. It creaks and groans and rattles and makes every other sort of noise that reminds you of an old man on a deathbed. It’s a bona fide piece of shit, but I paid for it myself, and I’ll be damned if I let Kevin own another part of me. I may have to rely on him for food, and a place to live, but the less he feels like he’s the savior of my world, the better.
“What do you say we grab dinner tonight? Catch up. Talk about the new season. Falcons got a lot to prove coming up.”
Bubbles of indignation rush through me. “Aren’t you sick of talking about hockey? It’s press release after press release.”
“Come on,” he says, flashing me that smile the newspapers love. The one they put on the cover of Hockey News that read Tremblay Named Youngest Captain in NHL History. “You know we never get sick of talking about hockey.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “Speak for yourself.”
“Hayden,” Kevin says, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Talk to me. We’ve hardly spoken about the upcoming season at all.” I shoot a look back at him. His mouth is downturned, brown eyes narrowed. He looks more like Dad every day.
I hate it.
“What is there to talk about?” I snap back.
“Zabinski’s going to pick a new captain,” Kevin says. “Let me help you. We could train together. There’s going to be NHL scouts all over the place this season. I really think you have what it takes—”
My knuckles lose color and the speedometer shoots up another five miles. “I know I have what it takes. What, you think because you’re some big shot in the NHL now that I can’t do it here? I led the Falcons in goals last year—”
“Hayden,” he says, “the Falcons didn’t make the playoffs.”
“That’s not my fault. I wasn’t playing the last few games.”
“Exactly,” he says softly. “You were suspended. You weren’t there to lead your team when they needed you. You’ve got to rein it in. You’ve got to focus.”
I turn onto Ridge Boulevard and try to concentrate on the road. “You’ve said all this before.”
“Then listen.” His stringy blond hair falls in his face. “And don’t—”
“Don’t do this. Do that instead. I get it, okay?”
“Don’t interrupt me.” I can feel his glare burrowing through the side of my head. I’m getting on his nerves. I feel like I might be the only one who can. Eternally calm, focused, unemotional Kevin. Captain Stoic. “If you focus this season, you could break records and win—”
“I broke records last season,” I mutter.
“Breaking the record for the most fights in a season isn’t one you should be proud of.”
“And what records should I be breaking, oh glorious capitaine?” We turn off the freeway and onto a road filled with row after row of beautiful high-end condos and houses. “Every record you’ve already broken?”
I pull into the driveway. The stone house with the perfectly coiffed lawn and steeped roof looms before me as my own personal prison. I yank the keys out of the ignition and let them fall on my lap. Kevin runs his hands over his face and rests his head against the back of the seat.
“Look,” he says, “you know if you didn’t want to play in the NHL, I would just leave you alone, right?”
“You’d never leave me alone,” I mutter.
“What I mean is, Hayden, I don’t care if you play in the NHL. Mom and Dad…they never cared, either. But you’re my little brother. I know you. And I know this is your dream. And to watch you just throw it away…”
“How am I throwing it away?” I spit. “I played every game I could last season. I came to every practice.”
“I just want to see you try again,” Kevin says, his hands restless on his lap. “This last year, you’ve just been floating by, and you can get away with it because your 60% is as good as everyone else’s 100%.”
Kevin’s favorite thing in the world is percentages. I’m pretty sure he stays up at night just thinking of ways he can add percentages into everyday conversation.
“But I know what you can do at 100%. Heck, I’ve seen you give 200%! And it’s like you’ve just given up. Maybe you’re angry with me or angry with the world for what it’s done to us. But don’t you see? You’re only hurting yourself.”
“I’m 100% done with this conversation,” I say and open the door to the Jeep.
Of course, Kevin can’t just let me go. “Where’s the kid who got up with me at five a.m. every morning to go running? Where’s the guy who stayed at the rink until the Zamboni driver kicked us out? Where’s the boy who did laps around the track wearing weights just to build muscle? Where’s my little brother?”
I don’t even look at Kevin. I get out and slam the door. “Well, maybe he died, too.”
Chapter Two
; Alice
I can’t even fathom how wrong I was last week. Chicago is not amazing. It’s not okay. It’s just a windy slab of concrete where dreams go to die. I never thought I’d miss our little boring town, but after two weeks in Chicago, I’d happily move to Mars.
I follow the monotone directions of the GPS on my dashboard. I don’t know why I agreed to pick Xander up. He’s been so chipper the last few days; I want to tell him to turn his thousand-watt personality down a few notches. Usually I’m the optimist, the cheerer-upper of his sour moods. But now Xander’s on the Chicago Falcons, and he’s joined this weird theater club. If he loves everything about Chicago so much, he should also love its transit system.
“You have arrived,” the GPS says. Luckily there are hardly any other cars around — an anomaly in this godforsaken city — and I park in front of a door with peeling red paint. A sign hangs above it - The Red Butterfly Theater Club.
I know if I just wait in the car, it’ll be eons before Xander shows his face. So I yank the door open and walk in.
All around me, theater kids buzz around, like little workers bees in their hive. I can’t understand why Xander wants to be a part of this. I told him he should give up his weird theater hobby once he made the Falcons. Instead, he should be spending every free moment at the rink, practicing. But I have to be supportive. I’ve gone to every one of his plays all the way from Baby Jesus to Romeo, because God knows Mom won’t.
But I’m in absolutely no mood to be around theater kids today. Their peppy cheerfulness is already getting on my nerves.
A tall dude with a stack of scripts does a double take as he walks passed me. “Xan—?”
I roll my eyes and pull my long hair out from my hoodie. I’m long over being offended when someone mistakes me for my brother. “I’m his sister.”
The bearded guy narrows his eyes. “Trippy.”
I sigh. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Through there, in the theater.” He points toward a set of big black doors but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “It’s so weird. Who knew Xander could be hot?”
“Disgusting.” I storm off through the doors. Boy, does Xander ever owe me for making me deal with these people.
I walk into a large, empty auditorium. I trail my fingers along the run-down black seats as I head toward the stage. My footsteps echo through the room.
“Hey, Al.”
I look up to see Xander balanced on the top of a ladder, hanging felt stars to the curtains.
“Are you ready?”
“Just one more minute,” he calls down.
I flop into one of the seats. One more minute for Xander in the theater means another two hours.
“So how were the tryouts?” he calls down. His voice echoes mockingly through the theater: “outs…outs…outs.”
I slide even further into the chair, wishing it would swallow me whole. “I didn’t make it.” I’ve been so down about the Falcons, Xander found a local women’s recreational hockey team for me to try out for.
“What?” Xander says, twisting around to look at me. The ladder shudders precariously with his movement. “How did you not make it? They let, like, sixty-year-olds on that team.”
“It’s not that I wasn’t good enough,” I mutter. “They told me I wasn’t a good fit for the team.”
“How were you not a good fit?” Xander says. He turns back to his felt stars. There’s still a huge stack on one of the rungs below him.
“I may have accidentally given the captain a bloody nose.”
“Accidentally?”
“She went face first into the boards—”
I can see Xander’s eyebrow rise even from down here.
“—after I checked her.” I bury my face into my hands. “I needed the puck!”
“You know,” Xander says, “women’s hockey is traditionally non-contact.” He’s half-hanging off the ladder as he stretches to place a star.
“I’ve never played women’s hockey, though!” Our little town only had one hockey league, and they didn’t care that I was a girl, even though I was the only one. Xander and I have played on the same team since we started skating.
I guess I always knew if I wanted to play professional hockey, I’d have to join an all-girls team eventually…but it never mattered to me what level I played at, as long as I could play, as long as I had a team, as long as I was challenged (but still the best.)
I go over it for the millionth time in my head. I was the best at that tryout. Xander was mediocre at best. I know the coach meant me. He just didn’t want a girl on the team.
My hands twist into fists in my lap. It’s not fair. There’s no rule against girls in the league! Coach Zabinski is just a sexist loser who was threatened a girl could outplay all those boys.
Xander sighs, and it reverberates throughout the auditorium, as if there’s four other disappointed brothers voicing their disapproval with me.
“You’ve got to try to be happy, Alice,” he says. He climbs a rung higher on the ladder, and stretches upwards to place the decorations. “Things are going good. Can’t you be happy for me?”
“Of course I’m happy for you. But—”
“Stop!” he yells, and the ladder shakes beneath him. “No more buts! Stop thinking about yourself for once. NHL scouts love drafting from the Falcons. If I play a good season…”
Xander hasn’t played a good season in his life.
“Don’t roll your eyes. Just listen.” Xander runs his hands through his dark hair. “I could really make something of myself. If I play well, no one would look down on me ever again. This could be a fresh start for both of us.”
Xander has always talked about making it big. I never really thought about it, for obvious reasons. But I guess he’s right. Maybe with the right training and coaching from the Falcons, he could make it.
“Just have a good cry and get over it,” Xander says.
“Hah!” The laugh chokes out of my throat. “You know I don’t cry.” Even though I haven’t been this mad and hurt since…well, since Dad left. I haven’t passed a tear since. I don’t think I know how to anymore. “And I don’t get over things. I get revenge!”
Xander ignores me. “Then think of the good stuff. You can still play hockey. You can help me practice.”
“I will be at the rink a lot,” I mutter.
“What do you mean?”
I pull my hood over my face, too ashamed to look at him. “Mom called me…”
“Uh oh…”
“And I was feeling super depressed about not making the women’s team.”
“Yeah…”
“So I maybe sorta agreed to be part of her two charity figure skating events.”
He looks at me for a moment then bursts out laughing, “But you hate figure skating!”
“I knowww!” I say and slide off the chair and onto the floor. “But I need to be skating somehow or I’ll die. And she was guilt tripping me. It’s apparently a huge deal in this city! What was I supposed to say?”
“At least Mom will finally shut up about how no one ever helps her with her charity functions,” Xander says, picking up the last few felt stars. “So what? Are you going to be running around in one of those silly tutus every night?”
“There’s just one silly promotional event,” I say. “And then the big charity dance in the spring. The Ice Ball, or something stupid like that. I’ll be performing a solo.”
Xander throws his head back and laughs. “You know you can’t hit things in figure skating, right? You’ll be too busy performing your double axels, and toe loops, and pirouettes.”
“A pirouette is ballet, idiot.” I laugh anyway.
Xander throws his hands over his head and points his toes on the rungs. “Elvis Stojko, eat your heart out!”
“Be careful!” I say, but a smile breaks out on my face.
“And what about this one? A catch-foot, right?” Xander reaches behind his head, groping for his foot. He balances on the rung wi
th only one leg.
I clutch my stomach and let my laugher chase away the terrible day. Maybe Xander’s right. Maybe this is a good thing for us. This could be a big break for the whole family.
With a huge, careless grin on his face, Xander shifts his weight, and the ladder lurches beneath him. Within a split second, his smile turns to terror, as he falls through the air, and lands on the stage with a triumphant crack.
…
The bright light of the hospital pounds against my eyelids. I sit in a chair beside Xander’s hospital bed. He sprawls across the stark white sheets so pathetically, I’m reminded of road kill. They stuck us in a shared room in the pediatric ward, and faded stickers of Mickey Mouse leer down at us from the walls. I suppress a shudder.
Xander struggles to sit up. “Did they leave any of those scalpels around?”
I look around the room. Everything is white and smells of bleach. Hospitals make my eyes and nose hurt. “I don’t see one. Why?”
“All right, I guess we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.” He pulls the pillow out from behind his back and hands it to me. “Please smother me so I can be freed of this cruel world.”
“Can you save the melodramatics for when Mom comes?” I yawn and shift my butt on the uncomfortable chair. “How about I find you a pen and we can ask the cute nurse to be the first one to sign your cast?”
“UGH!” Xander buries his face in his hands. “I can’t believe this!”
“Let’s look on the bright side,” I say. “You get some sick painkillers. You’ll probably get to stay home from school for the first few days. And your toes are a cool shade of purple!” I put my face right beside his puffy toes, which stick out pathetically from the huge cast wrapped around his entire left leg.
Xander makes the most pathetic sigh-hiccup I’ve ever heard, and I’m afraid he’s about to start crying. The only time I’ve ever seen Xander cry was when Dad left twelve years ago. That was the last time I cried, too. There’s just no point to it.
I twist uncomfortably in my seat.
“Al,” he says, his voice cracking and his eyes red, “this was my one shot. My only shot to do something great.”
