by A. J. Wynter
“Is yours the brown house?” the coach asked. “I dropped Dylan off once before, but it was dark out.”
“Yes, the one with the white trim.” Coach Covington pulled into the driveway and I saw our little house with the eyes of a newcomer. My mom would’ve had heart failure if she saw how overgrown the gardens had become. The weeds were taller than any of the perennials that she’d worked so hard to curate over the years. Dylan and I took turns mowing the lawn, but with the heatwave, our once a week schedule wasn’t cutting it – literally – the fuzzy-looking front yard was now a rainforest, battered and weighed down from the downpour.
“Thanks for the ride.” I hopped out of the Jeep, giving the soaked leather seat a fruitless wipe with my hand before I shut the door. The coach rolled down the window. “You’re welcome, Jessica. And get that brother of yours to call me if he wants to stay on the team.”
“I’ll do my best.” I rested my hand on the door, “but you know what he’s like.”
“Headstrong.” The coach smiled.
“I was going to say an ass. But I guess headstrong works too.”
The coach laughed and I swore that he snorted a little bit. I stepped away from the SUV and waved as he backed out of the driveway, wondering why Dylan was missing so many practices.
Chapter 4 – Kane
Swimming always clears my head. I hung my towel on the hooks on the side of the boathouse and stood at the end of the dock. Lake Casper is the deepest of the five lakes in Laketown, and it’s always the last one to warm up. I pulled up the thermometer from the water, it read fifty- nine degrees. It was almost balmy compared to the team’s post-game ice baths.
I took a breath and launched into the clear water, hoping that the bandage on my toe was wrapped tightly enough to keep the nail in place. I let my body float just under the surface of the water for a minute. This was my meditation. I didn’t need any mindfulness apps or any of that shit.
A boat droned by and a loon called in the distance. I hoisted myself on the dock and basked in one of the teak lounge chairs, totally zenned out until my phone chimed with a text message.
I saw that I had missed a call from The Otters’ captain, Tanner, as well as three texts in a row. The last read, “Dude. Call me.”
He picked up on the first ring.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘You better have your A-Game on tonight.’
I could hear the excitement in his voice and knew exactly what he meant. The scouts were going to be at the game. Coach never told us when they were there, he didn’t want our nerves to interfere with the game.
‘Which scouts are going to be there?’
‘The Thunder and the Flames.”
‘Holy shit,’ I gulped.
‘Yeah, holy shit.’
The New York Thunder was one of the original teams in the National League, and everyone who grew up in this part of the country dreamt about wearing the blue and white jersey. I pinned the phone between my ear and my shoulder to grab my towel. ‘How did you find...’
I meant to ask how he found out that the scouts were going to be at the exhibition game, but the phone slipped and did exactly two slow-motion rotations before it disappeared through a crack in the dock boards, splashing into Lake Casper.
“For fucks’ sake.” I dropped to my knees to peer through the boards into the darkness beneath the dock, knowing full well that my phone was ruined. I hopped into the lake anyway, retrieved the phone, knowing that as I pushed the power button that nothing would happen. I sighed and walked toward the sandy beach and up the granite pathway to the cottage. I shoved the phone into a bowl of rice and pulled off my wet boardshorts, hanging them on the railing of the balcony – something my step-mom hated, saying it made the cottage look like a third world bazaar, but she only came to Laketown once a year – for the Island Club’s annual gala.
I rubbed my chin, my playoff beard was gone, replaced with a five o’clock shadow. I couldn’t believe that the scouts were coming to an exhibition game. I pulled on a pair of blue shorts and a white t-shirt, then gingerly stepped into my flip flops, and grabbed the keys to the Cruiser. Two seconds before I reached the car a fat drop of rain spattered on the windshield. I looked behind me to see that the blue sky had been overtaken by tall black thunderclouds. ‘Shit,’ I muttered and lunged for the door handle, but the downpour came on hard and fast as I jumped in the driver’s seat, soaked to the bone.
If I didn’t find that coin before the game tonight, I might as well kiss my dreams of being drafted goodbye.
Chapter 5 – Jessie
“Jessie.”
My eyes snapped open and I heard Dylan pushing around food in the fridge. I had dozed off while I was studying skating videos and my laptop was still perched on my thighs. I closed it, thankful that it hadn’t fallen onto the floor.
“What time is it?” I asked and glanced out the window. It wasn’t dark, so I couldn’t have been asleep on the sofa for too long.
“Time to go to the rink.” Dylan shoved a slice of cold pizza into his mouth, letting it hang while he twisted off the lid from a bottle of soda. “Can you drop me off?” he said as he swigged the Coke directly from the two-liter bottle.
“How are you not five hundred pounds?” Dylan was a garbage can – he ate whatever was in his path, and other than hockey practice, he didn’t work out - yet he still had a six-pack.
Dylan shrugged. “Want a piece?” He shoved the box at me. I took it from his hands and put it back in the fridge. “You’re looking skinny, you need to eat more than that rabbit food.” He pointed to the blender cup on the counter crusted with the residue from my protein smoothie.
“I’m good.” But he was right, ever since mom and dad died, I just didn’t feel like eating.
“It’s going to affect your skating, you know.”
“My skating is fine.” I didn’t tell him that my hip was sore from continuously crashing with my lutz attempts. I shuffled into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and chugged it back.
“Are you coming to the game?” he asked.
“I’m going to bed.” I didn’t go to Dylan’s games for two reasons. One, the entire town was obsessed with his damn team, and the rah-rah Otters cheers got on my nerves; and two, Dylan’s groupies, aka the puck bunnies, were equally, if not more, annoying.
“It’s one of the last exhibition games before summer camp.”
“I’ll pass. I’m exhausted.”
“Ok, can you drop me off then?”
“Are you serious?” I gestured to my sweatpants. “I’m not going anywhere. I have to get up at three-thirty in the morning.”
“Okay, but we’re probably going to Valerock after. And I know that you don’t like it when I drink and drive.”
I could feel the blood rush to my face. Dylan never got behind the wheel when he was falling-down drunk, but for someone whose parents were killed by a drunk driver, the gall of my brother to even have one or two, but more likely four or five, and get behind the wheel made me want to scream.
“Don’t. It’s not hard.” I grabbed my laptop and headed upstairs.
“Come on, you know how it is. We’ll just go for a few. If I have too many, I’ll get a cab home.”
I gripped the handrail so hard; my knuckles went white. I turned to face him as he lugged his giant hockey bag from the living room, where it now lived beside the television in all its stinky glory. “I had to walk home in a thunderstorm today.” I left out the part that his coach had driven me home.
Dylan smiled at me. “Right, that was a big one.”
I stomped down the stairs and got in my brother’s face. “I have to be at the arena at four in the morning. I. Need. The. Car.” I held out my hand for the keys. “Call one of your jock buddies for a ride.”
“It’s too late.” He shoved the keys in the pocket of his team hoody. “Jess, I’ll only have one drink.”
Dylan never had ‘just one’.
“Ugh.” I groaned a
t him. “Hold on. Let me change and then I’ll drop you off.” All I wanted to do was set my alarm and crawl into bed, but if Dylan got an impaired driving charge, he wouldn’t be able to get to work, and I’d be driving his sorry ass around all summer. I marched up the stairs muttering under my breath. Dylan knew how to get to me.
I should just let him fuck up his life, I thought to myself as I changed into leggings and a light sweater. He was grieving, just like me, but in a vastly different way. But I couldn’t lose another family member to drinking and driving. I twisted my hair into a loose top knot, my face bare from the steaming shower I had taken when I got home.
Dylan tossed his hockey bag into the back of the station wagon while I pumped the gas pedal a couple of times. The car was ancient and there was a technique to getting the old beast up and running. Thankfully, the engine roared to life when I turned the key.
I backed out of the driveway and started to head into town. Dylan grabbed my hand and stopped me from turning the wheel. “We’ve got to make one stop first,” he smiled.
I gritted my teeth and leaned my head back on the headrest. “Where?”
“Paige’s house.’
Of course.
“She lives—”
“I know where she lives,” I snapped. I shoved the car into gear and stomped on the pedal to go and pick up my supposed best friend. “Is this a date?”
“Nah.” Dylan fiddled with the radio. Our car was so old it didn’t even have a cd-player, and when he didn’t find anything good on the radio, he popped in the cassette tape and his pre-game band, Motley Crue, blared out through the speakers. “I told her you were coming to the game too.”
“Dyl! Come on. You know that I have to go to bed early.”
He turned up the music even louder. “Relax. You need to have a little fun.”
I gripped the steering wheel with one hand and turned down Doctor Feelgood with the other. “You need to grow up. Coach Covington told me that you’ve been missing practices.”
This got his attention. He turned his body to face me. “When were you talking to him?”
“He saved me from getting struck by lightning today.” I navigated the car through the narrow roads of Paige’s trailer park, pulled into her driveway and honked.
“He shouldn’t be talking to you about that stuff.”
Paige flicked her hair as she jogged to get in the car. “You’re right. He should be talking to you about why you are missing practice.”
“Hi guys,” Paige opened the car door and hopped in.
“Hi,” we both said at the same time. I shot him a look and he shot one back, the conversation was over – for now.
“I can’t believe you’re actually coming to a game,” Paige clicked into her seatbelt as I backed out of the driveway. I cut my eyes at my brother.
“I can only stay for the first period.” Paige seemed too excited to let my words bring her down.
“I’ll take it,” Paige gushed. “I’ve been trying to get you to a game since ninth grade.”
I glanced in the mirror and felt a pang of guilt as Paige smiled at me. Between my grueling practice schedule and my complete and utter disinterest in the game of hockey, I had pushed Paige away to the point where she didn’t even ask me to go to the games anymore. “Dylan promised to score a goal tonight and then ride the stick,” I said and raised my eyebrows at my brother.
“Oooh,” Paige laughed from the back. “That’ll go over well.”
Dylan punched my arm. “I’ll get destroyed on the ice if I do that.” Dylan was a fast skater, but a fighter he was not. And showboating like that was a one-way ticket to a gloves-off beat-down.
The parking lot was bustling when we arrived, and I pulled into the first spot that I could find.
“What, you’re going to make me walk from here?” Dylan put his hand over his eyes, pretending to strain to see the lobby doors.
“You’re an athlete. You can walk.” I shut off the car.
Dylan groaned, retrieved his bag, and strode off.
“Shouldn’t he be at the game earlier than this?” Paige glanced at her oversized rose gold watch.
“Dylan thinks that being on time applies to everyone but him,” I sighed. I glanced around the parking lot full of fans carrying homemade signs and those annoying horns. I used to think that Dylan’s ability alone was enough to keep him on the team, but after today’s meeting with the coach, I wondered if skipping practice and showing up late were going to catch up with him.
We joined nearly everyone else in town and filed into the state-of-the-art facility. Laketown’s ice rink was the best in the Northern Professional League and overbuilt for our little town – it came complete with jumbotrons and executive boxes for the National League players when they were in town.
I glanced at the seat number on my ticket – we were way up in the back, the blue seats. We settled into the nosebleeds and as I shoved the ticket into my purse, I noticed a familiar set of eyes. The creeper from the dressing room was staring up at me from the glossy ticket. “That’s him.” I shoved the ticket at Paige, “The guy from this morning”.
Paige choked on her iced cappuccino. “Kane Fitzgerald?”
“This guy.” I tapped my unmanicured nail on the photo.
“Yeah, that’s Fitzy. Jessie, he’s like the hottest guy on the team.”
I glanced at the ticket, Fitzy’s eyes were trained on something ahead of him, his body captured mid-stride, the puck on his stick, the number eighty-eight on his jersey which was half-tucked into his blue hockey pants. “He’s not that hot in person.” The clumsy tongue-tied guy from this morning couldn’t have been farther from the action hero on the ticket. I shoved the ticket into my purse and settled into my seat. I was antsy, but I figured if there weren’t any delays in the period, I could be home and in my bed in less than an hour.
“I heard that there are scouts here tonight,” Paige elbowed me, her eyes scanning the audience. “Do you think that they’re checking out your brother?”
The Northern Professional Hockey League was just below the National League, and many of the New York Thunder superstars had started their careers as a Laketown Otter.
I rolled my eyes. My brother was a skillful player, but not National League material. “He doesn’t want it badly enough,” I shrugged.
“I heard that they’re here for Fitzy and Tanner.” Paige studied the executive boxes.
“Who’s Tanner?”
The woman beside me raised her eyebrows and smirked. “Tanner is the captain.”
“Are you sure you’re from Laketown?” Paige smiled and thrust her drink at me. “Want some?” she asked.
I raised my hands in front of me. “No, thanks.”
“Are you sure you don’t want anything, popcorn, a beer?” Paige plucked a piece of popcorn from its paper bag.
“I’m good.” I folded my arms across my chest as the lights went down and the sound system boomed out more Motley Crue. The Laketown Otters hockey team had all the theatrics: lasers, pyrotechnics, and even cheerleaders.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the ice, your hometown Ooooooooooootters.” The announcer drew out the O in Otters and the audience all did the same, including Paige. The team burst onto the ice through a cloud of dry ice and the crowd roared. The girls behind us screamed and when number eighty-eight stepped onto the ice, they went even more batshit crazy. I shoved my fingers in my ears, but it was too late, the screams had already pierced through to my brain.
After the national anthem, the crowd settled into their seats, the lights came up, and number twenty-seven, the captain, stepped to center ice and won the face-off. It had been years since I’d seen a game and I’d forgotten how enthusiastic the Otters’ fan base could be. I scanned the lineup of players along the bench, spotting my brother lounging and laughing, his mouthguard jauntily stuck between his teeth. Beside him, looking much more serious, was number eighty-eight. His ice-blue eyes were trained on the action in front of hi
m.
Dylan kicked his foot over the boards and sprang into action, his unorthodox upright skating style made him easy to pick out. He circled back into the defensive zone and number twenty-seven backhanded the puck to him. I couldn’t help it, my heart jumped into my throat when my brother easily navigated past the blue line, deked out the Predator’s defense and reared his stick back as if to take a huge slapshot - but instead brought his stick down and nudged the puck into the net behind the pads of the unsuspecting goalie.
Paige jumped to her feet, along with everyone else around me. I stood up and cheered. Dylan scanned the audience and when his gaze found us, I recognized his shit-eating grin.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Don’t you dare. I. Was. Joking.”
I cringed as my brother threw his glove up in the air and proceeded to ‘shoot it’ out of the air with his hockey stick. It only took a millisecond for one of the Predators to retaliate with a cross-check to his back. An audible gasp, followed by a collectively held breath by every person in the arena, quickly erupted into cheers as Dylan stood up shook his shoulders like a wet dog.
“Oh, thank God, he’s okay,” one of the girls said behind me. I turned to Paige and rolled my eyes. Dylan grinned and pointed at me in the audience and then dramatically flung his other glove onto the ice.
“Cocky son of a bitch,” I whispered under my breath.
The referee blew his whistle as Dylan charged at the Predators player. They grabbed each other’s jerseys and the momentum from Dylan’s charge spun them around, but before any blows could be thrown, the referee and linesman pulled the two apart.
Dylan was ejected from the game for unsportsmanlike conduct and the Predators player got a five minute for fighting penalty, which would have to be taken in the second period. The teams filed out from their respective benches as Andy reversed the Zamboni onto the ice.
“He’s kind of cute,” Paige mused as she finished off her coffee slushy with a loud slurp, swirling the straw around to vacuum up the last drops her drink. “You know, for an older guy.”
