The Year We Hid Away

  His laughter was infectious, and my giggles made it difficult to smooth on the ketchup. “Remind me why anyone thought stuffing a meatloaf was a good idea?”

  With a grin, he just shook his head, reaching for a paper towel. “I hope she appreciates it.”

  “Do you mean Lucy, or your mom?” I asked quietly.

  His green eyes looked sad. “Lucy, of course.”

  “She will,” I promised.

  “I know.” He kissed my cheek on the way to the sink, and I hefted the dish into the preheated oven.

  Most nights, Bridger and Lucy ate in the Beaumont dining hall. And when I wasn’t eating with The Katies, or having rehearsal for the folk music group I’d joined, I often met them for dinner. But Lucy had been asking him to make their mother’s stuffed meatloaf, and tonight — a Sunday — he’d finally given in.

  Unfortunately, we didn’t have their mother’s recipe. Bridger and Hartley had cleaned out the house before the bank sold it. He didn’t let me or Lucy help. “Not much to save,” he’d said of that sad task. He’d taken his father’s bureau, and a dresser for Lucy, which I’d painted pink one Saturday during Christmas break.

  His mother’s meatloaf recipe would therefore remain lost. So I’d chosen one off the Internet. I’d doubled the garlic, though, just as my own mother would have done. It gave me a guilty stab to think about my mom all alone now in our house. She and I didn’t speak. But the more distance I’d put between last year and my new life, the more possible it seemed that I could eventually get past a few of our differences.

  Eventually.

  I’d spent Christmas break here, with Bridger and Lucy. And I’d also spent a few days visiting Brian in Boston. “You don’t have to come, if you’re not ready,” he’d said when he invited me. “But you’ll always have a standing invitation.”

  I went. It wasn’t an easy few days for us, but I was glad to have done it. My next visit would probably be easier. We spoke on the phone once a week, and had plans to see a classical guitar concert in Boston next month.

  From the kitchen counter, Bridger’s phone chimed. “Someone’s messaging you,” I said.

  “Tell me who it is?” he asked, his hands in the dishwater.

  I picked it up. “Hartley. He wants to know where you’re eating because he needs to ask you something.”

  After drying his hands, Bridger took the phone and rung Hartley. “I cooked tonight,” he said when his friend answered.

  “Who cooked?” I prompted.

  “Listen, lady,” he lifted his handsome chin in my direction. “It was me who was just up to my ears in raw hamburger.”

  “Fair point.”

  He went back to his call. “So if you want to see me, come over.” There was a pause. “Nothing. Just bring your pretty face. No rush. It won’t be ready for an hour.” He hung up.

  “Did you see any of last night’s game?” I asked, stealing a crumb of Parmesan cheese off the cutting board where I’d grated it.

  “I watched the whole thing this morning, as soon as the video was loaded,” Bridger confessed. He still had the team password, which gave him access to the game tapes. “It was awesome.”

  I’d gone to the game in person with The Katies, watching the Harkness men’s team clinch their quarterfinal series against Cornell. Now they were off to the conference semifinals. “When Hartley made that goal through the five-hole, the place went nuts.”

  “It’s just wild to see the team in first place.” Bridger took a head of broccoli out of the fridge and unwrapped it. “That’s never happened before.”

  “Actually, it last happened in 1982.”

  “Stickler,” he grinned. Then he rinsed the broccoli under the sink.

  And it killed me. Bridger was rinsing a head of broccoli, while his hockey team was preparing to sweep the conference. He didn’t even appear frustrated. I didn’t know how he could stand it. Watching last night, I’d been bitten by the bug again. Every time Hartley’s team took possession of the puck, I’d wanted to run out and get my skates sharpened.

  “Let me cut that up,” I said, nudging him away from the cutting board. “You open the wine.”

  “Now we’re talking.”

  Hartley came through the door forty-five minutes later, carrying a bag from the cupcake bakery on Bank Street.

  “Whoa!” Lucy said, swooping in to relieve him of the bag. “Ooh!” she squealed. “The mini ones!”

  “Hold up,” Bridger said, lifting it over her head. “Dinner first.”

  “I just want to peek!”

  He didn’t budge for a second. “Is your math done?”

  She nodded, jumping for the bag.

  “Even the division?”

  “There wasn’t any today,” she said. “I hate division. It’s hard.”

  Bridger chuckled. “Is it?” He lowered the cupcakes. “If we divided those evenly, how many do you get?”

  Lucy slid the plastic clamshell out of the bag and eyed it for a second. “Three.”

  “Good girl. Now what do you say to Hartley?”

  “Thank you thank you thank you!” she said, skittering off to admire the tiny cupcakes in peace.

  “Wine?” Bridger asked Hartley.

  “Of course.”

  Bridger poured it, and then went to check on the meat. “This looks great,” he said, reaching for the hot pads.

  “Smells good,” Hartley agreed. “What did you make?”

  Bridger chuckled. “You tell me.”

  The kitchen area was tiny, so I traded places with Hartley. “You made a stuffed meatloaf? Seriously?” He laughed. “That reminds me so much of middle school. Dinner at your house, after a bantam game.”

  “I know, right? Let’s eat it.”

  We sat around the coffee table, because the tiny cafe table where Lucy and Bridger usually ate together wasn’t big enough for four. With our knees tucked underneath the table, everybody tried a bite.

  “Wow,” Hartley said. “This is so much better than…” Bridger gave him a warning look. “…I remembered,” he finished.

  “No,” Lucy argued, chewing. “It’s just the same. Bridger made it just the same.”

  “That’s what I meant,” Hartley said, forking up another chunk. “It’s exactly the same. The garlic is a nice touch.”

  Bridger winked at me, and I smiled. In a weird way, Bridger’s mom and my mom had collaborated on this dish. The two women who’d caused the most trouble in our lives were here at the table, too. I filed that thought away to examine later.

  Hartley helped himself to the broccoli, and then pointed his fork at Bridger. “I have an important question for you. But I guess it’s also a question for Scarlet.”

  I met Bridger’s eyes, but he gave a little shrug, letting me know that he had no idea what this was about.

  “Did you hear about Mike Graham’s concussion?”

  Bridger winced. “That looked bad on the tape. But when Orsen came into the coffee shop, he told me Graham was going to be okay.”

  “He will be,” Hartley said. “But he’s out for the rest of the season.”

  “That sucks. He was your second best enforcer.”

  “I’m shorthanded, Bridge. I want you to come to practice tomorrow.”

  Bridger’s fork halted halfway to his mouth.

  “I know you have obligations. But there are just two conference finals. And then four NCAA championship games. Six games in five weeks. And that’s only if we made it all the way.”

  “Which you will,” I piped up. “Bridger, tell him yes!” I shouldn’t have spoken up like the pushy girlfriend that I was. But God. How many times in your life do you get a chance like that?

  “Not sure how that would work,” Bridger dodged. “We’ll talk about this later.” He ate his bite of food and looked away.

  I knew he was right — we couldn’t get into the nitty gritty details of Bridger’s family obligations with Lucy sitting right there. But I could see his wheels turning across the table from me. r />
  Do it, I begged silently.

  “I haven’t been on skates for a year, dude,” he said while Hartley washed the dishes.

  “It’s like riding a bike,” Hartley insisted, handing him a rinsed plate.

  “Okay. But I haven’t been to the varsity weight room more than five times this season. And that’s not like riding a bike.”

  “I don’t care,” Hartley argued. “We’re going to end up dressing a couple of walk-ons. I’d rather have you.”

  “Mike is a defenseman.”

  Hartley just shrugged. “You might have to play D. Or someone else might have to. Coach will figure it out.”

  Bridger shook his head. “There are so many problems with this scenario.”

  “No there aren’t!” I hissed, checking over my shoulder to see if Lucy was listening. But she was flipping channels on the TV. “I’ll cover you, Bridge. Lucy’s been asking me to teach her to play the guitar.”

  “Practice can go pretty late,” Bridger argued. “That’s a lot of guitar.”

  “Six games, tops,” Hartley said. “Three is more likely. My mom can help out if it goes into the end of the month. She’s got spring break.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Bridger said.

  “Think quick. Practice is at four o’clock tomorrow.”

  “I will.” He glanced at the clock on the microwave. “Right now I have to chase Lucy into bed. Are those teeth brushed, buddy?”

  Hartley and I finished up in the kitchen while Bridger tucked Lucy in. “Do you think he’ll do it?” He asked me.

  “If he doesn’t, I’ll be devastated,” I admitted. “If one of your goalies gets injured, you have my number, right?”

  Hartley grinned. “I’ll keep you in mind.” His face became serious then. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to mention to you.”

  “What’s that?” I put the last forks into the drawer and closed it.

  “I got my first pair of new hockey skates when I was ten. Up until then I only had yard sale equipment. One pair was orange, and the other kids used to mock me.”

  That seemed unlikely. “Until you skated circles around them.”

  “Well, sure,” he smiled. “But they never fit right, you know? Not until Steel Wings came along and gave me the real thing.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh. That shut me up, and fast. In one of the newspaper articles, I’d read that my father’s charity had given out two million dollars’ worth of equipment. Until now, I’d never met anyone who’d received any of it.

  Hartley’s big brown eyes held mine. “They cost eighty bucks, Scarlet. They were the nicest things I’d ever owned. And I kept them on my desk so I could look at them between games.”

  “That’s…” I didn’t know what to do with that. “Aren’t you glad you never met the founder, though?”

  He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “Of course I am. I’m not trying to excuse what he did. But the help he gave me was straightforward. And it was real.”

  “Okay,” I said softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

  Hartley pulled me into a quick hug. “No problem. I’ve got to run and try to do some homework before next week drags me under.”

  “Thanks for the cupcakes,” I said.

  He winked, reaching for his jacket. “There’s a dozen more in it for you and Lucy if you can get his ass to practice tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  — Bridger

  After I brushed my teeth, I turned the lights out in the living room. Then I locked the front door. As the bolt slid into place, I felt a powerful contentment. The people I loved best were both on the same side of this door, home with me right now.

  While Hartley’s offer thrilled me, I already had what I needed. It was right here in this modest apartment.

  I tiptoed into my bedroom and clicked the doorknob lock into place. Lucy never wandered into my room in the night, but it was more fun getting naked with Scarlet if I knew that she couldn’t accidentally get an eyeful.

  My girlfriend laid in the middle of the bed, hogging both pillows, her hands behind her head. There was a gleam in her eye, and I felt it in all the right places. With one hand, I stripped the t-shirt over my head. And I swear that gleam burned brighter. “Get over here,” she said.

  The demand wasn’t Scarlet’s style, but I loved it. And so did the most ambitious part of my body. I stripped off my jeans, followed by my rapidly tightening underwear. Then I climbed onto the end of the bed, watching her track me with that heated gaze.

  Crawling up her body, I trapped her under the sheet. “Did you want something from me?”

  “I did. I do,” she corrected.

  I dropped down, supporting myself on my forearms. My pelvis molded into hers, and the only barrier between us was the sheet. Holy shit, she was naked under there. “What is it that you wanted?” I asked. “I like you bossy, by the way.”

  “Good thing,” she said, arching up to me. “Because I’m going to boss you around tonight.”

  I swear, the whoosh of a flame that her words lit inside me was practically audible. I was on fire already, and she hadn’t even touched me yet. “Boss me,” I challenged. “Let’s hear you.”

  Scarlet put her hands on my bare ass and said, “go to practice tomorrow.”

  I laughed. “That’s not where I thought this was going.”

  “Oh, there are lots of places this could take us,” she whispered, stroking me with soft hands. “Just promise me you’ll go.”

  With one hand, I peeled back the sheet between us as far as I could without climbing off her. “What do I get if I go?”

  Scarlet’s brow quirked. “You get to skate in the semis, dumbass.”

  “Jesus, I love you,” I said, dipping my head to kiss the creamy breast that I’d exposed. “Sexy and tough in one pretty package.”

  Her face softened then. And as I continued to tease her nipple with my lips, she melted beneath me. I wiggled my way under the sheet, kissing every bit of skin I uncovered along the way.

  Maybe she’d already said her piece. Or maybe I’m just that good a lover. But I didn’t hear any more attempts at negotiation. There were only soft sighs, and the feel of her velvet skin against mine. She was loving every minute of it. In no time at all I was reaching into the nightstand for necessary equipment. And then lowering my body onto hers, teasing her with myself, and then moving away again.

  “Hey!” she said, and I laughed.

  “Got a plane to catch, Scarlet?”

  “You’re not a nice person.”

  “Oh, but I am.” I dropped my lips to her belly and began kissing her there. Meanwhile, my hand slid to a place that made her gasp. I looked up at her. “Scarlet,” I said, removing my hand. “How good a hockey player are you, anyway?”

  “Umm,” she gasped. “Who cares, Bridge…”

  I chuckled into her belly button. “How good, Scarlet?”

  “All state MVP,” she mumbled.

  I lifted my head. “Could you take me one-on-one?”

  Her eyes popped open. “I’m trying to. Right now.”

  I hitched myself up on her body, grinning. “I’m serious. Who would win?”

  She dropped her head onto the pillow in frustration. “You could out shoot me,” she told the ceiling. “But I might be more maneuverable. And you couldn’t deke me very easily. Too many hours spent watching for defensive gaps.”

  I looked down at her. “Do you have any idea how sexy that is? I want to play you. I think I can win, as long as you’re wearing clothes. Will you play me sometime?” she didn’t say anything, so I slid my hand back where it was before. “Please?” I begged.

  “Sure,” she smiled. “I’d love to.”

  “Yesss…” I said, finally pressing forward, sliding home. Scarlet’s eyelids fluttered closed, and I caught her moan in my mouth.

  Life was very, very good.

  — Scarlet

  The student section was crammed ful
l of fans. It was standing room only. But Lucy and I made our way to the adjacent section, where the VIP seats were. Every guy on the team received two tickets to give out. We found ours next to Corey and Theresa, and right in front of the women’s hockey team.

  “Lucy!” Theresa said. “I hear you’re coming for a sleepover at my house if the team goes to Philadelphia.”

  “I hope they do,” Lucy said. “That would be fun.”

  After we got settled, Coach Samantha Smith — the very woman I’d had to quit to in September — touched Corey and I on the shoulders. “How have you been, ladies?”

  “Great!” Corey enthused. “I promised Hartley that if they made it to the Frozen Four, I’d paint his number on my face.”

  Coach laughed. “The way the team looks, you might have to go through with it.”

  “It would be worth a little humiliation to see them do that well,” Corey said.

  Coach turned to me. “And how are you doing…” she stopped. “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

  “Scarlet,” I supplied.

  “Scarlet,” she said with an apologetic look. But I wasn’t offended. She’d recruited me for an entire year as Shannon.

  “She’s famous, Coach,” the girl sitting beside her said.

  Crap. My smile melted away as I examined the girl, who wore a Harkness Women’s Hockey jacket. I didn’t think I knew her.

  Coach’s eyebrows lifted, as if she wasn’t sure what to say either.

  “…She’s famous for catching Bridger McCaulley,” the girl said with grin. “Nobody’s ever done that before.”

  “That’s my brother you’re talking about,” Lulu chirped. “He isn’t very easy to catch, because he’s fast.”

  The player’s cheeks turned pink. “That’s… exactly what I meant,” she said, while the other girls around her laughed.

  Coach winked at me, and the subject was dropped.

  “Good evening!” boomed the announcer over the sound system. “And welcome to the Eastern College Hockey Conference semifinal game between Harkness College and Quinnipiac!”