Maybe it doesn’t matter what I do.
“Hi, Claire,” Doctor Weaver says, giving me a genuine smile, unlike the doctor-in-training beside her. He’s got that I’m eager to slice open brains and I don’t really want to care about the patients look on his face. I should know. I’ve spent enough time in this place with nothing to do but people watch. “How’s school going?”
Mom speaks up first. “She’s headed back in January.”
My conversation with Tate on the floor of the storeroom comes back to me, along with the “please pay tuition balance by…” date looming in the near future. How can I pay that bill? How can I leave now with everything like this?
Dr. Weaver returns to her medical speak, and after she concludes with the ambiguous we’ll have to wait and see outcome, I refuse Uncle Ned’s invitation for a ride back to Juniper Falls and instead head for coffee in the cafeteria.
It’s six in the morning, so I’m surprised to get a text from Tate this early. My phone is nearly dead, since I left it in the back pocket of my jeans all night.
TATE: everything ok? Still at hospital?
We’ve been playing this game for a few days now. He checks in on me, I give him a short conversation-ending answer, and then anxiously wait for the next time I hear from him. Neither of us mentions our kiss last Saturday night. It’s beginning to feel like a phantom memory, like I’m not sure if it was really as great as I think it was or if the excess whiskey (which I totally regretted the next morning) created this delusional version of the event. Part of me is screaming, Then do it again and find out! And the other part is wagging a disapproving finger at me and saying to pretend it never happened.
I dump a bunch of sugar in my coffee and then type a reply to Tate.
ME: currently “waiting and seeing.” And yes, still at Mayo.
There. That should keep him away for a while. That should keep me nice and lonely for a while.
I sink into a cafeteria chair and let the weight of the big school question press down on me. It was only supposed to be for one quarter. And then I would be back at school, back with my friends and my classes and professors. But it feels like we’re right where we were after Dad’s surgery. Except more broken.
I grab my laptop and open the Northwestern website. My heart sinks, just looking at the front page—tickets on sale now for the fall production of Chicago. Tears prickle in the corners of my eyes. If I could teleport myself there right now, I would. But how can I even think that? What kind of daughter am I to want to be somewhere else while my dad is here?
God, I hate this. This monster inside me with big, fat, selfish dreams. None of it matters. None of this is important in the grand scheme of things.
Furiously, I pound the keys, typing an email to my adviser. Then I pull up my winter quarter class schedule. One by one, I check the box beside each class.
And then I hit Cancel All.
Chapter 25
–Tate–
“Take your pads off, Tanley,” Coach says.
Thanksgiving was yesterday, so I’m still in a turkey coma and slow to catch on. Is he kicking me out of practice?
“Leave your helmet and leg pads. Get the rest off.”
Wait…what? “Excuse me?” I say, confused.
“You heard me,” he barks. “We’ll let Hammond send a few slap shots your way without protection and see if that gets you to use your glove.”
I glance around at my teammates, and the concern on all their faces is enough to send me over the edge. My hands shake, but I drop my stick onto the ice, pull my helmet and jersey off, and hand over my chest pads. All that sits between the puck and my midsection is a thin long-sleeve undershirt.
With my helmet and glove back on, I skate in front of the goal. Coach blows his whistle, indicating my teammates should proceed with taking shots on goal like they’d been doing moments ago.
I stand there trying to breathe normally. At first, no one moves. Then Coach blows the whistle right in Leo’s face.
“Coach, we’ve got a game in a couple of hours—”
“A game I’m about to bench you in,” Bakowski snaps.
To Leo’s credit, he shoots hard but low stick side.
Coach shakes his head. “High, boys! Glove side!”
Over the next several minutes, he keeps blowing that fucking whistle, rattling everyone. When Hammond is up, Bakowski rips him apart until he pelts one at top speed. Scared shitless, I dodge it. Bakowski has a field day with that. “Oh, sure, Tanley, just let the puck go right into the net. Great plan, son.”
He makes Hammond shoot again, and I dodge it again, but the puck loses speed, misses the net, and ricochets off the crossbar, hitting my right side hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
I lose count of how many pucks I dodge, a couple more bouncing into me without anyone noticing. My dad’s words after the shoot-out come back to me: Bakowski thinks you’re a head case. He can’t push you like he needs to.
The fear quickly turns to anger. Like wanting to shove that whistle down Bakowski’s throat and rip his fucking head off anger.
But eventually my glove does what it’s supposed to. And after fifteen or so saves in a row, not a single shot touching my midsection, Coach holds his hands up in the air, like a preacher on the altar. “Thank you, Lord. Tanley can use a glove.”
He ends our pregame practice on that note. And I use the break time to ice my side, which is quickly turning dark shades of purple and blue.
...
“Dude, you survived,” Leo says in the locker room after the game. It’s nearly cleared in here and we’re both showered, dressed, and gathering up our equipment. “A shutout is always something to brag about.”
“Don’t get too cocky,” a familiar voice says from behind me. Bakowski. “You’ve got guys like Hammond and Red clearing the puck for you constantly.”
I duck my head and continue stuffing pads into my hockey bag. My face flames.
“And you…” He points his clipboard at Leo. “We should have had at least two more goals tonight. When Hammond hands over the puck to you, you sure as hell better make the most of it.”
Leo’s mouth forms a thin line, but he keeps it shut. Both of us zip our bags and head for the exit.
“Well, that fucking sucks,” Leo mutters.
I let out a nervous laugh, nodding my agreement. I mean, we won. They didn’t score. He could have saved the negative feedback for practice tomorrow.
In the crowded lobby of the ice rink, Stewart approaches Leo and me, extending his hand. “Good game, T-Man.”
I stare at his hand but I don’t slap it. Not after the way he and Ron harassed Claire at the carnival. Leo looks back and forth between the two of us but must decide to leave it alone because he says nothing.
And then Jamie comes out of nowhere, launching himself onto my back. “The T-Man gets a shutout. Dude, I’ve got a six-pack with your name on it!”
I drop my equipment bag from my shoulder and wrestle Jamie to the ground. We’re tangled up, with him sitting on my stomach, when I look up and see Roger, only a foot away, talking to Mr. Stevenson.
Shit. Did he hear what Jamie said about the six-pack?
Roger catches my eye and lifts an eyebrow. He heard. Then his forehead wrinkles and he’s leaning over me, staring at my stomach. “What happened?”
Jamie jumps up and pulls down the bottom of my sweater. Okay, this is getting a little awkward. Jamie’s goofy grin dissolves.
I glance at the blue and black bruise streaking across my side and then shove my sweater down and push off the floor, getting back on my feet. My teammates are shifting around, all looking uncomfortable. I’m not sure what makes me lie, maybe old habits resurfacing, but I shake my head and mumble, “Nothing.”
Roger glances over his shoulder at my mom and Olivia, chatting with Haley’s mom. He lowers his voice before asking, “Did you get in a fight?”
Leo elbows me in the side, but I’m not sure what he wants me to do. Roge
r never played hockey; he won’t get it. I take a second to bend down and retrieve my bag before glancing from Jamie to Leo. “We’ve got plans, so, guess I’ll see you later…”
Jamie gives me a small push from behind, and then he and Leo and I are heading outside into the cold.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jamie asks. “Did you think Coach would bench you?”
“Yeah.” I guess it hadn’t seemed like a big deal to me. I guess I really wanted to play.
Leo’s grip tightens on his stick. “Fucking Bakowski.”
Jamie shakes his head. “I’m fucking sorry, T-Man. I didn’t know you got hit. And you played like that?”
Leo and I both stare at Jamie. He’s never this serious. His face is contorted like he’s in pain or constipated. Both Leo and I burst out laughing, and then we’re all three piled up on the parking lot ground, beating the hell out of one another.
A few minutes later, we toss our bags into the back of Leo’s truck and then drive around looking for food. We load up on snacks from the Quick Stop and end up at Juniper Falls Pond with Jamie’s stolen beer, Red’s stolen vodka, and a giant pan of Mrs. Hammond’s enchiladas.
“Since when does your mom let you out of the house with her fine dishware?” Red says, his mouth full of cheese and red sauce. We’re done with our pickup game of pond hockey, so we’re all hanging in the back of Jake’s truck, the beer and food piled in the center.
Jake shrugs. “I was supposed to drop it off at the O’Connors’ but they weren’t home.”
My stomach drops, and I suddenly become aware of my phone poking out of my pocket. Should I text Claire again and check in? I did that yesterday and a bunch of days before that. I should wait a few more hours. Maybe until the morning.
Leo digs his fork into the pan. “That’s pretty asshole of you, Ham.”
For a second, Jake looks guilty, then he shakes his head. “What was I gonna do? Leave it on the doorstep? My mom would freak if she knew they weren’t eating this fresh.”
“Never mind, then,” Leo snorts. “Nice work, Ham. You’re such a do-gooder.”
When Leo stands and says he has to get his phone from his truck across the street, I stand up, too, and say, “I’ll go with you. I’ve got to use the bathroom…”
“Duh,” Jamie says. “Go in the woods.”
I shrug and follow Leo. We walk through the field and then across the street, into the high school parking lot. He keeps glancing around, and then I notice someone leaning against his truck.
Kennedy Locust.
Leo catches my eye and quickly says, “I told him he could hang with us.”
Before I can even fathom why Leo would agree to this, we’re too close to Kennedy to ask that question.
“Nice glove work tonight, Tanley,” he says.
I stand there perfectly still, waiting for the punch line, but it never comes. And Leo never grabs anything from his truck. He keeps looking at me, like he’s challenging me to say it out loud. But I’m not. It’s complicated. Everything about this is complicated.
Leo and Kennedy quickly dive into conversation about the game and the opposing team. Right before we cross the street to head back to the pond, I glance over at O’Connor’s Tavern and see someone walking up the steps leading to the upstairs apartment.
Claire.
She’s home.
My heart skips and I’m right back in that storeroom with her, my mouth on hers, her fingers in my hair. And the last words she spoke to me before her mom called for her: Don’t leave.
Leo smacks me in the chest with the back of his hand and I realize that I stopped walking. His gaze follows mine.
He nods in Claire’s direction. “Go.”
I study his face to see if he’s being sarcastic, especially considering all of his don’t get involved warnings, though he seems to be backing off a little on that lately. “I don’t want to deal with Haley’s crew talking shit—”
“I’ll cover for you, T,” Leo says.
I look over at Kennedy, who is pretending to be interested in his fingernails.
“Don’t worry about him.”
The look on Leo’s face tells me everything I need to know without a single word spoken. He’s keeping my secret and I’m keeping his.
I take off in a jog, reaching the bottom of the staircase just as Claire reaches the top.
Chapter 26
–Claire–
“Claire!”
I drop my key from the lock and spin around. At the bottom of the staircase, wearing his varsity letter jacket and a very worried expression, is Tate. I don’t turn my back to him right away, and I think he takes that as an invitation, because soon he’s charging up the steps and is breathing his steamy air right in front of me.
My stomach does flip-flops and my fingers are all tingly, my thoughts drifting back to that night in the storeroom and Tate’s steady voice and perfect words… This is me being a grown-up.
“Hey,” he says, looking me over.
“Hey.” My face warms and I turn quickly, jamming my key back in the door. I push the door open and walk inside, flipping the light switch on. I’ve got exactly fifteen minutes before I need to be downstairs at the bar. I’ve got to make this place look presentable for a potential renter coming first thing in the morning.
I don’t know how to deal with these conflicted Tate Tanley feelings on top of everything else going on in my life, so I do what I do best now: deflect.
I toss my coat on the desk chair, my duffel full of dirty clothes onto the floor, and work on smoothing out the down comforter on the bed.
“How’s your dad doing?” Tate has slowly shuffled inside without permission and closed the door behind him, but he’s leaning against it. Unsure if he should move any closer.
I blow air out of my cheeks and throw two decorative pillows onto the floor. “He’s off the ventilator. Finally. But still sedated. So I don’t know.”
“What about your mom, is she still in Minneapolis?”
“She has to be there for this test he’s getting done on his spinal fluids or something and it’s Friday night and a home game…” The panic I had during the long drive home returns. I haven’t done inventory or anything with the books for well over a week. Who knows what’s going on with our finances or what damage the part-time staff created in our absence? My chest tightens and I quickly return the pillows to the bed—this is as good as the apartment will get—then I open my overnight bag and dig for the apron I stuffed in here last week. “Tate, I’ve got to get downstairs. I have a million things to do here and then I need to go home and sort through all the mail…” Mail meaning bills. Lots of bills. Oh God, this should be a good day. Dad is off the ventilator. I need to focus on that. But I can’t. I’ve ignored too much for too many days.
I try to breathe evenly and finally get my fingers around a green apron. I stand and toss it over my head. I stare at Tate, still leaning against the door. It’s like he represents the reality that I need to face right now. And because he’s right in front of me, all my anger gets directed at him.
“Let me guess?” I reach behind my back and fumble around, trying to find the ties for the apron. “You want to talk about what happened in the storeroom?”
“Well—”
I cut him off. “Everybody needs something from me. I can’t deal with you and…that right now.” I look away from him and add, “Besides, I never give much credit to anything that happens under the influence of large amounts of Jack Daniel’s.”
Hurt flickers across his face. I’m hit with a massive punch of guilt. Especially when I replay the way his fingers glided so gently over my skin, the things he told me about the fireworks on New Year’s, my palm against his racing— Stop! I squeeze my eyes closed and shove it all away. “Tate, don’t look at me like that. I’ve hardly slept in more than a week and I’m just…”
He smooths his expression and then takes a few steps toward me. One hand reaches out for mine. “Come here.”
> I’m rooted to the spot, staring at those green eyes. I shake my head, refusing any Tate Tanley touching. “I have to go,” I whisper.
He ignores me and moves closer until suddenly I’m enveloped in his arms, the warmth inside his unzipped jacket seeping out, drawing me in even more.
I attempt to slide back, out of his grip, but he holds on tighter and I can’t refuse anymore. My cheek rests against his shirt, just below his chin. His face touches the top of my head; his hands glide over my back and through my hair. I close my eyes and allow my nerves to light up, the tingling to return to my fingers and toes. I hold my breath and wait for it to stop.
“Breathe, Claire,” Tate whispers into my hair.
I inhale, my lungs starving for oxygen, my senses memorizing his smell. Soap. Fabric softener. Firewood. Winter air.
Since Dad has been in the hospital again, I’ve gotten a lot of hugs—from Mom, Aunt Kay, Uncle Ned. Even Doctor Weaver hugged me this morning. But none of those were for me. Not just for me, anyway. They were for Mom or Dad.
This. Right here. This is for me. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need it.
I slide my hands through Tate’s jacket and around his waist, squeezing tight. I hear him sigh, and I try not to think about kissing him again.
“You know, you’re allowed to have this,” Tate whispers, his breath on my ear.
A shiver runs up my back. “Have what?” Physical contact with my friend’s little brother?
“Friends.” He rubs his hand over my back and I’m not thinking friendly thoughts. “You know, people who help you with things?”
At the mention of things, my mind shoots right back to the huge to-do list, and the panic returns. My entire body tenses and I attempt, yet again, to step away. But Tate keeps his strong arms around me.
“Repeat after me,” he says. “Tate, do you mind helping me out tonight?”
I lift my head and look up at him, my forehead crinkling. “Huh?”
He smiles. “I’m not busy. You’re extremely busy. It makes perfect sense to me. What can I do?”
“Seriously?” I say, trying to hide my doubt. Finally he releases me, and the cold that rushes between us is more than unwelcome.