Maybe there aren’t any good ones.
I spend a little while longer up in the storage/apartment convincing myself to stop crying and then crying all over again. And when I finally lock up, I’m back to being ready to get the hell out of this town.
“Get off me!”
I freeze at the bottom of the outside staircase, recognizing Keith Tanley’s voice but not the sharpness it carries. I peer around the corner, spotting a stumbling Keith with scrawny Tate, trying to hold his dad upright.
“Dad…just…can we please—”
Keith spits out a string of swearwords and struggles out of Tate’s grasp. Even though they can’t see me, my face heats up. I’m embarrassed for Tate. Embarrassed for Jody, despite her absence. Embarrassed for anyone like me who has only seen the completely together, always charming version of Keith Tanley.
I should hide out until they’re gone. That would be easier for Tate. Easier for me, too.
But then Keith shoves Tate hard. He falls on his side onto the gravel parking lot. Dust floats around him. Mr. Tanley reaches down, grips Tate’s arm, pulling him to his feet. He tugs him along, flings the passenger side door open, and attempts to shove his son in. But Tate holds himself in place. He reaches out and grabs the bed of the truck, his feet skidding in the rocks as his dad pushes him harder.
“Get in the truck!” Mr. Tanley says. “I swear to God, kid, if you ever touch my goddamn keys again…”
My heart pounds, my hands shake, but I have to do something. I walk toward them and shout, “Tate!”
Both of them turn their heads in my direction. Tate’s eyes are wide, his mouth falling open. Panic fills his face. He doesn’t want me here.
Keith shoves Tate against the truck then releases a frustrated groan. “See what you did? You get in the truck when I tell you!”
A glass beer bottle swings in his hand—how did he leave with that?—and his anger seems to tip over the edge. He gives Tate a hard kick to the stomach, sending him backward. Tate hits the ground hard, reaching out an arm to break his fall. Even in the dark, I see him wince, pain evident on his face. Keith flings the beer bottle at the gravel parking lot. I dive between them, not knowing what else to do. We both manage to dodge the bottle, but Tate is still on the ground, shaken. I reach down for him, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt.
Keith yanks my hand from Tate and suddenly, Tate is on his feet again, staring down his dad—fierce and angry. Looking so much older than he is. Mr. Tanley, for a brief second, has a flash of fear in his eyes. Then he stalks around the truck, gets in, and takes off, leaving Tate and me alone in the parking lot.
Tate rushes over to me. “Claire, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I’m a couple of inches taller than him, but still, I grip his arm for balance and dip my head to look at him. “What was that? Is he always like that?”
Before he can respond, I release a gasp that’s close to a scream. His left sleeve has just slid up, revealing his arm and it’s—well, it’s not right.
“Oh my God,” I say, and he looks at me, alarmed. “Tate, your arm.”
...
–Tate–
It’s like Claire flips a switch, turning on the pain in my arm. It throbs instantly, but it’s nothing compared to the nausea that sweeps over me when I actually look at it. My entire body turns cold, my teeth suddenly chattering. I hold my arm out in front of me, not sure what else to do.
The color drains from Claire’s face, but she gets to her feet. “Your dad…he pushed you and you must have—” She shakes her head, stopping. “You need a hospital. Like, five minutes ago.”
“But my mom…” I’m still holding my arm out like it’s not part of me anymore. This seems to keep the pain at bay. “She’s there.”
My mom is an ER nurse in our tiny local hospital. She’s working all night tonight.
“Tate,” Claire says, resting a hand on my uninjured arm. “You can’t fix a broken arm without your mom finding out.”
Yeah, that makes sense. Wait…broken?
I look at it again—God, it’s messed up. “Okay, you’re right—hospital.”
Claire nods and then somehow, what feels like seconds later, she’s behind the wheel of her mom’s car, driving the two miles to Juniper Falls Medical Center. I lean my head against the headrest and put all my effort into breathing normally.
My arm is broken. The same arm that grips my hockey stick.
The darkness fades as we approach the bright lights of the ER entrance. All six parking spots out front are empty. Claire shuts off the engine and looks at me. For a moment, I’m completely free of pain. My mouth falls open but no words form.
Finally Claire says, “It’ll be all right.”
My stomach twists and turns. I don’t know what that means. And I’m too afraid to ask. I swallow back the fear and use my good hand to pull the door handle.
Inside, the ER is dead. So, of course my mom spots me right away. Her eyes widen, gaze bouncing between the blood on Claire’s face and the deformed arm I’m holding carefully against my chest.
My mom is still for a long second before she rushes over. “What happened?”
Claire gives me that look again—the one she wore moments ago in the car—and now I know what she was trying to say. We’re going to lie. Both of us. Together.
I just don’t know why she’s doing this. For me. Because I’m too afraid to tell the truth? That my dad did all of this?
“I tripped on the wooden stairs at the bar,” Claire spits out. “And then Tate—”
“Tried to catch her,” I add. “But obviously that didn’t work out.”
My mom gets a good view of my arm and, despite her medical training, she goes pale like Claire did. “Oh God, Tate.”
There’s sympathy in her eyes. The kind that tells me I’m not playing hockey for a while. The nausea returns, and I glance around for a place to sit down.
But then Claire slips her hand in mine, and I’m okay again. For now.
Chapter 1
–Tate–
One year later
I keep trying to sit down, but every time Northfield takes a shot, I’m up, twisting myself into position like I can actually stop a puck from here. It’s impossible to watch a game from the bench where my glove and stick are completely useless. Especially after Mike Steller, our starting goalie, just let the Northfield Badgers score their second goal. In our first home game of the season.
Practically the entire town is packed into the arena right now. And after losing game one last week, the boosters and alumni have gone from smiling ass-kissers to using the stiff we’ll give you one loss but that’s it look. The place is so tense it’s like the walls are closing in on us with every minute the opposition dominates.
The buzzer goes off, signaling the end of the second period. With a score of 2–0. Them.
I hold my breath and wait for Coach Bakowski’s reaction. He flings his clipboard down the bench, and several of the guys on the team jump back.
“Goddammit, Steller!” Bakowski shouts. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Mike’s skating up to the bench, his helmet tucked under his arm. If it were me, my gaze would be glued to the ice. But Steller’s staring right back at Coach.
A silent argument seems to flow between them, and then Coach turns to the rest of us. “Get in the locker room, boys. Now!”
I stand up, start to follow my teammate Red, but catch Bakowski say to Mike, “You either get your head in this game or get out of my rink. I’m done with you and all your personal bullshit.”
Red catches me eavesdropping and grabs the front of my jersey, pulling me away. We file into the locker room and, given the heavy silence, I can tell I’m not the only one who heard Bakowski’s ultimatum.
Mike Steller’s spot on the bench in front of his locker stays empty. I sit there rotating the stick in my hand, testing out my left arm—a habit more than a necessity; the bone is fully healed and has been since about a month into la
st season. But I have to keep myself busy, waiting for the door to swing open.
“This is bad,” Jake Hammond, a junior, too, mumbles beside me.
Our senior captain, Leo, speaks up. “Steller may have let a couple of goals slip by, but that doesn’t mean we can’t score some of our own. Offense wins the game, right?”
Right. And the goalie loses the game.
Some grunts of encouragement follow Leo’s pep talk, but they’re cut off when the locker room door swings open. Coach Bakowski and his shiny black dress shoes, but no Mike Steller.
I glance beside me at Red.
Coach stops in the center of the locker room, folds his arms across his chest, and turns slowly in a circle. The dude is freakin’ intimidating.
“You listen up, boys,” he says. “We have one period left to play, and I swear to God if any of you even so much as thinks the name Mike Steller when our asses are on the line like this, don’t even bother showing up at practice tomorrow. Got it?”
Wait…if we aren’t mentioning Mike, does that mean…?
Red taps his stick against my skate and says, “Dude. You’re in.”
My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure everyone in the locker room can hear it. This is what I get for wishing earlier that I could play. I mean, I want to play, it’s just…fucking varsity.
“Tanley!” Coach swivels around quickly, stopping in front of me. “Number ten has a mean backhand, so watch out for that. Twenty-two likes to go high glove side.”
Everyone in the arena will flip when they see me in goal instead of Mike. I can’t be Mike Steller. Not yet. It isn’t my turn.
Except it is.
Breathe, Tate. Just. Fucking. Breathe.
Coach goes over plays, tosses around insults and errors until everyone is wound so tight the guys practically explode off the benches and out of the locker room.
Me, on the other hand, I’m hoping for a minute alone so I can go barf up the thirty-two-ounce Gatorade I downed in the first period. I try to stall, but Coach grabs my helmet from the bench and shoves it into my chest.
“Let’s go, Tanley, get warmed up. You ready?”
Fuck no. “Yeah, Coach. I’m ready!”
The whole walk out onto the ice is a blur, with a few moments of sharpened focus breaking through. Like passing by the Otters’s Wall of Fame. I’ve seen these names a thousand times, but tonight they take on new meaning. Those guys walked down this same hall, suited up in JFH green and silver, then went on to play in the NHL, the Olympics, or for top NCAA teams.
My stomach twists into a tighter ball of knots. The cheering of the crowd, the familiar Otter chants, turns my attention far from the wall back to the ice.
I’m not sure I can do this. I mean, I knew I’d play in a varsity game eventually, but Steller’s the senior. He’s the one with college and NHL scouts watching. He’s the one in the spotlight this season. Not me.
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. He’ll be back. Mike will be back.
Except I don’t actually know that for sure. He’s been missing practices lately, and we lost last week. And there’s his girlfriend and their—
Come on, Tate. Focus.
I can’t hear the Otters radio broadcast from inside the arena—especially with all the loud chanting—but I hear the announcement inside my head, dictating the play-by-play for the rare few locals not here: Otters substitution, number forty-two Tate Tanley in for number ten Mike Steller. I’m not sure what Coach Bakowski is thinking bringing in a cold goalie when we’re down by two goals. Let’s hope he’s got some magic planned.
In warm-ups, Hammond gets three shots past me, and even Red, who plays defense, sinks the puck low on my glove side. I can feel the crowd growing restless.
“Come on, Tanley, move!” Leo says after I miss his shot, too.
Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?
I stop to adjust my gloves and glance up into the stands—my mom’s still in her nurse’s scrubs. Roger is beside her with his five-year-old daughter, Olivia, on his lap. Roger, my new stepfather, whose boxed-up possessions are currently scattered all over my house.
And a couple of rows down from Mom and Roger, my ex-girlfriend is all cozy with a sophomore from JV.
I shift my gaze to the section where all the former Otters in town gather. At least my dad didn’t show up today. Last week he popped in on our away game, and I had to put up with all the guys on the bench going on and on about how great Keith Tanley is.
Okay, enough looking up in the stands. Hockey. Ice. Puck. Glove.
But before I even have a chance to get my head on straight, the ref is blowing the whistle. Leo and Northfield’s player face off and then a few passes later, the puck is sailing toward me. I manage to stop it, but my stick gets knocked out of my hand by my own defender and I can’t clear the puck out. Luckily, Jake Hammond is ready and sends the puck flying past the blue line.
I let out a sigh of relief and hold my position while the guys make the other goalie work a little. After a killer pass from Hammond, Leo blows the doors off the opposing goalie with a wicked slap shot from the point. And the Juniper Falls Otters are officially on the scoreboard!
Over the next ten minutes, my teammates help me out, clearing the puck when I’m in the wrong place. Even after we’ve managed to tie up the score, I can’t seem to find my rhythm. I’m hesitating too much. I’m not calculating shots like I should be. I’m thinking too hard instead of just doing.
With one minute left, Northfield calls a time-out. The crowd boos in response and then more chants erupt, feet stomping. The ice is practically vibrating. Leo skates right over to me and wraps his finger around the cage of my helmet. “Look at me, Tanley!”
I look him in the eyes, trying to calm my erratic breathing and slow my sprinting heart.
“I’m gonna go down there and score a goal, and you’re going to keep that puck out of our net, got it?”
I nod, and Leo gives me a shove and taps my leg pad with his stick. “That’s right. You fucking got this. We got this.”
True to his word, Leo takes twenty seconds to score, and then my heart is sprinting again. Number ten skates toward me, sliding and shifting the puck all the way. I talk myself through his possible shots and then I shut off all the chatter inside my head, my glove raising on its own.
Chapter 2
–Claire–
It’s, like, post-Rapture vacant in the bar right now. Which would be awesome if it weren’t for the flood of green-and-silver-covered Otters fans on their way over any minute. I wipe down table twelve for a fourth time. Aunt Kay gives me a funny look from her spot behind the bar. I just got back last night. My dad finally got released from the Mayo Clinic in Rochester where I’ve been camped out all summer and fall. I don’t exactly know how to be here. Again. And like this. Working.
My year away at Northwestern University somehow made me forget what the bar is like on game nights. Before the crowds race over here. I’d never been one to watch every single home game, either. I went to enough; I’m not that much of an anti-joiner. Most people assumed if I wasn’t at the game, I was here helping my dad, and that was mostly true. He didn’t give me much work to do, but we talked a lot. Often about things I wanted to do outside this town. Things that took me far away from here at the most crucial moments.
The game commentary hums across the bar via 107.5: Otters Hockey LiveOnAir playing from the ancient radio behind the bar, but I can’t make out specific details, like which period we’re in or what the score is. I don’t have anyone at the game I can text, either. My desire to get out of town last fall was so strong that I didn’t exactly do the best job of staying in touch with anyone.
With a heavy sigh, I toss the overused rag into the bucket of soapy water. Any more table washing and I might break out the choreography and do a rendition of “It’s the Hard Knock Life.” I grab my coat and put it on over my personalized O’Connor’s Tavern apron.
“I’m gonna check on the game,?
?? I yell to Kay.
I move briskly through the cold night air, my breath coming out in white puffs, my ugly kitchen-safe shoes pinching my toes as I cross the parking lot that sits between O’Connor’s and the ice rink.
The arena is packed—no surprise there. Betty, the old lady who owns the Spark Plug, a coffee shop and bakery down at the end of the block, is leaned against the boards, watching the game.
“Is it me or is this game taking extra long tonight?” I ask.
She shushes me with a raise of her hand and swings her big old-lady purse higher on her shoulder. “Tie game, one minute left…”
One minute left. There’s my answer. I’m about to turn around and head back to the bar, but my gaze zooms in on the goalie right in front of me and, more importantly, the name on the back of the jersey: Tanley.
Tate is playing goalie tonight?
“Where’s Mike Steller?” I ask Betty.
She shakes her head, her wrinkled face tensing. “I don’t know. Just got here. Someone said he walked out of the building still in full gear—skates and all.”
Maybe he’s hurt and went to the hospital. But I know Mike Steller, and I don’t see him agreeing to a trip to the hospital if he could still walk.
The ref blows the whistle and then proceeds to argue with Northfield’s coach over sticking or tripping or something. I turn my attention back to our goalie. Maybe it’s all the pads, but I can’t see any sign of the lanky, skinny arms he used to have. He looks close to six feet now. A flash of the younger, shorter Tate from last fall hits me.
I told him not to change. He promised me.
“Promise me something, Tate?”
“What?”
“Don’t change, okay?”
“Yeah, I know. You wrote that in my yearbook.”
“But I mean it now. Promise me you won’t become another varsity hockey player.”
The crowd erupts in a fit of desperate cheers. They’re already panicking at the tie game, and I can feel a rush of nerves.