“Some of the guys are carrying him; they’ll be right out,” Leo says, all casual.
“What?” Jody and I both shout.
Before he can answer, Tate walks out of the locker room. Completely unassisted. His heavy bag on his shoulder.
“You asshole.” Jody punches Leo on one shoulder while I shove his other shoulder. “No, Mom, no one is carrying him.”
Tate approaches us and mouths, I’m not talking to her.
He stops in front of me and sets his bag on the ground. I turn to face him and look him over, but I don’t move to hug him or anything. “I’m afraid to touch you.”
“He’s making a lasting impression on you already,” Leo says, breaking free of Jody’s grip.
“Mom wants to know if you blacked out or not?” She pauses, listening to her mom on the other end. “I’m not shining a damn light in his eyes.”
Tate moves closer to me, his fingertips grazing my arm. “Hey,” he says, his mouth right next to my ear. “I’m glad you came.”
This is not a catastrophically injured Tate. I smile at him and whisper, “You’re really okay?”
“That kid is fast.” Tate shakes his head. “He’s gonna be a nightmare to deal with next season.”
I grasp the sides of his jacket, tugging him down to my eye level. “Are you okay?”
He nods. “My stomach is killing me.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about the blade that jabbed into his abdomen, not any signs or symptoms of nausea that could be a result of a concussion. I reach for the hem of his sweater and dress shirt below, slowly lifting them up.
“Do not grope my brother right in front of me,” Jody says from behind me.
She’s about to dive between us but instead decides to chase after Coach Bakowski, who has just entered the lobby. “Coach, my mom would like to talk to you.”
He barely gives Jody a two-second glance, and then he yells over his shoulder, “Ty, phone call for you!”
I turn my attention back to Tate, pulling his sweater all the way up. The entire center of his stomach is bright red, bruises already forming. “Talk about battle wounds…”
I continue to stare a few seconds longer, and then Tate pushes his clothes back down. “I’m fine, I swear.” He dips his head again, planting a kiss on the side of my neck. I sigh and get two more kisses from Tate before he says again, “I’m glad you came.”
Aside from watching him get knocked out, I don’t hate this hockey-girlfriend gig as much as I thought I would. I kind of loved watching him play tonight. Maybe I even kinda loved watching all the Otters play.
When Tate steps away from me, bending over to lift his bag, my eyes meet Haley Stevenson’s all the way from across the lobby. She’s not glaring like I’d expected. She’s staring at us, though. She holds my gaze for a beat longer before turning away and pushing open the door. Nerves flutter in my stomach. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I know she’s thinking something about me. I have to make this right, but how? What do I say that makes it okay? Tate and I have this thing that goes way back to when he was eleven? ’Cause that’s not weird.
I turn to Jody, who is waiting impatiently for Ty to talk to her mom. But then when Kyle Stewart and Red stand near her, laughing about something directed at her brother and me, after my face flushes hot, she shoves both of them and tells them to go fuck themselves. An insult I’m sure her mom probably hears, too, from the other end of the phone.
Before he walks out the door, Tate glances over his shoulder one more time, giving me another smile.
Jody catches this, too, and with her phone back in her hands, she steers me out a different door. In the parking lot, Haley is standing around her group of cheerleaders, hands on her hips, speaking emphatically.
“Look, I don’t care if it’s a competition or not, you don’t wave at random guys while we’re in the middle of a cheer. All you’re doing is adding fuel to the cheerleader stereotypes. We’re better than that.”
Jody elbows me in the side as Haley breaks away from the other girls. “You should talk to her.”
“Right.” I nod, taking a deep breath. I have to jog a bit to catch up with her. She spins around to face me, and her eyes widen. “Look, Haley…I just—”
She lifts a hand to stop me, and her eyes close for a moment. “Don’t. Seriously. I can’t think about this—I don’t know what I’m supposed to think.”
I take a small step back. “I’m sorry.”
A few tears trickle down her face. She wipes them quickly. For a split second, I can’t help wondering if Tate is nuts for not getting back with Haley. She’s beautiful and smart and strong. Maybe stronger than me.
But then it occurs to me that she doesn’t know the Tate I know. She can’t, because he’s never let her see all of him. In my mind, I conjure the memory of Haley and Tate kissing at my going-away party. It was cute and full of curiosity and new—new everything. But he’d walked away from her that night, went back to O’Connor’s, and he became the Tate I know.
Haley swallows back more tears. Her voice comes out barely above a whisper when she says, “Okay.”
And then she turns around and heads for the bus. I stand there for a few too many seconds, I think, because Jody eventually hooks her arm through mine and she’s tugging me toward the car. “I know what you need,” she says.
“What’s that?”
“Hot fudge and double-chocolate ice cream…” She continues to give detailed descriptions of our favorite dish from a great ice cream joint in Homebrook that we’ve hit up before during an away game.
“I kinda feel like I don’t deserve any treats.” I glance at Jody and hesitate before adding, “Not just because of Haley… Something else.”
“Let’s have a confessional dessert, then. You’ll spill all your dirty little secrets and I’ll do the same.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “There’s this TA for my U.S. history course; nothing’s happened yet, but we’ve totally been dancing on the line. And now I’m not his student anymore…”
I squeal a little too loudly and then glance around to make sure no one is listening. On the way to get ice cream, Tate sends me a text from the bus.
TATE: want to hear a secret?
ME: ok
TATE: it was different today. The game. Hockey
ME: yeah?
TATE: more mine or maybe its always been? idk
Yeah, I know. But I don’t tell him his love of hockey is obvious. Watching him play, it was like seeing someone fall in love. It almost made me want to play hockey. Or hop up on a stage and deliver a heartfelt solo. But Tate needs to come to these conclusions on his own. That’s really what’s it about. Finding his own thing. Despite his dad.
Chapter 37
–Tate–
“Andi?” I repeat, glancing at Leo and then back at the baby through the glass window.
Leo nods. “Like a girl Andi.”
“I figured, considering the pink blanket and hat.” The babies trapped in little glass boxes are moving around a lot. Some are red-faced, their mouths open, but any sounds of crying are confined to the other side of the window, which is kind of weird, to see it and not hear it.
“God, it’s just weird,” Jamie says on my other side. “That thing was, like, a big bulge under Jessie’s shirt just the other day.”
I snort out a laugh. “Yeah, it’s a real scientific miracle.”
“I just can’t believe Steller has a kid,” Leo says. He holds up his phone, zooms in on Andi, and snaps a picture. “Big-ass hands; think she’ll be a goalie?”
Andi’s hands are like the size of a quarter. “I can’t believe he’s not getting out of here, you know?” I look around, suddenly regretting my words. “I don’t mean it like that; it’s just people around here aren’t exactly Mike Steller fans. That sucks. They couldn’t even show their faces on New Year’s Eve.”
Jamie has walked away to find a vending machine, so I wait for Leo’s opinion on this. They were seniors toge
ther. A year ago, this couldn’t have been Mike’s plan for senior year. Or after.
“Think about it this way,” Leo says. “People will get over Steller walking out. Being a hockey player who doesn’t go anywhere, having a kid really young with your high school girlfriend…kinda makes him fit in just fine around here. People like me, on the other hand…”
He doesn’t add any more. I turn my attention to the babies again. I don’t know what else to say. I mean, I know of people in town who are presumed to be gay, but not many are open about it—definitely no hockey players. But that’s not just here. I don’t know of any openly gay NHL players. Not that Leo has been open about anything yet. Not that Leo has plans to be in the NHL. But college…
The thought of college sends my stomach twisting into knots—for Claire and what she’s going to have to spill to her parents at dinner tonight, for me and what Dad did over break, and for—
“You’re gonna sign with Michigan in April, right?” I ask Leo. It’s been at least two weeks since the last time I asked this. Both Jamie and Leo held off on signing any letters of intent during the early signing period. They’ll have a week in April to decide.
“I’m waiting on one more decision,” Leo says. “But Michigan still feels right.”
Jamie has returned, so I ask him the same question. He shrugs and doesn’t elaborate more than that. Leo and I both press him until he admits the truth.
“I kind of…sort of…” He plasters on one of his famous goofy grins. “Might not graduate.”
“What?” Leo and I say together. We’re so loud, a pregnant lady and her husband walking the hall glare at us, like we’re wild teens loitering in the maternity wing.
Jamie shrugs again and looks at the babies. “It’s fine. I probably just need to do summer school and then I can play.”
We badger him for several minutes about this, but when we’ve gotten all we can out of Jamie, I ask, “So neither of you are considering becoming an SMU Hawk…?”
“Not a bad team, but I wasn’t feeling it there, you know?” Leo explains.
Yeah, I know.
Jamie opens a pack of Skittles, which earns him a glare from a different pregnant lady in a hospital gown, wheeling an IV. “I’d play more for St. Cloud.”
I sigh with relief.
Leo looks at me. “Why? What’s going on?”
Ever since my “unofficial” tryout, I’ve wanted to tell Jamie and Leo about it. I almost did, like, five different times, especially on New Year’s when I got tired and we were all hanging out together.
“No reason.” I shrug. “Just kinda got a bad vibe over there…”
Leo turns to face me, arms folded across his chest. “What kind of bad vibe?”
I glance from Leo to Jamie, deliberating. Jamie’s jaw has gone slack, mid-chew. I keep my head down and my voice low. My hands are shaking all over again. “The coach…he basically shoved me out on the ice and I— Well, I played. And he told me what to do.” I look up at them, hoping they see the regret on my face. “I mean, he coached me—that’s illegal, right? I’m not a senior.”
Leo’s forehead wrinkles. “Did he make an offer?”
I shake my head.
“Dude, where the hell was your dad?” Jamie hisses, keeping his voice low.
I dig my fingers into the railing below the glass window. “He was there. He didn’t do anything—I think he wanted it to happen.”
My legs are shaking now, too. I’ve never said anything like this to either of them. But Hammond had been there.
Silence falls between the three of us. I think Leo is about to say something, but Mike comes down the hall, sees us, and lets out a yell, complete with a fist pump.
“You guys made it!” He’s wearing a huge grin, though he looks scruffy and tired. “Look at my kid; she’s, like, the best one in there, isn’t she?”
I have a feeling hockey players will soon be banned from the maternity wing.
While Mike gets Jamie and Leo all riled up, I glance at my phone—it’s almost time to head to Claire’s for dinner. But when I turn around, Roger is standing less than three feet away, a big package of diapers in his arms.
Shit. Oh shit. Did he hear any of that? Why didn’t Leo notice him standing there?
I force a grin and clap Mike on the back. “Congrats, man. I gotta go meet Claire.”
He opens his mouth to respond but then spots Roger. “Hey, you heard! And you brought diapers. Thanks, man.”
I’m not sure how taking off quickly will change the situation if Roger did overhear the conversation, but I do it anyway because what the hell else can I do? I guess the theory is, if we don’t talk about it then maybe he’ll assume he misunderstood. Maybe none of it will be anything to Roger.
I make it down one flight of steps before I hear my name called. At first I pretend not to hear, but then Roger takes the volume up several notches and I’m forced to stop. He thunders down two flights of stairs, the sound echoing in the empty stairwell. He’s in better shape than I expected.
“Tate…hold up.”
I stretch my arms out as if to say, I’m here, what do you think I’m doing?
He reaches me finally—slightly out of breath—but keeps an empty stair between us. “Does your mom know?”
“Know what?” Nope, not admitting anything.
“About the coach working with you?” He looks me over, like he’s suddenly concerned for my well-being. Which is probably bullshit, but why would Roger care about NCAA eligibility? “Did you see anyone recording it? Did the university pay for anything like meals or…”
My dad bought lunch. Surely that won’t count against me. Will it count against Jake? Was that the real purpose of the visit? Maybe we’re forced into being uptight about all of these eligibility rules and no one really cares.
Maybe it’s fucked up that I even have to worry about it with my dad there. He should be protecting me; he should be worrying about all of this for me.
“Tate?” Roger prompts.
I shake my head. “I don’t—I don’t think so.”
“Your dad shouldn’t be using his position to pressure you into attending his school.” Roger pauses, waiting for me to jump in. I don’t. “Is that happening?”
I clamp my jaw shut tight and stare out the tiny window over Roger’s shoulder. I keep my face calm and cool, but my heart races.
Roger holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m not a coach. I couldn’t care less about hockey. I’m not gonna turn you in to the NCAA eligibility center. Whatever is going on, you can tell me.”
“It’s fine—” I start, but he interrupts me.
“Look, I’ve seen you go out of your way to avoid your dad on several occasions. I’m not an idiot, Tate.” He keeps his voice low. “I’m just saying, if something is going on, you can tell me. Consider me a neutral party, all right?”
If all the issues with my dad weren’t bubbling to the surface right now, trying to burst out, I could drop the defensive attitude, put on a happy face, and tell him thanks for the offer. But my heart is still pounding, too many memories I’d rather forget swirling inside my head.
I point a finger at the final flight of steps below. “I gotta go; Claire’s waiting for me.”
He attempts to respond, but I don’t wait. I take off down the stairs, and this time Roger doesn’t follow me. I have to be more careful around him. He’s seen too much already.
Chapter 38
–Claire–
Tate is uncharacteristically jittery sitting at my dining room table, eating pot roast with my parents and me. Maybe it’s the fact that the last time he saw my dad was probably when Dad decided to take a late- afternoon stroll in his underwear. But Tate knows he was sick that day—his brain swelling, fever rising—we just hadn’t discovered it yet. And he’s not insane tonight.
I rest a hand on Tate’s bouncing knee. It’s causing a clicking sound from his boot hitting the leg of the table. Relax. I attempt to send him the one-word message telepat
hically. In five minutes, I’ve scarfed down half my dinner. I was starving. I look over at Tate’s plate. His mashed potatoes and meat have a small dent in them, but the carrots and salad are still untouched. Same goes for his bread. And freshly baked bread is the one thing my mom makes better than Dad. The whole house smells like it right now. It’s amazing.
My mom reaches over to slice the meat on Dad’s plate even though it’s so tender it’s practically falling apart. My dad is in a surprisingly good mood today. Instead of glaring at her, cutting his food like a child, he leans back on his elbow and watches with amusement.
When she’s finished, it takes some work for Dad to get the fork from his plate to his mouth, but he manages eventually, and then after chewing and swallowing, he also manages to say, “It’s good.”
Mom beams. She’s come to expect critique in the form of narrowed eyes or glares at the dinner table. Not because Dad wanted to insult her cooking, but because he always had a suggestion or tip for her or me and he didn’t really have a way to communicate this.
“It’s very good,” Tate says, and then his neck turns pink. What is up with him today?
My mom rescues him by saying, “Thank you.”
Dad manages another bite of mashed potatoes, but when he goes for his glass of Diet Coke, I have to reach across the table to steady it. He waves a hand at Tate, who goes all wide-eyed and alert. Then Dad holds the marker beside him in his fist and begins writing a word on his notepad. He forms what looks like an H, and my mom leans in to get a closer look.
“How are you?” Mom guesses.
Dad shakes his head and scribbles out the word he’d been trying to write and starts a new word.
“Puck,” Mom reads, her forehead wrinkling.
“He wants to know how hockey is going this season,” I say to Tate and then look at Dad for confirmation. He nods and goes back to leaning on one elbow, his fork taking a break. It isn’t only his motor skills affected but also processing information. According to the therapist, right now it’s impossible for him to think about eating and the movements required to complete the task and listen to someone talk at the same time.