Never in my life have I been so relieved to hear the tinkling music of an ice cream truck. As expected, it’s flooded with customers the moment it comes to a stop, and Jase manages to get to the front of the line, resurfacing a few minutes later with two ice cream cones and even a couple of sodas.
“You’re a godsend,” I practically moan, relishing both the taste and temperature.
Same as always, I don’t have any money on me. It’s not that I don’t have any, period. It’s just all “safely” deposited in a bank account that my stepmom oversees. I haven’t been physically given my allowance since Dad married Blythe, and anytime I get physical cash from the holidays or my birthday, she immediately confiscates it and puts it away. I have a card to the account, so I technically have access to everything, but if I buy anything she considers frivolous, I’m in trouble. It’s her way of teaching me “responsible” spending. Every purchase must be run past her first before. There’s no paper trail you can follow after that; therefore, it must mean “you’re up to no good.”
Again, Derek and Vanessa have never been placed under this kind of scrutiny, but who am I to argue?
If not for the cone and soda in my hands, my fingers would be curling into fists at the very thought. Every day that I talkto Jase, the more he points out that these kinds of restrictionsaren’tnormal behavior. Blythe is flat-out micromanaging me for absolutely no reason, other than the fact that she can. I’m not some delinquent with failing grades and a drug problem. Yet, I’m essentially a prisoner with restricted privileges.
“I promise to pay you back,” I say. Somehow.
But he won’t hear of it.
“I don’t want your pity—”
“But I’m already throwing a party, and it’s no fun when it’s only for one.” He chuckles, giving me a playful nudge. “Seriously, you’re the farthest thing from a charity case, Birdie. Not to mention, I’m the one who dragged you out here in this hellscape. The least I could do is cover the expenses.”
Since neither of us wants to collapse from heat stroke walking all over town, Jase calls any prospective businesses where we can cool off, to no avail. The theater, mall, and even library still don’t have power, and any public pools are far on the south side. Plus, they’ll be crowded as all get-out.
Jase doesn’t seem thrilled by the prospect, but we head over to the hockey arena not far from the school. Blessedly cool air rushes out at us when we reach the front doors just as someone exits the building, but sure enough, we’re informed the rink is closed before we can even make it inside. To make matters worse, Jase groans under his breath when he realizes who’s locking the doors. Coach Strickland. Jase begins to backpedal, taking me with him, but it’s too late. He’s been spotted.
Coach immediately flags him down, forcing Jase to slap on a less-than-convincing smile as he’s ask about whether or not he’s going to join the team for some “pre-season clinics” in September. I have no idea what either of them is talking about, but Jase looks about as thrilled by the prospect as he would shoving his fingers into a blender, giving a half-assed noncommittal answer before excusing us when he gets a nonexistent phone call.
Only once we’re down the block and out of sight of the building do I voice what I’ve been noticing for a few weeks now. “Do younotlike hockey?”
I expect Jase to be annoyed by my remark, but he appears genuinely curious. “What gives you that impression?”
I nod behind us, only earning me a grin.
“Coach keeps trying to get me to change positions. He wants me to play forward, knowing full well the team will likely name me captain, and I don’t want that. I like being an enforcer. I get to play how I want, and there isn’t nearly the same kind of pressure on me than if I was captain. That would take the fun out of it. I just want to enjoy the game.”
But there’s something he’s not saying, and when I don’t interject, he looks back at me, seeing I’m not buying what he’s selling.
Jase huffs out a breath. “Itmightalso have something to do with the fact that I’d be taking the position away from someone who needs it.”
“What do you mean?”
“A few of the guys on the team are only at Winterborn because they have scholarships, and the only way they’d be able to pay for college is if they can get scouted. Forwards and goalies are the usually the most sought after, and I’m the last person who needs a scholarship. All I’d be doing is taking attention away from someone who does.”
“And the part where you constantly beat the crap out of people?”
He lowers his voice conspiratorially despite no one else being around, as if to divulge a secret. “That’s honestly why I picked the position initially.”
“So, youdohave anger issues?” I try to sound playful, but I find myself holding my breath. I can’t help it. I can’t reconcile the two very different personas I’ve seen from Jase. At school, he’s the bad boy bruiser. And yet with me, he’s the very definition of a golden retriever. Both of them can’t be real, can they?
“In sixth grade, my dad told me I had to join some kind of team or after-school program, and they actually had a local hockey league where you could play for any of the eight teams they had,” Jase explains. “When I showed up the first day, I had no clue what teams were good, but I overheard Maxwell Griffin bullying this one kid who had a stutter, so I just picked whatever team would be playing against Max’s that day in practice. And I chose being an enforcer so I could bodycheck that little shit into the glass. Knocked the wind right out of him.”
“What about Owen Pierce?” I still remember the look on Jase’s face back in March when our gym class was leaving the field house, only to stumble across him straddling someone on the ground, slamming fist after fist into the victim’s face. There was so much blood, no one in the crowd initially realized it was even Owen. And Jase’s expression was nothing but a cold, hard mask. Like he had been hitting a punching bag rather than bashing in Pierce’s nose.
Jase grimaces, but he still doesn’t look sorry about that fact. “You were there for that?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer, but his gaze drops to the sidewalk nevertheless.
“Pierce was being a dick, to someone who didn’t deserve it.” When I don’t say anything, he dares to look up, only to find me smiling.“What?”
“You’re a complete and total marshmallow.”
“Again,what?” The way Jase is staring at me, you’d think I told him his face looks like a foot.
