He looks so vulnerable, and it chips away at what’s left of my heart. “She is,” I answer, “but maybe you should, I don’t know, ask her your damn self. Just a thought.”
“We both know she wouldn’t answer any question I’d ask, Mel.”
Why do twenty-one-year-old guys think they know everything? Because they really don’t. “You don’t—”
“I do, ok?” he interrupts. For a guy who’s usually easygoing and up for a good time, Van looks decidedly wrecked as he runs his hands through his shoulder-length curls.“She likes to pretend that we don’t know each other. That what happened between us never really happened. And I go along with it, because fuck me, I’ll still do anything she wants. So, yeah, when I see her and she looks away? I do the same. When somebody mentions her name, I act like I’ve never met her. And I avoid the shit out of the library, but that’s no hardship for me. It’s never been my favorite place. I play along, ok? But that doesn’t mean I don’t wonder how she’s doing, if everything’s ok, you know?”
I nod. “Yeah, Van. I do. But I still think—”
“I know. And you’re still wrong.” He offers me a sad smile, then stands, picks up his bag, and walks away. Their story is so unfinished I can almost feel it, but that’s a worry for another day. Right now, I need to concentrate on my own love story and making sure that no one finds out Will and I are just pretending to be a couple. And if I’m not pretending as much as I thought I would be, well that’s a worry for another day too.
29
Will
It’s finally here. The moment I’ve been waiting for—my first time officially taking the ice as a Bainbridge Wolf. Warm-ups are starting, the seats are filling up with fans, they’ve got Ke$ha pumping through the sound system, and Mel is here. I’ve been playing hockey since I was in kindergarten, and I’ve been on some really good teams, but there’s an energy in the air tonight that feels different. This team just feels different. I know the guys lost last year in a heartbreaking final at the Frozen Four, and that loss still stings, but I also know they’re all looking for redemption. And I hope to hell I can help them find it.
We’re warming up and I’m getting ready to take a shot off Mikalski when I hear the sickening smack of a puck hitting bone. I’ve had my fair share of injuries on the ice, and I’ve seen teammates get hurt in practice and in games. It’s just part of playing a sport. But when Ryan Roskowitz drops to his knees on the ice, cradling his right hand in his left, it’s clear something’s wrong.
Norris skates forward out of the net, and I follow him over to where our team has huddled around Rosco. The trainer’s out there, and they’re talking too low for any of us to hear any specific details.
“What the hell happened?” I ask, and Norris turns to me. “He got nailed by a puck. It happens, but I don’t know man, this looks a little worse to me.”
“Nah,” Ollie says, joining us. “He’ll be good. They’re taking him back, they might X-ray it, but Rosco will be fine. There’s no way he’s missing the home opener of his senior year because of a stray puck.”
Coach blows his whistle, and we obey, lining up where we left off and going through the routines. I’m focused on the game, and certain that Rosco will be returning any minute, but as warm-ups draw to a close, I’m beginning to wonder if Norris was right. My suspicions are confirmed when Coach calls us in for a quick talk.
“You guys saw the hit Rosco took to his hand. Doc’s checking him now, and if his scans are clear,he’ll be back with us tomorrow night. But for now, you’re up, Franconetti. I’m moving you to the first line, and Haines, you take Franconetti’s spot on line two, ok? Jenksy, you’ll sub in when we need you, alright?”
Coach keeps talking, but I can’t process any of what he’s saying. My mind is buzzing. I hate that Rosco’s down, but injuries are part of the game, and like Coach said, he’ll likely be back with us tomorrow night.
Book tells us to hit the ice for a couple more minutes. We’ve played together in practice a couple times, but this is different. This is our home opener. This is my first college game. This is it.
My panic must show on my face because Santos claps me on the back. “You’ve got this, Franconetti.” He skates off and huddles up with Booker and the coaches, no doubt to firm up the new plan they just drafted.
My heart is still racing, but I know I need to focus. This is no time for nerves, no time to panic. It’s time to play fucking hockey.
We skate to centerline as our names are announced. The puck drops and play starts, and it sounds cliche, but it all happens so fast. I may be new to Bainbridge, but I’m not new to hockey. I’ve been playing at a highly competitive level for years now. A couple of the guys I played against in Juniors are now in the AHL and NHL. I know what to do on the ice. I’m just not doing it.
Or I’m doing it a second too late. And in hockey, a second can be an eternity. The beginning of the first period is rough. Not awful, but not great. My reactions are slow, and I miss a pass that lets Claybrooke swipe the puck and take a shot. Thank Christ, Norris has my back and stops the shot handily.
I try to shake it off—we’ve got a hell of a lot of playing left to do.Van nods in my direction, letting me know he has confidence in my skills. And at the shift change, Booker’s right next to me on the bench as we hydrate and catch our breath.
“Just let it roll off your back, man,” he tells me, like he can read my mind.
“I’m good,” I tell him, even though good is stretching it a little bit. I need to get in the right headspace but something about the newness of it all is throwing me off a little. I’m used to playing for a home crowd, and even though we’re in Wolf territory tonight, it doesn’t feel like home. Back in my prep school days and in Juniors, my family took up half the stands. And yes, they drove me nuts, but I’ve gotta admit I miss having them here. Back then, it was all familiar, and this sea of maroon and silver isn’t.
We’re up, so we hop over the boards and I mentally envision myself leaving my worries there on the bench. It helps a little, and I make contact with the puck and pass it off to Booker on my left. His shot is blocked, but he kicks it over to Van. They trade it back and forth until Lundgren, a guy from Claybrooke, clips it and heads toward his own goal. I skate down the ice after him and catch sight of Mel in the stands. She’s in the seats reserved for family and I can’t lie, that does something to me. But she’s also shivering, wrapped up in a puffy coat and a hat with a little floof on top. I can just imagine her telling me to get my head out of my ass and play some damn hockey before she turns into a popsicle.
Imaginary Mel has a point, so I smile in her direction, knowing there’s a slim chance she can see me, but I don’t care. I’m not gonna waste my time on the first line, and I’m not gonna let my girl freeze.
I’m here to play hockey, and that’s what I’m going to do.
30
Will
“Remember last night?” Santos asks us as we gather around the table chowing down on breakfast.
