“Jake.” His name comes out short, a sharp syllable, and it stops him short, his face falling as he looks up at me. I hold his gaze for a long moment, set my jaw, and cross my arms over my chest. Before I can change my mind, I say, with my voice as level as I can keep it, “I want you to leave. And I never want to see you again.”
I’ve seen the expression Jake has on his face before — the same look was on my dad’s face when he found out his parents had died in a car accident. Devastation. Anguish.
Grief.
“Okay,” he whispers, and everything in me aches to reach for him, to pull him to me, to apologize and take it back. To tell him the truth.
For a second, I think it might be worth it. Sacrificing his future and taking away his chance might be worth getting to have a life with him.
But I know that it’s not. And that’s how I know I’m in love with him.
Silently, Jake turns, grabs onto the trellis, and swings his body over the side like he’s not overly concerned about whether he falls. I gasp and take a tiny step toward him, reaching to catch him just like I did that day in the tree house, but he’s gone.
I don’t even see him leave the yard before I turn and walk back into my bedroom, where I sit on the edge of the bed and bury my face in my hands.
Logically, I know that things are about to get much worse. This isn’t going to be the hardest thing about the path I’ve chosen to take.
Over the past few days, while feigning illness to Jake and my family, I’ve been combing the internet, reading about other girls choosing to keep their babies at a young age. Reading about what it’s like as a single mother and how to tell your parents about the situation.
And I’ve been watching videos of births. Reading about birthing experiences. Looking at all the opinions about getting an epidural and managing pain, natural births, and all the ways a person can ruin a baby without meaning to.
How well-meaning you can be and still mess everything up.
Knowing all that, I’m aware that everything after this is going to be harder than what just happened with Jake. But I also know I’ll never be able to forget the look on his face today. The hurt in his eyes when he turned and left.
The fact that he’s going to a future without me, and I wasn’t even able to say a proper goodbye.
CHAPTER 10
JAKE
FIVE YEARS LATER
“If Labowski doesn’t get off my ass, I’m going to lay the motherfucker flat,” I say, skating past my left wing and rocketing for the other side of the ice.
He says something in response, but I don’t hear it. It doesn’t matter anyway. Labowski is a D-man for the Rangers, and he fucked with our goalie earlier when he was trying to pick up the puck in the crease. The guy is on my shit list.
I’m dialed in, diving into the play and fighting for control of the puck against the boards, throwing every ounce of energy into my muscles, straining them to come away clean with the puck.
We’re in the final period of the last game of the Stanley Cup final, and it’s like every nerve receptor in my body is turned up to a million. I whiz over the ice, barely feeling my skates make contact with the ground, and watching as players arrange themselves in front of me — the Rangers D-men, my right winger, and the left winger catching up.
I know, with certainty, that I’m about to shoot the goal that’s going to tie the score.
“Fuck yeah!” The words snap out of me as I send the puck over to the left winger, who receives it (sloppily, as he has been the entire game) and sends it back my way.
The arena is packed, fans a sea of yellow and blue, screaming and booing and sloshing their beers. I know the rest of the arena smells like popcorn and nachos, but down in the rink, the only thing I can smell is sweat, blood, and the sharp cut of skates against the ice.
When I receive the puck, I drive at the goal, locking onto the Rangers’ goalie, who’s just out of his rookie season. He’s still a little tentative, a little slow to respond, coming off of an injury a few games ago that left his knee knocked up.
I draw my stick back, preparing to launch the puck straight into the back of the net, when a body collides with mine hard enough that my teeth clack together through my mouth guard, and I swear I feel my soul ricocheting out of my body like a damn cartoon.
When I taste blood, my gloves come off and I turn, knowing it was fucking Labowski who hit me and took that goal away. My team should have my back, but it’s just me and him squaring up, the refs nearing us but reluctant to interfere.
“Hey,” Labowski sneers, his stupid fat lip blowing spit in my direction. “You missed.”
The guy looks like a thumb, with a bulbous nose and eyes that aren’t quite the same size.
Coach told us all this week not to engage with him, not to let him rile us up. Well, too bad. He’s breaking the rules, he deserves to be leveled.
