Cheers to that, wolf pack.
I raise my cardboard cup to the ice and take another swig, whipped cream tickling my lips. Down on the rink, the opposition slides out to a boo-hiss symphony, and the starters on both sides line up for the face-off.
The whistle blows. The puck drops. And it’s on.
Josh takes it first, cutting across the ice and slapping the puck down the rails to Rowan. Two more passes between them, one back to Gettysburg, back to Rowan, sliding into Sharks territory, over to Josh, Josh lays back to take the shot, but Will cuts across and nabs the puck, shoots hard, and scores, right between the goalie’s skates.
First goal of the game, less than two minutes in.
Will dominates the ice again, weaving in and out of the Sharks’ defensive line, the tightest turns I’ve ever seen him pull. When the other team steals the puck, Will steals it right back. He’s keeping it away from the Sharks, but he’s also keeping it away from his own guys. They’re total showboat moves, and in the final seconds of the first period, the opposing defensive line swipes the puck, sends it down the ice, and scores.
One to one at the first intermission, and Coach Dodd calls Will over for a private conference. Dodd’s hands flail around, his face red and blotchy, and Will’s shoulders slump. Dodd hasn’t paid much attention to Will’s technique all season, but when you’re backed by a pack of recruiters, priorities apparently change. Will should know better. Playing the showman card won’t score him any points with the suit committee.
At the start of the second, Frankie snags the puck from the Sharks’ center and slaps it to Josh. Josh takes it down the line, passes it to Micah, back to Josh at the Sharks’ net. Josh shoots and scores, right over the goalie’s shoulder, setting off a crushing roar through the stadium. My heart speeds up each time the boys skate back to the center line, and for the entire game, even though I’m sitting alone with no glittery signs or wolf-ear headbands or blue-and-silver flags, I cheer as loud as I can.
The Wolves are on fire, but Dodd lays into Will again at the next intermission. Josh stands behind them on the ice, bracing against the force of Dodd’s secondhand rage. By the time they line up for third period, both co-captains are on edge, elbowing each other as the ref drops the puck.
The score is tied three-three, and in the last five minutes of the game, a chant rises in the stands. By the time it reaches me, it morphs into a song, and soon the entire arena is belting out the chorus to Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London,” changing the words to “Wolves of Watonka,” which doesn’t have the same lyrical ring, but gets the point across.
The boys are completely pumped.
With one minute on the clock, Amir saves a goal and passes the puck to Luke, who brings it up to Brad, who sends it up to Josh, safely out of Wolves territory. I stomp my feet and sing the wolf song with the crowd, and in the final seconds, Will swipes the puck from Josh, charges ahead, crosses the Wolves’ blue line, the red line, the Sharks’ blue line, pulls his stick back, and slaps the puck straight at the goalie, straight through his gloves, straight into the net.
The buzzer sounds.
The game is over.
The formerly untrainable, apathetic, obnoxious, and most losingest team in history has just won the semifinals, four to three.
The wolf pack is going to the finals.
I push my way down to the ice, the boys smashed together in a free-form mosh pit, sticks high in the air. I dodge between groups of parents and step out onto the rink in my boots, scanning the crowd for Josh.
Both co-captains hang behind the pack, just out of reach of the celebratory crush. I slide closer. Will is surrounded by Dodd and the suit committee, news guy Don Donaldson edging in with a mic and a cameraman.
“Will, is it true that your coach is already fielding interest from NHL Central Scouting?” Don asks.
“We’re looking at our options,” Dodd answers for him. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak actual words all season. “No comment at this time.”
“What about you, gentlemen?” Don asks the suits. “Like what you saw out there tonight?”
“No comment at this time,” Dodd says again, nodding curtly at the camera and ushering his well-dressed buddies off the ice. Without so much as a congratulatory smile, Will’s father goes with them, disappearing behind the stands.
Will turns to skate away, too, but Josh grabs his jersey and yanks him close, their helmets almost touching.
“Josh!” I slide over to them in my boots, trying not to stumble on the ice. “Stop! What are you doing?”
Josh sees me and loosens his grip. “Go ahead,” he says to Will. “Tell her about your godfather.”
“But …” I look from captain to captain. “Dodd? That’s what you’re fighting—”
“You knew about him?” Josh’s eyes blaze.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I say, utterly lost. “Will didn’t like to talk about it, so … what’s up with you guys tonight? You just won the semis!”
Josh skates close to me, face red, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. “You two have been scheming together this whole season, and you’re asking me what’s up?”
“What are you talking—”
“That’s it, Blackthorn,” Will says. “I’m benching you next game. Keep it up, you’re out for the rest of the playoffs.”
“You’re the coach now, too?” Josh shoves Will’s shoulder. “Was that part of your sweet little deal with Dodd?”
I wedge myself between them and try to grab Will’s arm, but he dives around me, slamming Josh against the glass. I wave for Amir, but the rest of the pack is still hugging and fist-bumping on the center line, oblivious.
“Will, what are you doing?” I shout. “Back off!”
Will lets out a sarcastic laugh. “That’s not what you usually say.”
Josh’s face changes from red to ice-white to red again, Will’s cocky smirk undoing everything I said at Hurley’s yesterday. All the promises I made, the moments between us, erased in the heat of some stupid, testosterone-fueled misunderstanding.
“Josh, don’t listen to—”
“Was Hudson part of the package, too?” Josh asks. “Bonus for selling us out? Dodd’s really got the hookup, huh?”
Will tells a hundred more lies with a single suggestive look, but his smirk falls when he sees my face. Something like regret flickers behind his eyes, and then the wall goes back up between us, cold and solid.
“Jealous, Blackthorn?” Will spits at the ice, and suddenly, Josh winds up for a swing. Amir is next to me in a millisecond, the other boys close behind. Before Josh can connect, Amir hip-checks him into the glass, and the rest of the team swarms us, Amir holding Josh while Rowan and Brad pull Will across the ice, back to the locker room.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask Josh, voice shaking. “What do you mean, scheming? And why are you letting Will get under your skin?”
Josh shakes his head, panting and red-faced. I reach out for his hand, but he turns on me, speed skating his way to the other side of the rink, melting into the crush behind the stands before I can ask any more questions.
“Hudson?” Dani pushes through the tangle of undisturbed and still-singing fans. “Are you okay?”
“I’m … that came out of nowhere.” I shake my head, shock coursing through my veins. Everything happened so fast, a flash hailstorm on the ice. “I don’t … can we sit for a sec?”
She nods, and I follow her back to the seats at floor level, collapsing into the first empty chair I find. She joins Frankie a few feet behind me.
“You okay?” Kara loops her purse over the chair next to me and sits, face lined with genuine concern. “What happened out there?”
“Will and Josh got into it. Something about Dodd.” It’s all I can manage without breaking down.
Kara sighs. “Hud, I don’t mean to sound like—”
“So don’t.” I close my eyes. “Sorry. I’m just not in the mood for ‘I told you so
’ right now.”
“I wasn’t. I just … I meant what I told you that day. Be careful with Will. He’s got a lot going on, and I don’t think he’s being honest with the guys about what he wants for the team. He’s not—”
“This isn’t about me and Will. You have no idea, okay?” My voice wavers, and I close my mouth, willing her to go away. Why is she the one trying to protect me while my best friend is cuddling up with Frankie? Why didn’t Dani sit next to me? Why didn’t I ask her to?
Kara stands and grabs her purse from the back of the chair. “I just don’t want you to get hurt over this. That’s all.” She watches me a moment longer, but when I don’t respond, she finally says good-bye, following the crowd toward the exit in search of Ellie and her other friends.
“Heading home?” I ask Dani.
She looks toward the exit, then back to me. “We’re … um … we’re supposed to go for wings after the guys get changed. Do you … you could come if you want.”
“Maybe I’ll catch up later.”
“You sure?” Dani asks.
No. I’m not sure. I’m not sure if I’ll catch up later. I’m not sure if I want to go out for wings with you and Kara and Ellie, everyone laughing and chatting like this didn’t just happen, you and the hockey wives inseparable now. I’m not sure if I want to sit here and wait for Josh to come out of the locker room, try to talk to him again. I’m not sure if I want to scream at Will or ignore him. I’m not sure if you even want me around or if you just feel sorry for me. I’m not sure of anything.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Definitely sure.”
She squeezes my shoulder and for a second I think she might stay, convince me to go out with her or insist on ditching her plans. Look me straight in the eye, fold her arms over her chest, and call me out. Talk to me, girl, she’ll say. Spill it.
But she just sighs and slips behind me, weaving her way to the exit where the other girls wait.
When I turn around again, they’re gone.
Fresh snow blankets the parking lot, but my truck is totally clear, ready to go. Far from the crowds of Baylor’s, Will leans against my driver’s side door, jacket sleeves coated in snow, waiting.
“I’m sorry, okay?” he says when I get close. He’s got his boots and coat on, but underneath it all, he’s still wearing his hockey gear. His eyes are glassy, cheeks red from the cold. “I totally messed up. I tried to …” He motions toward my clean windshield.
“And now you think I want to hear anything out of your mouth? Just because you brushed the snow off my truck? Excuse me.” I push him aside and jam my key in the door lock.
“Let me explain. Please, Hudson.”
Behind us, a car crunches over a snow-packed section of the lot, speeding up and spinning into a donut on the vacant other end, the tracks making slippery black snakes in the white-gray slush.
“Two minutes,” I say.
Will sticks his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t tell you the whole story about Coach Dodd.”
“I got that much, Will. Clock’s ticking.”
“Okay.” Will shakes his head, eyes closed as he blows out an icy breath. “All year, my father kept laying into Dodd about giving up on hockey, giving up on me, spending all his time with the football guys. So one night after spaghetti dinner, Dodd looks at my dad and says he’s got an idea. Best of both worlds for everyone.”
“Why does this feel like an episode of Friday Night Lights?”
“It kind of is. Remember I told you Dodd wanted Watonka to drop the hockey program? I was supposed to help make it happen. That was my end of the deal. We already sucked, so all I had to do was keep the team losing and demotivated, and by next season, the school would drop us officially. In exchange, Dodd would hook me up with his recruiting connections.”
“On about ten different levels, that makes no sense.” I look beyond the parking lot to the black silhouette of the steel plant, smokestacks pointing their accusatory fingers into the sky. “If your whole team sucked, why would recruiters look at you?”
“Why does anything happen in this world, Hud? These guys are Dodd’s college buddies. I just had to be good enough to show I was a talented player stuck on a losing team. I could still get noticed if the recruiters saw potential, and Dodd would make sure of that. In return, he wanted the Wolves to crash and burn. I didn’t want to screw over the team, but I wasn’t about to pass up my one chance to get out of here.”
For sure, for real, just like everyone says.
“So you took the deal.”
Will nods, drawing circles in the frost on the rusty hood. “But then Josh told me about you, and I got this idea. I thought … okay, if this girl can help us train, we might win a few games without Dodd. He could stay with the football team. And chances are we’d still get canceled anyway, but at least I could avoid selling out my friends, and instead of being known as the one talented guy on a suck-ass team, I’d be the guy who led a suck-ass team to break a ten-year losing streak with a couple of unexpected wins.”
“Ah. Nice to know your ego hasn’t suffered any critical blows this season.”
“No, that’s just it.” Will steps right in front of me. “After a few games, my ego checked out. We came together as a team. For the first time in three years, I felt like I was part of something bigger. Like we could really do this. Win—not just a few games, but a lot of games. Dodd kept pressuring me to tone it down, but he couldn’t do anything about it in public. I dodged him for weeks, but tonight, he finally lost it. I was so mad after first period, I just took over the game. I wanted to show Dodd what I could do without him, but that made everything worse. I screwed my friends, embarrassed my father, and Dodd completely freaked. It was like he forgot there were people around.”
“Josh overheard?”
“Yep.”
I stomp my boots on the ground to warm my numb feet. “Did you explain to him about Dodd and your father?”
Will shakes his head. “You saw what happened after the win. Josh laid into me, and I was so upset about Dodd, and when I saw you looking at Josh like … like you always look at Josh … I don’t know. I flipped. I lost it. I’m sorry.” Will looks into my eyes, his voice soft and sincere. There’s no award-winning toothpaste commercial smile, no expensive cologne, no charmingly cheesy one-liners, no soft and distracting kisses. “You did so much for the team. For me. You’re actually kind of … amazing. Just like Josh always said.”
“Josh isn’t …” Was Hudson part of the package, too?
“Hudson?” He pulls me toward him again, but I press my hand against his chest, holding him back.
“I can’t do this.”
He sighs and leans in to kiss my cheek, close to my lips, sending a familiar zing across my skin. But it doesn’t last; it slips out into the night air, disappearing with Will. He gets into his car, reverses out of the spot, and vanishes down the road, brake lights fading into tiny red specks, the deep gray hole in my chest going black around the edges.
I turn my face to the sky. Heavy, wet snowflakes pelt my cheeks, sticking in my eyelashes until I blink them away. How can I be upset with Will when he was just doing what he had to do to secure his future? To find his own golden ticket out of here?
I don’t even know what’s important anymore. What’s worth fighting for, even if it’s not always a clean fight. Skating? Cupcakes? Hockey? My family? The diner? The scholarship? Dani? Will? Josh? My father? The past? The future? Everything I touch slips through my fingers like spilled hot chocolate. All I have left is the competition, the one thing that really can alter the course of my life. Fear and doubts aside, that was the deal. The promise I made myself when I signed up for the Capriani Cup.
Win it, and everything changes.
Now, more than ever, no matter how much it hurts to admit, that promise is the very last hope I’m holding, the only thing in my life that I haven’t yet spilled.
In six days, I’ll skate for those judges.
In six days, nothing else wi
ll matter.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bittersweets
Bavarian orange chocolate espresso cupcakes topped with dark chocolate ganache, chocolate icing, and a flower of orange buttercream
A plume of snowflakes swirls through the light of the Mobil sign next door, black lines on a pale blue glow announcing the price of gas and Newport Lights and something else with missing letters. Lake-effect wind lashes my bedroom window and my thin curtains ripple in the early morning draft, swaying at the edges.
I yawn and stretch and reach up to flick the light switch. From Bug’s room next door, Mr. Napkins squeaks out a lengthy response on his hamster wheel, which I can’t quite translate, because it’s too early and I haven’t had my hot stuff yet—coffee and shower, priorities one and two.
Twelve minutes later, I set my cup of joe on the bathroom sink as I examine my aching body in the fluorescent light, the parts I crash-landed on in training all week finally standing up for themselves. My triple/triple is solid, but my hip is bruised, a purple rose blooming on my skin. I feel a matching one on my elbow, and when I push up the sleeve of my bathrobe to inspect the damage, the door swings open with a rush of cold air.
“Don’t you knock?” I pull my robe tight as Bug looks up with his huge, matter-of-fact eyes, glasses fogging up from the steam of the waiting shower.
He holds up the hamster’s water bottle. “Mr. Napkins is thirsty. What happened to your arm?”
“Nothing.”
“Can I see it?”
“It’s fine.”
Bug looks at the shower stall and back to me. “Hudson, if it’s bruised, you should ice it. Heat will make it swell.”
“Thanks for the tip, Dr. Avery.”
“Saw it on House.” Bug nudges in front of me to get to the sink. He reaches for the faucet. Turns it on. Fills the water bottle. Twists and twists and twists the cap closed. Stretches to shut off the water. Dries the bottle on the hand towel. Turns toward me. And wraps his tiny arms around my waist, pressing his cheek against my robe. “It’s from Mr. Napkins,” he says, words muffled by the closeness of us.