Any Way You Slice It (14 page)

I'm really hoping this is my parent's first and last hockey game.

As it turns out, even though the members of the other team are the size of refrigerators, it's a league of guys with middle-aged beer-belly spread. Once we figure that out, we relax. We're way faster than they are and most of them are sucking wind at the end of the first period.

We might be lacking in skill, but at least none of us are passing out from the exertion. I actually feel a little bad about skating circles around them. But by the bottom of the third, we're tied at two.

With only a few seconds left, I'm still hanging high like Coach told me. Their defense is completely ignoring me. All of a sudden, Jake gets the puck and he fires it right at me. This time I'm ready for it. His pass hits my forehand as I'm curling around and I catch the puck in stride at the red line. The defense looks dumbstruck, like they have no idea what just happened. Their coach screams at them and I know they're hunting me. No way to fly under the radar now.

I cross the blue line and I feel a stick whack at my shin guard. I ignore it and keep moving. My chest tightens, not because of the dude trying to take me down, but because all I can think about is Coach's voice, echoing, “breakaway.” I don't have a clue how to score on a breakaway. The big dude pulls up next to me, and I hear the crowd start to count down with the clock. “Five … four …”

I jam on the brakes, spraying ice. The two guys fly past me, nearly taking each other out in the process. “Three … two …” The guy coming at me goes left instead of right. I pull my stick back, step into the shot and let it rip. The puck sails over the goalie's shoulder, right under the cross bar. The goal judge's light beams bright red. The buzzer echoes around the building and the crowd goes completely bat-shit crazy.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I blink as the digital scoreboard display adjusts to the winning score. The Rink Rats win their first game since 1989.

The team rushes at me, sticks held high in the air, chanting, “Spaulding, Spaulding!” and all I can think is that I hope my parents don't understand their words. I should be elated, I should be celebrating. But I'm panicking.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my parents moving down the bleachers. They're coming to talk to Coach. Whether or not they give the money for the sponsorship, they are going to talk to Coach, who was Dad's teammate back in high school. The jig is up, it's over. Lori stands up and meets them as they approach the glass.

Bless her.

I have no idea what she's saying, but it's my only opportunity to distract the team.

“Coach!” I yell. “We need one of your amazing talks about now!” The guys are all cheering and hollering. “Let's go, Rink Rats! Follow me to the locker room!” I sound like the deranged mayor of Munchkinland, but if I can just get them off the rink and into the locker room, maybe I can keep my parents away from Coach.

I have no idea what Lori tells them, but my parents don't follow us down the hall. As the guys are chanting and hooting, I sneak into the women's room to get out of my gear. Coach might be annoyed at me for missing the pep talk, but I've got to beat my parents back home. There's no time to waste.

Lori is waiting with the engine running at the side entrance. “I was afraid you weren't going to make it out,” she pants, as she helps me hoist my bag into the trunk. “You must be getting good at taking off your stuff.”

I throw myself across the backseat, breathing heavy, completely tapped. “What happened? Did they suspect anything? What did you tell them?”

Lori rubs her knuckles across her arm. “Your parents love me. I told them I thought you'd be so excited to tell the team about the sponsorship when you skate tomorrow, and that you'd love to be able to surprise them.” She peers around the backseat. “They loved the game. They're going to do it.”

She hits the pedal and speeds out of the parking lot. My phone buzzes, I'm sure it's Jake wondering what the hell happened to me. When I glance down at the message, it's my mom.

Feeling okay? We're going to stop by Slice. Need anything?

I type with shaking thumbs.

Better. Ginger ale?

It worked. I can't believe it worked. I can't believe I actually got away with it. I lean forward so Lori can hear me over the noise of the engine and the blaring radio.

“Did you see me out there?” I whisper. “Did you see me get the goal?”

“Oh, man, Pen,” she says. “It was truly epic. Messy and completely uncoordinated.” She smirks back at me in the rearview. “But awesome. Mathers is going to get a great write-up in my article.” She smiles and shakes her head as she pulls into traffic.

I lean back against the seat and close my eyes. I don't care if Mathers gets the credit. I just hit the winning goal for the first game the team has won in decades. It can't get any better than this.

If only Jake wasn't still pissed at me, things would be just about perfect.

By some miracle, my parents aren't home when Lori pulls into the driveway. We are both out of breath, but there's no time to stop to chat.

“Thanks. Now get out of here!” I yell at her, as I jump out of the car. Without a backward glance, the tires squeal backward out of the yard. I've just barely closed the front door, when they pull into the driveway.

I don't even have time to revel in my glory. My feet slip as I race up the stairs to my room.

“Pen!” Mom calls quietly a few minutes later from somewhere on the first floor. She thinks I'm sleeping, but I'm still fumbling to put my pajamas on and dive into bed.

She pushes my bedroom door open just as I'm rolling over. I peer over my comforter at her and give her a small smile.

“Oh, Pen, you're really sick.”

My face must be flushed from the exertion—but it makes a good cover. “How was it?” I whisper.

She pushes my backpack onto the floor and sits on the bed. “I forgot how much fun hockey can be.”

“Why, what happened?” I almost sit up, before I remember I didn't quite manage to change out of my jersey.

“Spectacular.” My dad appears at the door and I almost throw up even though I'm not really sick. It's the first appearance my dad has made this far into my room in two years. “It was fantastic. Not that the hockey was that great, mind you, but it was just fun to be at a game. I …” He stops in midsentence.

He's missed it? He wishes I would play?

He leans against the doorjamb and gets a really scary faraway look. “I'd forgotten,” he says quietly. “It really hasn't changed. I'd just forgotten. The smells, the cold. The energy of the crowd.”

Mom giggles. Really. She actually giggles. “Your mother will love saying she told you so.”

“Let's not tell her.” They both laugh, and I feel like I'm in the middle of a
Twilight Zone
episode.

“So…” I pull the sheet up to my chin, very aware that this would be a good time to tell them I'm on the team, but not wanting to break the magic. “Does that mean you're going to sponsor the Rink Rats?”

“I think it's safe to say that the Rink Rats can start wearing their rightful jerseys.”

My heart stops. “Wha-what?”

“Penelope Rose Spaulding. Did you really think we weren't going to find out?” He's smiling. And I'm not breathing.

Why is he smiling?

“Your savings account is attached to mine. I knew when you transferred the money.” He shakes his head and gives me a look I don't recognize. “I wish you'd come to me first, but your instincts were spot-on.”

I can't think of anything to say. My brain is frozen.

“Tim's House of Pizza? C'mon. We should have been the sponsor of this team from the get-go. This is what you've been hiding all this time. You've been going to the rink to watch the team.”

I risk taking a breath. My lungs don't collapse. “Right. That's right.”

“Don't get me wrong, young lady. You're still grounded for not telling me about giving away your savings.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“I know. And like I said, your instinct was right. We're the perfect sponsor for the team. I'm just sorry I was too focused on the show to pay attention in the first place.” He takes two steps into the room and leans over my bed for a quick kiss on the forehead. He thinks he's figured it out. He thinks it's only been about the money.

Perfect.

Perfect.

I find myself saying the word over and over. Taking the right change from a customer. “Perfect.” Getting a good grade on a test. “Perfect”. Getting my chest protector on the right way. “Perfect.” If I say it out loud a few times, it sounds weird. “Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.”

Like a rhythm pounding in my head. Sometimes sarcastically, sometimes seriously. The world feels perfect when I'm on the ice. Flying toward the net. Wind in my hair. Perfect when my mind is completely blank.

But without Jake talking to me, the whole thing falls short.

Then again true perfection would also not include a television show being filmed at Slice. The impending shoot hangs over our heads all week.

One afternoon, Lori “accidentally” proclaims to the whole school that
Local Flavor
intends to use Slice as their next victim, er subject. “I didn't mean to, but I sort of told Caroline by mistake,” she says.

“Whatever. The same as broadcasting to the school.”

“Honestly, most people already knew. It's not like you expected Troy Depalma's visit last week would fly under the radar.” She grabs a bag of chips off the rack and rips it open. “We need to stack the deck with supporters,” she says. “You'll need the people who love you to counter the trolls.”

So every evening, the place crawls with people who are hoping for their fifteen minutes of fame. Some of them don't even bother to order food. They're just looking for Troy Depalma.

On Wednesday after school, I can't put it off any longer. Grams's constant reminders have finally sunk in. I hang an out of service sign on the ladies' room door. It's well before the dinner rush, so it should only take me an hour or two. A tube of caulking, some white paint, and this bathroom is mine. I tie my hair back from my face with a bandanna and crack open the paint can. The fumes clear my sinuses and the hair inside my nose burns, but the ladies' room is such a small area, it'll be done fast.

I'm going over last week's game in my head again, reliving the winning shot. There has to be a way for me to do that every time. Unfortunately, flashes of Warren keep interrupting my thoughts. Tonight's our date. He's picking me up at Slice at seven o'clock. I'm just praying that tonight's not also the night the camera crew shows up. It's got to be Friday. That makes the most sense.

Maybe I can sic Jules on Warren instead?

But she doesn't deserve that.
No, it's my problem.

There's a knock on the door. “Pen? Are you in in there?”

My heart leaps into my throat.
What the hell is Jake doing here?

Jake has seen me after a game, all sweaty and wet. But that doesn't mean he needs to see me scraping sludge from the cracks of a bathroom floor. There's nowhere to hide, though.

“What?” The word comes out sharp and much too angry. It's really the first time he's spoken to me all week. I should be overjoyed, not biting his head off. The fumes must be going to my head.

He clears his throat and a second later he knocks again. “Ah, you might want to come out here.”

“I'm trying to finish this.” I carefully touch the paintbrush to the baseboard next to the toilet and drag a thin line of paint across the wood. Then I pick up the putty knife. I really can't believe it's come to this.

The door opens a crack and Jake peeks in. “Yeah, I know. It might be too late for that.”

“What are you talking about?” I try not to let the irritation show in my voice.

“Troy Depalma just walked in, cameras filming.”

I drop the putty knife and it clatters on the floor, cracking a tile.

“Crap.”

Jake looks like he wants to say something, but he's just standing there. “Can I help?”

Shaking my head, I toss the supplies in the bucket and stash them under the sink; they're the least of my worries now. I whip the bandanna off my head, and glance in the mirror. My hair is sticking up in all the wrong places and with no makeup, I look like I might be auditioning for a role on
The Walking Dead
. But there's nothing to do now except run my fingers through my bangs and hope for the best.

“You look fine.” Jake says, holding the open door.

I give him the stink eye. “There's no need to lie.” The outfit I planned to wear for the show is hanging over my desk chair at home. “I look like I've just been cleaning toilets.”

Taking a deep breath, I push my shoulders back and walk into the main dining room.

The room is full of expensive camera equipment and the production crew, making the restaurant feel like the size of my closet. A huge dude wearing shorts and a backward baseball cap holds an enormous camera on his shoulder. Another guy angles a giant reflective screen toward a group of people sitting in a booth, and still another is adjusting a bright light. A woman with the biggest makeup brush I've ever seen whisks into the booth.

And then I see him.

Troy Depalma with his Celtic tattoos and his bleached-white hair is holding court chatting with Mrs. Ng and Mai. “So, you own the market next door?” He looks incredulous at the camera and flashes his pearly whites, “I love small towns! Such local flavor!” He says the show's tag line with so much flourish, I almost lose it and laugh out loud.

“Excuse me …” I try to force myself through the wall of people watching, but someone pulls me back.