Being Sloane Jacobs (31 page)

“I know,” I reply. I keep my gaze on the strip of rust over the rear wheel well.

“And you’re going to have to explain it to Coach Butler,” Dad says. His voice is in stern-dad lecture mode. “He had to call in a favor to get you into that camp. You owe him an apology. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bench you for the start of the season.”

“I know,” I say again. I stare at my shoes. I’m
not
looking forward to that conversation.

“Honey, do you still want to play hockey?” Mom asks quietly.

I can’t look her in the eye. All I can do is stare at her Mama Jacobs shirt. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I’m not even sure—I’m not even sure I can.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then she says: “Sloane, do you know that boy?”

I look up. Nando. I’d texted him to meet me here so I could say goodbye and explain one last time, but I never thought he’d show. The sight of him sends my stomach and all its contents churning, and for a moment I realize I was actually
hoping
he wouldn’t come.

“Can I have a minute?” I ask my parents.

“Take your time, honey,” Mom says. “We’ll wait here.”

I hug them both, then make my way down the sidewalk toward Nando.

“I’m glad you came,” I say. “I just wanted to explain.”

He spreads his hands, like
I’m listening
.

I take a deep breath and then pour the story out, the same way Sloane Emily did to Matt, the same way I did to Bee. I tell him about my mom, and the tingles, and how I thought I was done with hockey. I tell him about the fight that got me sent to Elite in the first place. I tell him about meeting Sloane Emily and how we agreed to change places. I tell him about her dad. And then I tell him why I lied.

“I knew how horrible it felt to lose something you love so much,” I say, “something you’re good at and can count on, something that can save your life.” I think about his
scholarship, and my own, the one that may or may not actually be coming. “When you said that you liked me because I reminded you of how much you loved to play, I was afraid the truth would hurt you. I couldn’t do that to you. I wanted you to be happy.”

He squints at me. “Even if you weren’t?”

“Yes.” I feel a tremendous weight lifting off my shoulders, and at the same time, tears forming in my eyes. I want to stop them. I try to brush them away, but within seconds they’re streaming down my cheeks. “I’m sorry.” I choke out the words. “For lying. For this. I never cry.”

“It’s okay, Sloane.” He reaches out and pulls me in, and I sob all over his Canadiens T-shirt, the same one he was wearing the night I first saw him again. He rubs my back while I sob quietly into the blue fabric. When I’m finally all cried out, I take a step back. He drops his arms and grasps my hands.

I glance down the block at my parents, who are pretending to have a conversation to hide the fact that they’re blatantly staring at us.

“They want to know if I’m going to play hockey anymore,” I say. My voice is still all quavery.

“Are you?” He brushes a strand of dark hair behind my ear. The feel of his fingertips on my cheek sends chills up my spine.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Well, I don’t think I was wrong before, Sloane,” he says. “I think you do love it. I think you’re just scared.”

“Do
you
love it?” I ask him.

He gives a soft laugh. “More than almost anything.”

“Me too,” I blurt out. And then I realize it’s true: I love hockey. I always have. That’s why I ran away from it. When my mom went away, and then it seemed like I was losing hockey, too, I couldn’t face it. I ran. At first it was by being a rage freak on the ice, and then it was by becoming Sloane Emily.

But even after all of it, I still love hockey. And I want it back.

“I’ve been thinking that maybe this just isn’t the right place for me. Not that the Canadian government or an expired student visa has anything to do with that,” he says with a little laugh. “But I
have
been thinking about contacting some other schools, maybe meeting with some coaches. I don’t know if I’m still good enough—”

“You are,” I tell him. He reaches his arms around me and pulls me in again, close enough that I can feel his heartbeat in his chest.

“Well, it sounds like we’ll
both
be looking at schools,” he says, smiling.

“Maybe even making some visits together,” I say.

“Sounds like a plan,” he replies, and pulls me in for a kiss.

When Nando and I finally say goodbye, I walk back down the sidewalk to where my parents are waiting. They’re staying in a hotel in town. Tomorrow we’ll all drive back to Philly together.

“Is everything okay?” Mom asks.

I turn and catch a final glimpse of Nando’s taillights as they disappear over the hill.

“Everything is perfect,” I say. “Or close enough, anyway.” Then we climb into the car, all three of us together, and drive off into the night.

EPILOGUE

SLOANE DEVON

I check my phone: 11:45. She was supposed to be here at 11:30. No text, either. I only have until 12:30. Then I have to meet my mom to head over to tour Mount Vernon. I might as well go ahead and order. Mom and I are here doing a little U.S. history–themed tourism trip around DC to celebrate the end of rehab. Dad couldn’t come because he just started a new job.

There’s no one else in line at the Starbucks in Dupont Circle, where Sloane Emily and I arranged to meet.

“I’ll have a tall cinnamon latte,” I tell the gangly barista behind the counter. Silver rings are stacked on his black-polished fingers.

“What kind of milk?” His speech is slow and bored.

“Skim,” I reply. I check my phone again.

“Name?”

“Sloane,” I say.

“Hey, that’s
my
name!”

I whip around to see Sloane Emily standing behind me, looking almost exactly the same as when I last left her in Montreal, only she’s cut about five inches off her hair and added some red and gold highlights to her new shaggy bob. I wonder what her mom thinks about that.

“Small world,” I reply, and hug her. She orders a venti iced green tea, and the barista doesn’t notice our matching names. Then we make our way over to a small round table in the window. Outside it’s a warm summer day, though there’s a touch of a chill in the breeze to let us know that fall is coming.

“Yay! I’m so glad we could get together,” Sloane Emily says, clapping her hands.

“Yeah, my mom is so lost in the Cold War exhibit at the Smithsonian that she didn’t mind if I disappeared for an hour or so.” Mom is one of those museumgoers who isn’t just content to look at the displays. She actually reads every single placard. It makes a stroll through a gallery last hours, and I definitely don’t have the patience. I tried to be interested for as long as I could, but I was really glad to have this time to escape and catch up with Sloane Emily.

“How is your mom?” Sloane asks.

“Good,” I reply. “She seems … better.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Dad and I went out there to do some of these family sessions with her before she finished up. It was really weird. Lots of apologizing and crying. But I think it really helped,” I say.

“That’s really great, Sloane,” Sloane Emily says.

The barista calls out “Sloane,” then a brief pause, then “Sloane” again. I look up and see him double-checking the names on the cups. I start to go for the drinks, but Sloane Emily beats me to it, bounding out of her chair and over to the bar where our drinks are waiting.

SLOANE EMILY

“So how’re things with your family?” Sloane Devon asks. It’s a question I’ve been getting over and over, from classmates and coaches and reporters, and every time it’s sounded like nails on a chalkboard to me. But when Sloane Devon asks, I’m surprised to feel my body relax.

“Eh,” I say, because I’ve never actually answered the question with anything other than “Fine” before. I’m not quite sure how to answer it honestly.

“That bad?”

I sigh. “No, it’s not really bad. I mean, it’s kind of awful sometimes. The Internet is having a field day with Dad. Conservative senator in a sex scandal? Those headlines practically write themselves. But he’s being really stoic about it, and sort of just focusing on work.”

“He’s still, uh, working?”

“Yeah. He refuses to resign, so we’ll see what happens in the next election.” I frown. “Amy left to do PR for some movie studio in LA. Dad says that’s over, but he’s moved
into this sad little condo in Georgetown. I don’t think Mom’s ready to—” I pause. I feel my lower lip start to tremble, my eyes welling up a little. I take a deep breath and wipe at the tear that’s trying to escape my left eye. I take another deep breath and shake out my new short hair. It’s a move I’ve perfected, and I do it any time I feel like I might fall to pieces. I square my shoulders, and I’m back. “Anyway, it’s not great, but it’s not the living worst or anything. We’ll see. We’re talking, at least.”

“That’s really good, Sloane,” she says. She takes a long sip of her latte, and I have a moment to really look at her. She’s back in her ratty old jeans, the ones with the holes formed through years of wear. She looks pretty much the same as she did when we first met, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail, only this time her T-shirt is a little more fitted, and … are those? They
are
cap sleeves! Maybe four weeks in my wardrobe did her good after all.

“Oh! I almost forgot the reason I wanted to get together,” I say, reaching for my tote bag, the one I got from Brown when Mom and I took the admissions tour last week. “I mean, other than to catch up and all that.” I pull the mound of blue fabric out of the bag and place it on the table.

SLOANE DEVON

“That’s your camp jersey,” I say. I push it back across the table at her. “That’s not mine.”

She looks at it and arches an eyebrow at me. “Are you sure?”

“Dude, you need some kind of souvenir from this whole thing,” I reply. “Why not the jersey from the game that you totally rocked?”

“I didn’t
totally
rock. More like Kenny G’ed it,” she says. Her cheeks flush a bright pink.

“That’s not what Matt said.” I watch as a grin twitches in the corner of her mouth.

SLOANE EMILY

My stomach does a little backflip at the mention of Matt. “You saw him?”

“I ran into him at a preseason jamboree,” she says. “A bunch of the high schools got together to play challenge games, and he was playing. Well, when he wasn’t mooning over you. He pretty much thinks the sun shines out of your ass.”

I feel my cheeks get hot again. Matt and I have been emailing, texting, G-chatting, and talking on the phone constantly since I returned from Canada. I haven’t seen him at all, but next weekend he’s taking the train down to DC. Just the thought of it has me buzzing out of my chair.

“Speaking of romance, how’s Nando?” This time it’s Sloane Devon’s turn to squirm. She crosses and uncrosses
her arms, shifting around in her chair like she’s in an FBI interrogation, but I see a slight smile start to form.

“Good,” she finally croaks, then clears her throat. “He’s good.”

SLOANE DEVON

“Good” doesn’t even begin to cover Nando. It’s like he won the life lottery these last couple weeks. Back when he was first looking at colleges, Boston University had been recruiting him hard, so when he called their coach to let him know he was looking to play again, the guy practically chartered a plane to come pick him up in Montreal. Nando flew down for a tryout, and it went really well.

But not as well as his UPenn tryout.

It turns out the UPenn team suffered a few injuries in the off-season, thanks to an ill-advised drunken rafting trip. After viewing Nando’s tryout DVD from his first round of college searches, the coach promptly called him down for a meeting and an in-person tryout. And so, in three weeks, Nando will be moving down to Philly to take a couple second-session summer classes so he’ll be eligible for spring hockey.

When I tell all this to Sloane Emily, she squeals so loud that a Yorkie passing by on the sidewalk barks at her.

“Dude, chill,” I say, but I can barely contain the cheesy, toothy grin on my face.

“Sloane and Nando, sittin’ in a tree,” she sings. I toss a
hunk of banana walnut bread right at her face. She bats it away, breathing deeply to recover from her giggle fit.

SLOANE EMILY

“I still can’t believe it worked,” I say. I think back to my first scrimmage, when I was wearing so many pads at least no one could see me shaking like a leaf. Sure, I’d played plenty of street hockey in our driveway with James, but I never
ever
thought I’d be out on the ice for real. “Can you believe we actually did all that?”

“Not even a little bit,” Sloane Devon replies. “It was worth it, though, right?”

The question hangs there in the air for a moment. Sloane Devon’s gaze goes over my shoulder, out the window and into oblivion while she ponders her own question. I stare down into my iced tea, trying to find a pattern in the ice cubes floating on the top.

“Yeah, it was,” I say, and as soon as it comes out, I know it’s the truth. Sure, it took a couple weeks for my bruises to fade, and my knees still haven’t quite forgiven me for four weeks of crash-course hockey.

But well, then there’s Matt.

Across the table, I see Sloane Devon smiling, and I wonder if she’s thinking about Nando. Her cheeks flush, and she shoves a giant chunk of banana walnut bread into her mouth. Yeah, definitely thinking about Nando.

“Would you do it again?” I ask.

“I don’t know if we could get away with it again,” she says.

“Sloane!” The barista barks out the name, holding up an iced coffee. He looks back at the side of the cup, where a name has been scrawled in black Sharpie. “Sloane J?”

I look down at my iced green tea, then over at Sloane Devon’s nearly full latte.

“Did you?” I ask her.

“No, did you?” She arches an eyebrow at me.