Bittersweet (16 page)

Ginger vanilla cupcakes with chili-infused dark chocolate cream cheese frosting, dusted with cinnamon

“Who’s
that
?” Dani stomps into my kitchen on Friday night with her sleepover
gear and a bucket of wings, the salty tang of Tobasco singeing my nostrils. “Oh my God, is that your father and Shelvis?”

“You got it. Daddy Dearest subscribed me to his new travel blog.”

She sits on my lap to get a closer look at the screen, scrolling down the opening post from Yellowstone National Park. There’s an obnoxious close-up of my father and his she-Elvis grinning in front of Old Faithful, his arm wrapped around her waist. Old Faithful? Right. Even though Dad went to Watonka High, he obviously missed Mr. Keller’s all-important lecture on irony.

Everyone says that the internet is so awesome because you can connect with people from all over the world, but I think it’s the opposite. The internet doesn’t make it easier to connect with anyone—it just makes it so you don’t really have to. And that’s exactly the kind of arrangement my father wants:
Just checking in, no no I can’t stay, thanks anyway, don’t get up, click here for more, seeyalaterbye.

“For a female Elvis impersonator,” Dani says, “I expected someone hairier.”

“Tell me about it.” I sigh. Long, dark hair. Good skin. Smile as bright as the new-fallen snow around them. She
is
pretty.

“Sorry, Hud.” Dani squints at the screen, tapping the woman with her finger. “Send me the image file. I’ll broaden her shoulders and add some facial hair, maybe knock out a tooth or something. Sound good?”

“I knew I could count on you.”

“Hey, this’ll cheer you up even more. Extra-hot wings for our pregame pig-out, and check it out.” She hops up to grab her bag and dumps a pile of homemade DVDs on the kitchen table.

I shuffle through the stack.
Wolves v. Bulldogs, Season XX. Wolves v. Quakers, Season XXI. Wolves v. Raptors, Season XXI
. “Do I even want to
know
how you got these?”

“I didn’t do anything illegal, if that’s what you mean.”

“That still leaves a lot of unsavory possibilities.”

She shrugs. “I have Mr. Dodd for gym. He loves me. So
I told him I was doing a spirit club project about the history of Watonka’s athletics program and wanted to see the DVDs. He gave me the football ones, too, but I’m saving those for my private collection.”

I laugh. “You joined spirit club?”

“I would, if Watonka High had one. I’d be the president of that piece. Holla!”

I return her double high five and flip through the rest of the pile. “This is awesome. Thank you.”

“Thank me later,” she says. “Let’s eat so we can bounce.”

With a little bribery of the Andrew Jackson nature for Mrs. Ferris and the Mom-radar jammed under the guise of a French study session at Dani’s house, my best
ami
and I hit up the Wolves game. The task of finding good seats proves completely unchallenging. Aside from us, the hockey boys, the opposing Raptors, the coaches, two refs, and the AV club freshman who films the games, there aren’t many people here—a handful of families and girlfriends—twenty spectators at most. The highest section is closed off with yellow rope, and only one side of the concessions wall is open.

“Welcome to Ghostville,” Dani says.

I hush her as the buzzer sounds and the ref drops the puck between the opposing teams. Raptors take it first, the center forward rapidly slicing his way to the Wolves’ goal zone. Amir stops him, cradling the puck and knocking it into Raptor territory. Raptors take it back. Then Wolves. And on it goes for several uneventful minutes until the end of first period, when
Josh finally takes a shot at the net—first attempt of the game. The Raptors dude saves it, ending round one.

From the penalty box, Coach Dodd consults his clipboard, calling out an occasional pointer or swapping players with as much enthusiasm as Trick remaking my screwed-up orders. He doesn’t seem to notice the obvious, plain as the white of the ice: Despite the scoreless second period, the guys are skating great. For the first time in a decade, they’re not losing. They’re holding it down in the goal zone, and other than a few recoverable mistakes, they’re keeping the puck away from the Raptors’ offense, weaving around the other team, unpredictable yet balanced, aggressive yet controlled.

“I think they listened to me,” I say. “They’re really keeping it together out there.”

“You surprised?” Dani asks. “I’m not trying to join the Wolf Pack Fan Club or anything, but you’re an amazing skater, Hud. They should watch
your
DVDs.”

“Yeah, but I never thought they’d—
wait
.” I lean forward to scope out the seats across the rink where a group of girls just piled in. “Is that Kara?”

“Yep. Looks like she’s with Amir Jordan’s girl,” Dani says. “Ellie something, I think? She’s in my English class.”

“I know who Ellie is, but what’s Kara doing here?” Kara jumps from her seat as the Wolves slice their way toward the goal again, beaming as if Will can see her enthusiasm from the ice. “She and Will are as over as Monday’s chicken à la king.”

“Eww, don’t remind me. My hair still smells like cream sauce.” Dani shrugs. “Anyway, she’s probably still friends with the other hockey wives. The players, too.”

“But—”

“For someone who’s supposedly not crushing on these boys, you’re getting a little worked up about this.”

I lean back in my seat and sigh. “I just think it looks desperate, that’s all. I feel sorry for her.”

“Mmm-hmm. Watch the game. You’re missing your hot little protégés take out their anger on the ice. Quite a sexy display, if you ask me.” She pulls out her Nikon and zooms in for some action shots. “And
hello
, number thirteen. Who is that?”

“Frankie Torres. He’s in our lunch period.”

“Guess I never paid much attention. Mental note: Pay much attention.”

I laugh and pat her on the back. “You drool over Frankie. I’m going down for hot chocolates.”

Concessions is at rink level, a long stretch of orange shutters that slide up like garage doors to reveal a counter and snack bar. Tonight only the far left side is open, the sweet, dreamy scent of powdered chocolate mix floating down the hall.

I order two cocoas with marshmallows, a bag of salt ’n’ vinegar chips, and some Reese’s Pieces. After about four hours the half-asleep concessions guy gives me change and piles everything into a little cardboard flat, which, now that I’ve mastered the fine art of tray-carrying, I can one-hand. I slide it onto my
palm, shove the change in my pocket, and turn back toward the stairs that lead to our row.

But I’m not alone.

“What are
you
doing here?” Kara asks, hand on her hip. Red-blond hair spills out from under a baby-blue cable-knit hat, and I want to hate her. I really do. It would be a whole lot easier if she was a cheerleader or something. The all-American bubblegum kind with a prom budget that rivals a celebrity wedding and a red VW Bug convertible with a big pink ribbon dangling from the rearview. It would be easier if her name was Brooklyn or Brianna or Britta or Bree and if she wasn’t president of the math club. If her parents were on the boards of elite charity golf tournaments rather than in the Southtowns Ramblin’ Rollers competitive bowling league. If she didn’t have to endure, perhaps even more tragically than the annual tri-state mathalon, their undying love of Buffalo Sabres lawn decorations.

It would be easier to hate my ex–best friend if it wasn’t my fault she was my ex in the first place.
Ex. Former. No longer.

“Sorry,” I say, “but I could ask you the same thing. I thought you and Will broke up?”

Hurt ripples across her face, but she recovers quickly, lips twisting into a scowl. “Unlike some people,
I
have friends on the team, and I’ve been at every game to support them.”

“And I’m sure they appreciate it.” I stalk past her, envisioning a mean-girl-style shoulder bump, but the only thing I do is brush her arm, so lightly it might as well be an accident.
She doesn’t say anything else, but still, after I turn the corner near the stairs, a shiver passes through me and my neck prickles with guilt, eyes aching from the effort of holding back tears.

“What took you so long?” Dani asks when I reach our seats. “Stop for a quickie in the penalty box? Have to admit, five-six is smokin’ tonight.”

“Ha-
ha
. No, apparently the concessions dude had to take a nap before he could make the hot chocolates. Hard work, you know?” I pass her a cup and the potato chips.

Back on the rink, Josh, Will, and the rest of my hot little protégés are holding off the Raptors with a combination of strength, intimidation, and a few new tricks for which I’ll take full credit. In the final seconds of the game I cling to Dani’s arm as Josh runs the puck toward the Raptors’ goal, totally unhindered. Closer and closer he gets, Raptors scrambling to reach him as the goalie tries desperately to predict the shot.

Josh passes to Will …

Will takes the puck and …

If Baylor’s Rink were a movie set, everything would melt into slow motion. The seats would be filled with classmates and parents and pro-hockey scouts and other adoring fans, all leaning forward to see the action, and as the buzzer signaled the end of the game, everyone would jump up and spill their drinks and scream and howl and hug the total strangers around them.

Because Will, confident and controlled, taps that beautiful black puck right into the net.

Ladies and gentlemen, he shoots. He scores. The buzzer sounds. The Wolves win.

And the crowd goes …

To be perfectly honest, the crowd doesn’t go much of anything. For the first time in more than a thousand days, the Watonka Wolves have won a game, and that kind of straight-up, balls-out insanity takes a minute to translate. Even Dodd looks stunned, his mouth hanging open while his brain undoubtedly replays the last five seconds. Dani and I climb down to the edge of the ice where the guys are all hugging and high-fiving, deer-in-headlight grins all around.

“Did that just happen?” Brad asks.

“Hell
yeah
that just happened!” I pull him into a hug. “Congrats. You did it.”

“Nah, girl.
You
did it. Did you see those turns? I’ve been working on my crossovers, just like you said.”

“See what happens when you listen to, wait, what was it again?”

He covers his face with his hands. “Don’t remind me.”

“I believe you said something about a homegirl who doesn’t know jack about hockey.”

“No need to bring up the past, Princess Pink. We’re cool.” He holds up his hand for a high five, but before we connect, two arms wrap around my waist and a pair of very soft, very warm lips brushes the back of my neck.

“You rock, you know that?”

Will
.

Will? Why is Will …
What?
My skin is on fire, but before my brain can invent a semi-intelligible explanation, he lets go, leaving me with nothing but that notoriously dangerous smile as he disappears inside the fist-bumping, stick-pumping mob of Wolves.

Dani gives me a gentle elbow to the ribs. “Hey, Josh,” she says to the other captain. The one who has suddenly materialized before us. “Nice game.”

“Thanks. You’re in my government class,” he says. “Danielle, right?”

“Yep. But I go by Dani.” She smiles, nudging me forward.

“Was this game for real?” he asks me.

“Um, yes.” It’s all I can manage in my current state of hot-little-protégé-induced shock.

Josh smiles, running a hand over his head in that adorably nervous way he has. “Everyone’s going to Luke’s tonight. Twenty-eight Washington, across from the Laundromat. See you guys there?”

“I … uh …”

“Sounds cool.” Dani grabs my hand and leads me toward the exit as the boys hit the locker room. Since I obviously can’t remember how to speak in complete sentences, I follow her without protest.

The rush of outside air snaps me back to planet Earth, and I turn to her and smile. “What the hell happened in there?”

“Baby, you are in some
serious
trouble with these boys.
That’s what happened.” She locks her arm in mine, the haze of our laughter turning white under the night sky as we make our way to the Tetanus Taxi.

We stop at Dani’s house to change and speculate and generally obsess, so by the time we get to Luke’s place, the party’s already jumpin’, retro Redman tracks spilling from two giant, eighties-style speakers in the living room. We toss our coats in a heap on the stairs and melt into the crush, most of the faces recognizable from the halls of Watonka High rather than the spectator seats at Baylor’s.

In a city where pretty much nothing cool
ever
happens, I guess good news flies fast.

“Hudson!” Will shouts from his perch on the kitchen counter and waves me over. I turn back to Dani, but she’s already engrossed in an animated discussion with her photo club friends. I grab a can of orange soda from a cooler on the floor and wander over to Will, hoping he might … I don’t know … explain why he half kissed me on the ice?

“Hudson, you know what you are?” He leans in close. Oh boy—here comes that expensive eau de Harper, trailed by a faint whiff of whatever liquor he’s working on.

“What am I?” I ask playfully, knocking into his shoulder. He wobbles before sitting up straight again, bracing himself against the cupboard behind his head. Honestly. This boy probably doesn’t even remember
what
happened on the ice tonight, let alone
why
it happened.