Bittersweet (32 page)

And Josh pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, hands sliding down my arms. “Sh—I’m so sorry, Hudson. I didn’t mean … you and Will … I was so … not … thinking.” He rubs his head, his eyes everywhere but on my face.

“Josh, it’s okay, I’m not—”

“Can we just … can we pretend that didn’t happen?” He crosses to the other side of the fire and slumps in an old office chair, the swivel kind with wheels and an adjustable back, and presses his fists into his thighs.

Across the room, the fire is strong between us as he stares at the dusty, broken floor, and my heart rages against his words. After weeks of mixed signals and crossed wires, he finally kissed me—tried to, anyway. And now he wants to pretend it didn’t happen?

The wind pelts the walls with a blast of wet ice and his foot bounces on the ground, chair twisting back and forth.

I stand and cross the room. “Will isn’t … can we—”

“No. I better …” He’s out of the chair before I get to him. “I’m gonna get some air. I’ll be back. I promise.”

He doesn’t go too far—the shape of him blackens the bright spot of the doorway where we first came in. He pulls the hat from his back pocket and yanks it over his head, looking out across the great white bleakness, and I curl up on the
desk and watch the flames, trying to figure out how to rewind and instant replay the last few minutes. This time, when our lips brush, I’ll lean into him and pull him close. This time, I won’t let him talk. I won’t let him apologize. I won’t let him go.

As Josh dips in and out of the doorway, I unzip my bag and dig out my thermos and the smashed granola bar, occupying myself by making cold chocolate oatmeal in my mouth. I pace the perimeter of the room, tracing lines in the dust on all the desks. I peel swaths of paint from the walls, olive green, probably laced with lead. Toss rocks and metal chips into the standing half of a cracked porcelain sink behind the
HOT ACIDS
sign. Flip through decaying manuals on treating burns and chemical wounds. Throw paper time cards into the fire, one at a time, yellow flames sizzling like Trick’s grill as all the old work hours turn into ash.

“It finally stopped snowing.”

I drop the remaining cards and turn around.

“Should we chance it?” Josh asks, rubbing the chill from his hands. He looks at me a moment, and it’s like I can read his thoughts as they flash behind his eyes.
No. Let’s stay. We’ll stay up all night talking about the funniest movies and the best place to get hot wings and what happens at the end of the world, and in the morning, everything will be sparkly and bright, and no one will ever know about this place but us, our forever winter secret.

“Josh, can we—”

“Yeah. I mean no, you’re right.” He scoops some snow into the trash can, fire hissing into wet dust. “I just thought …
nah, we should head out while we can. Car’s buried, though. We’ll have to walk.”

Josh stomps down a path outside. He looks back at me and smiles, cheeks red from the cold, eyes sparkling like the unblemished whiteness behind him as I reluctantly follow. Together, we make our way through snow-covered streets as the good neighbors of Watonka emerge from their homes to help one another clear footpaths and dig cars from the drifts.

Everyone waves and smiles and asks if we’re okay, and yeah, maybe we’re fine, just like Josh tells them, but I can’t shake that moment in the Fillmore building, Josh’s lips brushing mine by the fire. The weight of it sits between us like a magnetic force, drawing us close, then pushing us apart. Is he imagining what it would be like to kiss me again? Or does he wish he could take it all back? Is he really, truly
sorry
?

I stop in the middle of the white street and step in front of him, his jaw set, eyes far away. My voice is rough and my mouth dry, but this much, I know: Josh Blackthorn saved my life. And then he tried to kiss me. No matter what happens next, I’m
not
letting this turn into another two weeks of silence, the entire history of us summed up in a series of near misses and almosts just because neither of us had the snowballs to say anything.

“Feel like stopping at Hurley’s for hot chocolate?” I ask. “Hang out with me for a while?”

“Hmm.” He finally meets my gaze, his shy, playful smile slowly returning. “With or without marshmallows?”

“With.
Duh
.”

“You got yourself a deal, Avery.”

We settle in at the front counter and Nat brings us two mugs of hot chocolate with double marshmallows. One sip, and that’s it—I can’t hold it in another second. “Josh, me and Will … we’re not together. We hung out for a little while, but it’s over.
Over
over.”

Josh stares into his mug, dunking the marshmallows one at a time with his spoon. “That’s cool, Hud. You didn’t have to—”

“Hudson! There you are!” Mom bursts out of the kitchen, practically rocket-launching herself onto the counter to reach me. “I was so worried about you with the storm and—”

“I’m fine. I was … we hid out at … Sharon’s Café. Just until it passed.” I look at Josh for confirmation and he nods.

“Next time, answer your phone.” Mom runs her hand over my head, her gaze slowly shifting to the adjacent seat. As soon as she notices Josh, her face lights up. “You must be Hudson’s boyfriend! I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

“Ma!”

“I’m Beth, her mom.”

Josh takes her outstretched hand, not correcting her on the boyfriend thing. “Nice to meet you. I’m Josh. Hudson and I are … we know each other from school.”

Mom smiles, checking him out. Meanwhile, my head is about to explode like a marshmallow in the microwave, but no one around here seems too concerned.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she finally says, “but can I see you in the office when you’re done, Hud? I’m putting in the meat order and I want you to learn how it’s done.”

“Meat order. Awesome.” That’s what I get for dropping by Hurley’s when I’m not on the clock. “Be right there.”

Mom disappears into the kitchen and I bury my head in my hands, willing myself to apparate to Parallel Hudson’s world. Olympic training, product endorsements, Ice Capades … wherever she is, it’s got to be better than this.

“Hudson.” There’s a hand on my back, warm and solid. Slowly, I unfold my arms, and Josh leans in close to whisper in my ear. “Come to the game tomorrow night.”

Goose bumps roll across my skin, and I shiver.

“Come to the game,” he whispers again, “and then have dinner with me after. Just us. I know a cool place.”

I look into his eyes, my heart speeding up like it did the moment his lips touched mine. “Not Hurley’s?”

“Definitely not Hurley’s.”

“In that case, you got yourself a deal, Blackthorn.”

“So now you’re making fun of me, huh?”

“Never. Well, maybe a little. But mostly never.”

“Good. See you on the ice tomorrow, then. The
indoor
ice. Better yet, the
sidelines
of the indoor ice. I’m not taking any chances with you. Got it, Avery?” He pulls on his gloves, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Josh, I—”

“Hudson?” Trick yells from the little window over the
grill, examining his slotted spatula as if he wasn’t spying on me. “Your mom wants to get that order wrapped up, hon.”

“Thanks for keeping such great tabs on her schedule. Tell her I’ll be right in.” I look at Josh. “You okay to get home?”

“I’ll ask one of the neighbors to dig me out.” He zips up his jacket and heads outside, bound for the snow-covered path back to Fillmore. I drop our chocolate-coated mugs and spoons in the bus bin, my heart light, my insides buzzing and alive.

Can we pretend that didn’t happen?

Not a chance, Blackthorn. Not a chance.

Chilled chocolate cupcakes with chocolate buttercream icing rolled in dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate shavings

Half an hour before the face-off against the Fairplay Sharks, Baylor’s is
humming, air heavy with the smell of buttered popcorn and anticipation. I grab a hot chocolate from the concessions stand and find a seat near the center line, away from the influx of random new spectators, away from Ellie and Kara and the rest of the hockey wives. Dani’s next to a few girls I’ve seen at the parties, but if she notices me, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

Down behind the player’s box, Will’s local news fan club sets up their equipment, panning across the crowd for the folks watching from home. Even Dodd’s got more guests tonight—a bunch of stuffy VIP-looking dudes in suits, all shaking hands with Will’s father. Probably the recruiting squad.

I swirl the hot liquid in my cup, heat radiating against my palm. Everyone is glowing, all of them clinging to an unfaltering, unified hope, and when the boys skate out across the ice and wave to their newly adoring fans, the murmurs in the stands give way to a thunderous roar. My heart races as Josh brings up the end of the line, and when he spots me in the stands and raises his stick in the air, my head spins.

I know I’m not part of the practices anymore, but now, as they glide around the rink in their blue-and-silver jerseys in perfect formation, the crowd stomping its collective feet, my whole body tingles with pride. Not to get all mama bear, but it seems like only yesterday the pups were stumbling out of the box, lumbering over the ice with all the grace of bricks.

Tonight they’re playing in the semis, heading for the finals, breaking records with the unlikeliest, craziest, most insane comeback in the entire history of Watonka High. Even if they lose this game, they’ve still performed miracles. When everyone else told them they couldn’t do it, they marched out to the rink, banged their sticks on the ice, and raised the dead.

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.