Shut Out (21 page)

When I get home, I see a light under Ella's bedroom door. She's home. I should do this now, while my resolve is firm. I set my suitcase on my bed, wipe damp palms over my jeans, and cross to her room to knock on the door.

“Come in.”

She must think it's Brooklyn or Natalie. I open the door and step inside. “Hi.”

She looks up from her computer. “Oh. Skylar. Hey.” She gives me a funny look.

“Can we talk? Actually, forget I asked that. I'm not asking, I'm telling you, I need to talk to you about what happened. There are some things you need to hear.”

“Funny. There are some things
you
need to hear too.”

I frown. “Like what?”

“Like…this.” She turns her laptop toward me. “It's about your boyfriend.”

I blink but don't move. “Jacob? What about him?”

“The things you learn with a Google search. I can't believe you didn't Google him when you started going out.”

I guess some people do that. Jacob and I are Facebook friends, and I did look back through his timeline and check out his photos from when we first met, just out of curiosity. But I didn't feel a need to Google him. I know where he's from, where he played hockey before, what his family's like.

“Why are
you
Googling him?” I squint at Ella.

“Honestly? I have no idea. But I found out some interesting stuff. And I think you need to know about it.”

I take a step closer. A sense of dread fills me, dark and cold.

“Your boyfriend was involved in a gang rape back in Saskatoon. Wherever that is.” She shrugs.

Those words make ice water run through my veins. I freeze and stare at her. “What?”

“Read the news article. There are a bunch of them. It was big news up in Canada.”

My insides snarl into painful knots. My skin goes cold and clammy. This can't be true.

I manage to walk over to Ella's desk. I bend slightly to read the screen. It takes me a few tries to absorb the words I'm reading.

It's true.

My stomach heaves and saliva pools in my mouth. My head swims. Jeez, I'm about to vomit. I can't do that. I swallow. And swallow again. Try to clear my vision. I straighten and look at Ella. “Why are you doing this?”

Her eyes widen. “Hey, don't shoot the messenger. It's not like I made this up. I just happened to find it. And I thought you should know.”

“So glad you care.” I mean it in a sarcastic way, but my voice is flat. “You've had a funny way of showing it.”

Her eyes cloud. After a moment, she says, “What did you want to talk about?”

I close my eyes. I can't do this now. “You know what I want to talk about. But…I can't. I…I have to go…”

I dash into the bathroom and puke my guts up. Then I curl up on the bathroom floor and sob.

I couldn't go home with Skylar for Thanksgiving. Things have been getting too serious between us. I can't take on all her problems and stay focused on my own goals. Some time apart will be good, and when she gets back, I'll let her know that maybe I don't need a fake girlfriend around as much anymore. I don't even know why she invited me. She knows we're not real. Maybe she was just trying to be nice. We
are
friends. Friends who bang each other's brains out any chance we get, mind you.

And I do care about her.

Christ. I care about her way too much. This can't be happening now. I had my goals so clearly set out in front of me when I came to Bayard. This is all about making it into the NHL after I screwed up so badly last year. Fear squeezes my insides in a cold grip, that fear of not making it that I've had ever since then. Only now it's even worse, because I'm not only afraid for me, I'm afraid for Skylar.

Fuck. I lean back in my chair and let my head fall back, my hands curling into fists.

I
was
curious to meet her family, the ones who've fucked up Skylar's view of herself. She thinks they're not proud of her. I'm dying to find out if that can be true. If I went home with her and checked out the sitch, I'd be able to reassure her they really do love her and are proud of her.

And if they aren't, I could kick their asses.

Metaphorically, of course.

I sigh. I'm never going to meet her family.

A heaviness settles in my gut.

The truth is, I've had a hard time concentrating on anything for the last week. Since that morning Ella stormed into Sky's room, I've been worried sick about Sky. She says she's okay, but I'm not so sure, considering how upset she was.

And she has every right to feel upset. I'm still furious about what that motherfucker did to her. And then cowardly took his own life rather than face up to what he'd done.

And I'm pissed at Ella too. What kind of friend is she to unload all that onto Skylar and not even give her a chance to talk about it? She had no idea what happened. Hopefully Skylar and Ella have talked about it and now she does know and everything is okay, like Skylar said. Or as okay as they can be, given what happened with their friend.

Things are quiet on campus over the holiday weekend, but there are a few activities going on for those of us not going away. Thanksgiving is a big deal down here. We get a turkey dinner with all the trimmings at the dining hall. Turkey dinner is one of my favorite things ever—I especially love gravy. I missed Canadian Thanksgiving, which falls mid-October, and I might not be able to go home for Christmas because we're playing in a big tournament in Florida right after that, and I'm not sure my parents have enough money for me to fly home.

Florida sounds awesome at Christmas. Right?

Sure.

I go over to Butch's place to spend the day with him and Barks. While we're watching football games, eating junk food, and drinking soda, I pick Butch's brain about being drafted and still playing college hockey. He got drafted by the San Jose Sharks in the second round last year, but chose to come back to Bayard and play another year.

“Why'd you do that?” I ask curiously.

“I wasn't ready for the NHL. I went to training camp but I knew I wasn't going to make it. My advisor convinced me I'd be better off playing here one more year, working on my strength and skills.”

I nodded. “Who's your advisor?”

“Jeff Hodges.” He grins. “Family friend.”

“Wow.” Jeff Hodges is a powerful agent who reps a lot of NHL players. As college students, we're not allowed to have agents, but we can get informal advice about our careers. I met Jeff once and we had a good conversation. He'd be one of my top picks for an agent. “Great to have someone you trust giving you advice.”

“Yeah. So this summer I'll go to training camp and we'll see what happens, but I think I've improved in a bunch of areas this year.”

I make up for the junk food and soda by going for a long run, and then hitting the gym for a punishing workout. Then it's back to classes and practices Monday.

Skylar is never really out of my mind. There was a pretty big snowstorm during the weekend and I wonder how she made out on her drive there and back. When did she get back?
Did
she get back? What's she doing? Did she see her irritatingly perfect sister? Did she talk to her parents about changing her career plans? How did they take it?

I'm totally behind her on that idea, and if they gave her grief, I could've been there to help out.

No.
Not. My. Problem.

Coach works us extra hard at Monday's practice after a few days off. Despite having our asses kicked, everyone else is in a good mood after, I guess from all the turkey and gravy they ate.

“What's your problem?” Buck punches my shoulder.

“Ow! Fuck off.” I glare at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You're moping.”

“I don't mope.”

“Oh yeah you do. And you know what? Sulking is a level two offense.” He raises his eyebrows and nods.

“Oh Christ. What do I have to do? Kiss your ass?”

“You know you want to.” He smirks and starts to turn around, sticking his butt out.

I snort. Now that I know him better I'm able to take his trash talk in stride.

Buck straightens, grinning. “No, you have to go out and start our cars for us so they're warm when we leave.”

“Fuck you. That's what command start is for.”

“I don't have command start.” Soupy raises his hand.

Actually, neither do I; my truck is nothing fancy. But I know Buck does.

“I'm not doing it. I wasn't moping. Or sulking.”

“Oh yeah? Check this out.” Rocket shoves his phone in front of my face.

I glance around wildly. If Coach sees him with his phone out, he'll be in trouble. But it's only us players right now.

I frown at the screen. Somehow he took a picture of me a few minutes ago, sitting on the bench in front of my cubby, staring at the shin pad in my hands, looking like I've just been told the NHL no longer exists and hockey has been outlawed.

“Shit.”

Everyone starts laughing. I hold my hand out. “Keys.”

Soupy tosses me his keys, as do a couple other guys, and I pull on my jacket, a tuque, and a scarf and jog out to the parking lot.

I need to get my shit together. I can't be all sad and mopey. I need to be focused and tough.

As the week goes on and I still haven't talked to Skylar, I find myself with a strange tightness in my gut. I'm edgy and restless and irritable. Concentrating on schoolwork is getting harder and harder.

Saturday night is our last game of the semester, against the Mavericks from the University of Nebraska at Omaha. Normally, I'd make sure Skylar's going to the game. There's a rock in my stomach as I step on the ice for warm-up, not having called her. I can't stop myself from scanning the stands to see if she's there.

I don't see her.

My legs are stiff and heavy tonight and it takes everything I've got to focus. I've used all the techniques I learned: visualization, picturing processes that will happen in the game and acting them out in my mind. Becoming the character I want to be when I step on the ice. Before the game, I had my iPod earbuds in, listening to 50 Cent singing “Ready for War,” which usually revs me up. I used my strategies of narrowing my focus—first when I walk through the arena doors, symbolically leaving shit behind, outside the arena, and then prioritizing my thoughts even more when I step onto the ice. I put my equipment on in the same order I always do, using that routine to create a feeling of security and consistency. I've done it all because I know I'm not at my best and I'm pissed off at myself. I don't let anything interfere with hockey.

I have a moment in the game when the puck hits my stick and I can see a clear break to the net. I put on speed, leaving behind the two D-men. I fake the Maverick's goalie with a move to the left and he comes out, way out. The whole fucking net is open to me, it's the easiest goddamn shot ever, but when I shoot, the puck goes wide of the net. The collective groan of disappointment in the arena hits me in the chest. I skate to the bench, shaking my head.

We lose three-two.

I know I'm not supposed to relive my mistakes, but dammit, if I'd gotten that goal…Ah well.

After the game, the guys are all going to Curly's. I tag along, even though I'm grouchy. Maybe a beer or two will help my mood.

We grab a couple tables and order. I'm looking around, checking out everyone who's there, still with a faint hope that I'll see Skylar. Although I don't know why she'd come when I haven't invited her. I mean, it's a free world and anyone can go to this bar, but…it's kind of our team hangout.

There are lots of other girls there, though. They're approaching our table, and the guys invite a few of them to join us.

Then I see Ella walk in.

Every nerve ending in my body goes on alert. If Ella's here, Skylar probably is too. But as I watch her, I see she's with Natalie. Not Skylar.

I swallow and look down at the beer bottle in my hands.

What is wrong with me?

Black Jack looks over at Ella and Nat. I don't like the look in his eyes as he assesses them.

“Aren't those your girlfriend's friends?” he asks me.

I glance over. “Yeah.”

“Where is Skylar?” Buck asks. “She coming?”

“I don't know.”

Buck frowns. “You two break up?”

I shrug and lift the bottle to my lips. “Just cooling off a bit.”

Apparently she got that I wanted to cool things off when I turned down her invitation to go home with her for Thanksgiving, because I haven't heard from her.

“Huh.” Buck gives me a puzzled squint. “I thought you were really into her.”

“Her friend's hot,” Black Jack says.

Buck rolls his eyes. “That slut sleeps with anything with a dick.”

I straighten my spine. “Hey.”

Black Jack grins lewdly. “It's true.”

It kind of is, but…“That's an ugly name. Girls can enjoy sex as much as guys.”

“Hey, I don't disagree.”

“Then don't call them names like that.”

Buck's smile disappears and his forehead creases. “Sorry, man.”

“Guys can sleep with as many girls as they want and
they
don't get called sluts.”

“Nah. They get called man-whores.”

I shake my head. “I'm outta here.”

“Already?”

“Yeah. The mood I'm in, I'm doing you all a favor.”

Buck gives me a long look but nods, and I push away from the table to leave.

I sit in my truck for a few minutes. I can't stop thinking about Skylar. This is nuts. I need to see her.

I end up parked in front of her house. There are still lights on, so someone's up.

I'm not sure what I'm doing there. I'm not sure what I want from her. All I know is…I miss her, with an empty, gnawing ache deep inside me.

I ring the bell and wait, hands in my pockets. It's only a minute before Skylar peeks through the high window, but after that it takes forever for her to respond. I'm almost at the point of wondering if she's going to ignore me when the door opens.

She stands aside and lets me in. I pause in the small foyer and study her.

She closes the door but hovers near it. Her small face is drawn into sad lines, her lips are pressed together, and her eyes are cool. “Jacob.”

“Hi.” I swallow. “How are you?”

“Good.” Her forehead furrows. “What are you doing here?”

I look past her, then around, then back at her. Then I just say it. “I miss you.”

Her gaze goes icy. “You miss me.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“I haven't heard from you for two weeks. You just decided this now?”

I swallow a sigh. “Um, yeah. I've been a dick.”

She gives a hard laugh. “Okay, glad I don't have to tell you that.”

I rub my face.

“Look, if you're here for a late-night booty call, sorry, but I can't do that.”

Booty call? What the fuck? “That's what you think?”

“Why else would you show up at one in the morning? After a game, which as we know, makes you want to fuck.”

I stare at her.

She crosses her arms and glares at me.

I guess I deserve this. But I hate it. I really have missed her. I want her in my life. Not for booty calls, although I have to say her booty is the finest and the calls are fan-fucking-tastic. But she's fun to be with. She makes me laugh. She's sweet and caring. She's been through hell and hasn't let it get her down; instead she took a fucked-up situation and turned it into helping other people. And she knows me. She sees past the tough bravado and cocky 'tude, sees my fears and insecurities, and she still likes me.

Or maybe that should be past tense. Because she sure doesn't look like she's very fond of me right now.

“I'm sorry?” Well, that's the lamest apology in the history of apologies.

She arches a brow. “Sorry for what?”

I swipe a hand over my face again and shift my feet. I sigh. “For so much, Sky.”

“Never mind.” She shakes her head. “You need to leave. I don't want to ever see you again.”

My mouth falls open. I know I was a jerk for not calling, but…wow.

She closes her eyes briefly. “I found out what happened.” She lifts her chin and meets my eyes, and hers are sharp with gold glints. “Why you're here. Why you got kicked off your team up in Saskatoon.”

Every muscle in my body tightens. The room shrinks around me. “How'd you find that out?”

“On the Internet. Ella actually showed it to me.” She gives a laugh that almost sounds like a sob. “She hasn't spoken to me for nearly two weeks either, but she seemed happy to fill me in on
that
story.”