The Swap (28 page)

“Hockey, okay, you can do this.” I exhale and force a smile. Then I turn toward the window, pull the curtain away, and peek out. It's still dark. The Captain is already in the truck in the driveway. The headlights are on. “If you can see, you can skate.” I mutter The Captain's words, like that's going to somehow help.

One minute later, I'm busting down the stairs, dressed in the same clothes I was wearing last night. Jeans. Black hoodie. Slipping on Jack's sneakers. I've honestly never been so grateful to anyone in my life than when Stryker—still dressed only in his boxers—suddenly appears out of the basement carrying Jack's enormous bag of equipment.

“Stryker, oh my gosh, I love you!” I say. It just tumbles out.

He looks at me with a puzzled expression. “I love you too, man. I don't know what's gotten into you, big guy, but you're gonna do big things today.” He pauses and flashes me a smile. “Breathe, man. You got this. You're a stud.”

I take the bag, throw it over my shoulder and turn to go—

“Whoa, bro, you're unreal this morning.” He laughs, pulls me back with his palm planted on my shoulder, and hands me two hockey sticks. “You're gonna need your twigs, bud.”

“Thanks,” I manage. Stryker has a calmness that kind of rubs off on me. I look at him and feel like, you know, maybe this might work out somehow.

“And hey, bro?” he adds.

I pause in the open front doorway and look back at Stryker.

“Whatever it takes, man,” he tells me. “Don't give up. Ever.”

I heave Jack's hockey bag into the back of the truck and jump up into the seat that I was sitting in, like, four hours ago. Now I'm wide-awake.

I'm wide-awake and going to play hockey!

The last time I went public skating, I was ten years old. I glance at The Captain. I don't look too long. He's intimidating, with his silence. Before we back out of the driveway, before the truck moves? The Captain, without looking at me, hands me a mug of something that smells disgusting. I take it from him and slowly put it up to my nose.
Oh my gosh. So. Gross
. But I don't cringe. You think I'm nuts? I'm not about to tick this guy off. I have to suck it up. I have to do this for Jack.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, bringing the plastic cup to my mouth. I take a big swig and try not to grimace. Then I just count to five, close my eyes, and drink the rest of it.

The Captain does not speak the entire way to the rink. Not a word. I keep my head turned away. I try not to throw up the fishy banana smoothie. I watch the light rise out the window on the highway. A violet blue haze. There's way more people up at 6:17 a.m. than I thought. Cars whizzing by us, traffic. By the time the truck pulls into the rink, I feel the worst pit in my stomach. I have no idea how I'm going to pull this off. But I have to try. It's too late now. I put my hand on the door handle and take a deep breath.

“Jack,” says The Captain, finally breaking his silence.

I turn and look back. He's not smiling.
What did I expect?

“Yes, sir?” I say. I keep my hand on the handle. I do not move.

“This can all be gone in an instant.”

“Yes, sir!” my voice trembles, and I go to move, but I feel his hand grab me by the shoulder and pull me back.

“Did I say you're dismissed?”

I feel this awful pang in my heart. “No, sir!” I answer nervously.

“About last night,” he says. “Look at me.”

I turn. I do. I turn back toward him. “Sorry, sir,” I say softly. I won't lie. I'm working with everything I have to hold back tears.

He doesn't bat an eye. “No excuses.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer quietly.

“There's no gray area. It's black and white. Men do what they have to do. Boys do what they want to do.”

I have no idea what that means or what I'm supposed to say. We sit in the truck in total silence for at least a minute. Even the engine is off. I watch other boys get dropped off, laughing, smiling, bags over their shoulders. They all look bigger and older than Jack.

What have I gotten myself into?
I think, and watch them disappear behind the double metal doors of the rink.

Finally The Captain takes a deep breath. “Go” is all he says.

“Mallsy, got the flow chopped!” I hear it as I approach the doors, Jack's huge hockey bag strapped over my shoulder. I'm clutching his two sticks.

I glance back. The voice is coming from a tall, bright-eyed kid with stringy, long blond hair sticking out of his baseball hat. The closer he gets, the bigger his smile grows. “'Sup, dangler! Nice buzz cut, looks good, bud. Getting ready for game day! Sick style, Mallsy. I love it, man.” He grabs the door of the rink and holds it open for me.

I guess I'm lucky everybody loves Jack. I grin awkwardly at Happy Blond Kid and focus on fitting through the door with this huge bag. Inside, the air hits my face. It's cold in here!

Happy Blond Kid walks a few steps behind me. “Time to do work,” he says.

I glance back over my shoulder and give him one of those guy nods and keep my eyes focused straight ahead, walking down the hallway.

“Mallsy!” Happy Blond Kid calls out to me. “Where you goin', bro?” He laughs. He's stopped in front of a door a few yards back. “Unreal.” He smiles and shakes his head as I stop and walk back toward him. “Ha! Classic!”

When I walk into the crowded locker room, nobody even looks up. It's like an entire world in here of wide-awake, laughing, chattering, bare-chested, smiling guys. There's music blaring from speakers attached to the wall. Every guy is sitting, half-dressed, side by side on wooden benches. Hockey bags cover the floor. And
man
. It stinks in here. I have to concentrate hard to keep my nose from scrunching up.

I sit down in the first empty seat I see and throw the bag down on the floor.

The kid next to me looks up under his baseball cap.

“That's Bugsy's spot, bro.”

“Oh! Sorry.” I jump up and move to the only other empty seat across the room. I have to sidestep a zillion hockey bags, Jack's huge bag of gear slung across my back.
Okay,
I think, throwing it down again. Settling back into the seat, I glance nervously around.

This is going to be . . . interesting
, I think, and almost laugh out loud. I have absolutely no idea how to put this stuff on.

With the music blaring and guys talking and laughing and tossing things at each other, I come up with a pretty decent plan: my own solo game of Simon Says. Only nobody is calling out moves. It's just me watching Happy Blond Kid across the room. I copy every move he makes.

He strips down to his boxers. I do too.

He reaches into his bag and fishes out—

A jockstrap.

You can't not laugh. I try not to stare as I watch him slip it over his boxers. Then? I copy exactly what he does. And voilà! I am now standing with a hard shield protecting Jack's, um . . .

Stuff.

Next is this strap thingie that looks complicated. What the heck
is
this? I put it on—it's like a belt with these hanging buttons and hooks. Whatever. I have no idea. I just play the game and copy the next move. Happy Blond Kid sits back down on the bench, pulls big gold socks over his shin pads, first the left, then the right. He stands and—oh, that's what it's for. I almost nod. The hooks on the belt hold up the socks. This isn't as hard as it looks. Happy Blond Kid steps into a pair of giant pants that look like padded shorts. I find Jack's and step into mine too.

Okay. Next. Skates. First the right, then the left. I start at the bottom and pull the laces one at a time, work my way up to the top, pull real hard, and tie them at the top like a sneaker. Okay. That's it, right? I look around. No. Not yet. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Jersey. I slip the jersey over my head, one arm at a time, only it gets hung up on the shoulder pad. Oh, great. I kind of laugh. I'm sitting in a room with twenty guys, with a jersey stuck up around my eyes.

“I got you, Mallsy!” says the kid next to me, yanking the caught-up jersey down.

“Thanks, man,” I say. I grab Jack's helmet. Throw it on my head. Slip on his gloves and stand in my skates.

I feel like I'm going into a battle. I follow the guys. And it's Happy Blond Kid who looks at me funny right before we file out.

“Mallsy, better bring your stick.” He laughs. “What's up with you, dude?”

“Oh, thanks,” I say through the face mask, embarrassed. I grab one of Jack's sticks, clutching it like a sword in my leather-palmed glove. And that's it. I fall back in line. Somebody's dad smacks us on the back as we file by. “Keep it rollin', boys!” he barks, half smiling. “Show 'em what you're made of!” We march out like an army.

I'm the last guy out of the room.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

WHEN I WAKE UP IN
Elle's big bed, sun streaming in the window, the comforter pulled up to my chin, I honestly feel better than I have in a long time. I curl up and dig the sleep out of the corners of my eyes. I feel like I haven't slept that well in forever. I didn't toss or turn, or wake up sweaty and worried like I usually do. I just slept. Long and deep. And opened my eyes, and it feels good—

It feels good for about three seconds. Then?

I remember.

I remember everything.

The look in my dad's eyes. The fact that I'm missing hockey for the first time in my entire life. What a complete wreck I was last night. I was crying so hard. The messy kind. Big, gasping breaths. I couldn't even speak. I remember Summer tucking me in. Sitting with me. I didn't say a word. All I did was cry. I remember sobbing my eyes out before I finally fell asleep.

Oh, man. I flip over and smash my face into the sheets. Breathe in the clean.

Less than a day to go
.

I'm going to miss this bed. My mind begins to fill with the obvious thoughts:
safe to say, I'm probably grounded. I'll probably have to transfer to Saint Joe's
. I picture myself in the tie and that dumb navy-blue blazer, tan pants. Elle's brave! Man. She got into the truck. She went home. I can't believe she did it. Ballsy move. Took some jam! This makes me laugh. Well, obviously Elle doesn't really have—

Ha. Yeah. Don't want to think about that. I close my eyes again. I'm so exhausted. I don't think I ever want to get out of this bed.

“Ellie, hon?”

I hear a light tapping on the door and look up.

“Sweetheart.” Summer pokes her head in, then enters, sitting down quietly on the bed. She reaches out and places her hand against my face. “Hey, honey,” she says softly. “How are you feeling? A little bit better?”

“A little,” I answer slowly. My voice sounds scratchy.

Summer looks at me gently and takes a deep breath. “At some point, sweetheart, we're going to have to talk about what exactly happened, but for now?” She pauses for a long time, smiling at me with her eyes. She leans in and kisses me on the forehead, keeping her lips there for a long moment. “Oh, honey pie,” she whispers. “Sometimes you just need your mom.”

Downstairs. I walk into the kitchen wearing Elle's big fuzzy slippers and slip into a seat at the table by the window. It felt good to wash my face and pull my hair back. I'm wearing baggy sweats and a perfectly broken-in Boston College soccer T-shirt—I vaguely remember shedding the clothes from the party and putting these on last night. I watch Summer by the stove, flipping pancakes until she looks over and sees me sitting at the table.

“Oh, hey, hon,” she says, turning to me, smiling. She's dressed in the same yoga outfit from the day I met her. “Did you take a nice bath?” she asks.

“No.” I shake my head and manage a slight smile.

“No? Well, did you at least splash your face? That's always a good step.”

“Yeah.” I nod.

“Well.” Summer grins. “I hope you're hungry, I made enough for an army!”

The word “army” makes me think of my dad. And I'm pretty sure a worried look fills my eyes.

I wish I was at hockey right now
.

I glance up at the clock. The boys are probably just leaving the rink, bags on their shoulders, walking across the parking lot, laughing, joking. No better way to start the day than skating. I love the feeling after a good skate. Going back to the house, working out with my brothers. Every Sunday.

Summer hands me a glass of orange juice. “Sweetie? Hey, you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I lie. “Thanks,” I say, and lift the glass to my mouth. I'm suddenly so thirsty I guzzle it all in one long gulp.

“So listen, are you up for soccer? Because if you are, we have to leave in—” Summer pauses and glances at the clock. “About an hour. Look, honey,” she goes on. “Last night was a lot. I don't know what's going on. But I'm going to leave it up to you. I trust your judgment. And like I said, we really do need to talk about what happened. But we can do it after soccer.”