Will and Josh, the only two wolves on the rink, exchange a frustrated glance.
“I’ll try again,” Josh says. He skates to the edge and slips the guards over his blades, hobbling into the locker room to find his teammates.
“Sorry about that,” Will says. “Not bad for your first try, though.” He squeezes my shoulder. I remember Dani’s “smoldering” comment in French class the other day and gently shrug him off.
“If that’s what you call ‘not bad,’ no wonder your team sucks.”
Will laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ouch.”
“Sorry.” I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings out here, but … not bad? Seriously? On the scale of things going bad, one being my infamous Black Melons cupcake fail—watermelon cupcakes with black licorice icing that even Bug refused—and ten being, let’s say, the Cold War, I’d call today’s meet and greet about a seven thousand. Hot-pink zip-up? Training Watonka’s hockey thugs? My so-called candy-ass moves against ten-cent wings at Papallo’s?
“It’s okay. It’s just the first night.”
“Will, this isn’t going to work. The guys don’t—”
“The guys don’t realize how much they need you. But they will.”
“I don’t belong out here with—”
“Yes, you do. It’s hard for them—no one wants to admit we need outside help.”
“You mean help from a girl.”
“I mean help from anyone not on the team.”
I slip my gloves back over my hands and flex my fingers. “Why don’t we talk to the coach, then? If he signs me on officially, maybe the guys will—”
“No way.” Will shakes his head. “Dodd is still technically our coach, but he doesn’t care about helping us win. And if he knew about you, he’d flip. Not to mention we’re probably violating some school insurance policy. I’m serious, Hudson. You can’t tell people about this—especially Dodd.”
I shove my hands in my fleece pockets, gloved fingers scratching against the foundation letter. “You’re giving me a lot of reasons to walk away.”
“I’m also giving you a big one to stay.” He looks out across the empty, unblemished rink and smiles, and we both know he’s right. Surly hockey boys or not, I need the ice time.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” Will says. “You wanted the ice tonight after practice? It’s all yours. Just let Marcus know when you’re done. He’s the manager here. He’s in the office down the hall—white ponytail, Sabres hat.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a good workout.” Will gives me one last squeeze and skates off toward the locker room.
Once he’s gone, I check the laces on my skates, do some light stretching, and push off the back edge. Methodically I loop into my figures, eyes closed, the cut and swish of the blades bringing me back to the only place besides the predawn Hurley’s kitchen that calms me. I’m still mangled from the Wolves firing squad, but a deal is a deal, and holy snowballs—compared to Fillmore, the ice here at Baylor’s is a downright dream.
I pick up speed as my legs get a feel for the place, each muscle rejoicing at the smoothness of the groomed indoor rink. I’m much faster here. Looser. Uninhibited. Just like I remember.
I skate hard to the other end and loop back, twisting into a scratch spin, tight and fast, arms high above my head as my feet twirl against the ice and …
Bam!
My ass hits the rink with the thud heard round the world.
“This sucks.” I drag myself up for another go.
“Rough night, huh?”
I whip around so fast, I almost lose my footing again. Almost. Josh smiles and glides across the rink, still in his skates and practice gear.
“Just you and me,” he says. “Will went to Papallo’s to talk some sense into them. I didn’t have any luck.”
“No luck, and no wings, either? Talk about a rough night.”
Josh laughs and motions for me to follow him around the perimeter. I fall in next to him, both of us taking long, comfortable strides along the edge.
“Hudson, when I first asked you about this … I mean, if I’d known Will would rope you into the team thing, I never would’ve mentioned it to him.”
“No. I really need the ice time. I just don’t know why he thought I could help the Wolves. I might as well be invisible out here.”
Josh shakes his head. “Will believed me when I told him about you—about what I saw at Fillmore. That’s why he thought you could help.”
I keep my eyes on the ice, my cheeks burning. “In that case, sorry I let you down.”
“You kidding me? The guys are mostly idiots, Hud. Seriously. Sometimes I think we need sensitivity training more than technical work.”
“Perfect! Next time I’ll bring journal prompts. We can all write about our feelings, and after that, we’ll listen to some Indigo Girls and make friendship bracelets.”
Josh’s eyebrows go up. “That … sounds pretty awesome. Hockey with feelings. I can dig it.”
We continue our shoulder-to-shoulder loop, picking up speed until we’re practically racing. He’s taller than me, and definitely strong, but I keep up with him anyway, matching his increased pace at each turn. On our fourth time around, I stop at the box for my water bottle.
“Man, I’m out of shape.” I try not to pant like a straight-up dog, but my lungs burn.
“Come on, you’re holding your own out there. I’m impressed.”
I take another swig and cap the bottle. “Don’t be. I’m good on the short bursts, but I suck at endurance stuff.”
“I know a trick for that. Something you probably didn’t learn at skate club.”
“I’m all ears. Um, skates. Whatever.” I clamp shut my cornier-than-thou mouth and follow Josh to the center line.
For the next twenty minutes we practice a hockey drill—some sort of sideways run-hop-slide move. I have no idea what it’s called officially, but if my lungs and thighs have their say, we’ll be calling it the Crusher. Or the Killer. Or the What-the-Hell-Have-You-Gotten-Us-Into-You-Stupid-Girl-er. By the time we finish a few sets, I’m ready to curl up and zonk out, right here on the rink.
“Strange night,” I say when we finally change out of our skates and pack up our gear. “Not sure I can handle a weekly dose of this stuff.”
“Whatever you’re training for, it has to be important, right?” Josh asks.
“Just my only chance at going to college and getting out of here. NBD, as my little brother says.”
Josh zips up his bag and throws it over his shoulder. “Then you have to do it, right? Give us another shot? Your future totally depends on it.”
“That’s a fact, fifty-six?”
“Just looking out for your best interests.”
“Aww, how selfless.” I laugh as we wave good night to Marcus and head out the front door together, my hips already feeling the burn of tonight’s workout. Josh walks me to the Tetanus Taxi, the banged-up Toyota 4Runner I inherited from Trick, and waits in the passenger seat until it’s warm and ready to roll.
“What do you say? One more chance?” He looks at me and smiles, his eyes softened by the muted green lights of the dash, and I revise my original estimate on the night’s badness scale from seven thousand to three.
“The thugs of Watonka can’t scare me off that easily,” I say, thinking of that smooth Baylor’s ice. “I’ll be back.”
“Sweet!” He pulls his hat over his ears and slides out of the truck, breath fogging as soon as it hits the outside air. “See you in school, Avery.”
My muscles ache, my bones are battered, and my feet feel like they ran a shoeless marathon over broken glass, but tonight, after I pay Mrs. Ferris, get Bug to bed, and sink my head into that cool, worn pillow, I pull the comforter tight beneath my chin and sleep better than I have all year.
Chapter Eight