“I’m definitely not Olympics material. Just took some lessons when I was a kid.”
“I guess you could teach them now, right?” Josh says.
“It’s not like that. I just …” I shift my soda to the other hand and take another drink, wondering how much Kara told Will about our on-ice history. Wondering if any of the guys know about my once infamous choke-artistry. “I got busy with stuff. Didn’t really have time for training.”
Will cocks his head skeptically and I rush to add more. “My parents split up, so priorities changed.”
“But you’re seriously good,” Josh says. “I don’t know much about figure skating, but whenever I see you at Fillmore … and everything with the team … wow. You’re amazing out there.”
“Thanks.”
“What the hell are you still doing in Watonka?” Will asks.
This makes me laugh, and I take another sip of Orange Crush to hide it. What am I still doing here? Like I’m just waiting around for my scheduled departure, itinerary planned, English-to-French phrase book and first-class ticket to Paris stowed securely in my Louis Vuitton carry-on? S’il vous plaît.
“Me? What about you guys?”
“I’m leaving for sure,” Will says. “Right after grad, I’m out.”
Josh shrugs. “Me too. For real.”
For sure. For real. Everyone talks about leaving here, for sure and for real. My father used to say it, too—way before the divorce, he was talking about bigger cities, better opportunities. Even the old people who sit at the counter at Hurley’s complain about this place, every day dunking bits of bread into black coffee for a thousand years before now and a thousand years after. We’re all gonna leave, right? Today, tomorrow, the next day, one day. Sometimes I imagine the great and final exodus, all of us wrapped in scarves and mittens and puffy coats, piling onto the Erie Atlantic with two suitcases apiece, dousing the place in gasoline and tossing a match, hitting the tracks and never looking back.
But there’s something about Watonka, they say. Something that pulls us back, the electromagnet that holds all the metal in place. It’s the food, they say, or the chicken wings or the sports teams or the people or the way the air over the Skyway smells like Cheerios on account of the old General Mills plant. None of that stuff brought my father back. And what good are all of those bits of nostalgia when your family—the one thing that truly holds you to a place, the one thing that really makes it home over any other dot on the map—crumbles?
“Oh, what up!” It’s Luke, our generous host, clomping up from the basement with a full bottle of something the color of honey, pumping it over his head in time with the beats. A few other guys squeeze in closer, and on the table next to us, Luke lines up a row of plastic cups, sloshing some liquid into each.
“To the Wolves!” Will shouts, followed quickly by Amir’s signature how-oooo.
“And to our secret weapon,” Will adds. “Hudson Avery.”
“The most ass-kicking princess I ever met.” Luke clinks his cup to mine and downs his shot as the other boys whistle and catcall.
“That’s my girl!” Dani emerges from a crowd in the front hall, but Frankie Torres grabs her hand and pulls her into the living room for a dance. She giggles and falls in step against his chest, cheering when he spins her around. Amir howls again and calls for Ellie and someone turns up Redman, bass rattling the foundation, all the framed pictures of Luke’s childhood threatening to jump off the walls.
Get down with the irrelevant funk to make ya jump …
Will kills another shot and slips his arms around me, pulling me into the mix, a tangle of players and fans and hockey wives clapping and moving en masse. I look back to Josh, but his eyes are already on his phone, fingers texting away as if the entire party is happening on that little screen. Before I can get his attention and wave him over, Will drags me deeper into the crowd. He presses closer, throwing his hands up with the beat, and Josh is still texting Abby and what difference does it make because Will’s so loose and fun and he smells so amazing and this warm rush comes over me, like we’re all in this giant snow globe together, a perfect moment captured under the glass, all histories and futures forgotten. It doesn’t matter that Josh has a girlfriend or that Will doesn’t remember our kiss in the closet all those summers ago. It doesn’t matter that I screwed up at Luby Arena or that I’m working crazy hours at Mom’s diner or that this whole town sucks. Because maybe Watonka was only ever supposed to be a temporary stopover, and maybe I will chase that train over the hill, and maybe we’re all destined to leave this place, for sure, for real, together or alone. But for right now, we’re here. I’m back on the ice and the boys are back in the game and all of us are laughing and bouncing and rockin’ out, and for a little while, everything is just fine.
… until Kara walks into the room.
And sees me enveloped by her ex.
And drops her drink.
Again.
Press rewind. Press rewind. Press rewind if I haven’t blown your mind …
Chapter Eleven
Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda Cakes
Miniature banana cupcakes smeared with a thin layer of honey vanilla icing
The halls of Watonka High are buzzing with the news of this weekend’s win. No one’s volunteering to don a giant wolf head as team mascot, but by Monday morning, everyone at least knows we have a varsity hockey team. Baby steps, right?
“Bienvenue, étudiants,” Madame Fromme trills as we settle into our seats for another excruciating conversation about nothing. “Mademoiselle Avery, comment s’est passé votre week-end? Avez-vous cuit beaucoup de petits gâteaux?”
“Non, Madame. Je …” and then, because I forget the French words for “hockey” and “party” and “ex–best friend awkwardness,” I revise. “Oui, Madame. Lots—I mean, beaucoup de petits gâteaux.”
I try to smile en français, but then I remember the stack of cupcake flyers in my locker—another of Mom’s brilliant advertising plans—and I’m not sure the smile translates. She moves on to her next victim and, after a bit of forced banter, hands out the test.
Sacrebleu! Verb conjugations and future tense! I totally forgot. I chance a sidelong look at Dani, desperately seeking confirmation that we’re in this big yellow failboat together, BFFs unite hoo-rah, but she’s already got her head down, pen scribbling frantically across the page.
So much for solidarity.
“The only way I’ll pass French is if I keep bringing cupcakes,” I say to Dani as we head to lunch later. “I totally forgot about the test today.”
“Cupcakes?” Dani laughs. “Not to sound all après l’école spéciale, but you could … I don’t know … study?”
“I could … I don’t know … punch you right now?”
“Don’t hate on me for being prepared. I tried to quiz you at work yesterday, remember?”
“By translating your pirate fantasy? Not helpful.” I grab a tray from the stack in the lunch line and slide it along the metal rails. “Sorry. I’m just distracted with skating stuff.”
I don’t want to fail French or any other class, but with just over six weeks before the Capriani Cup, I have to focus on training, and right now, parlez-vous-français-ing can’t do jacques for my on-ice game.
“Speaking of distractions,” she says, “hockey hottie, twelve o’clock.”