Page 22

S weat drips from my forehead. Every muscle in my body quivers, and it has nothing to do with the hour long weight session I just smashed out on two hours sleep.

“I know I’m not your favorite person at the moment.” Coach Harris snorts, and I continue regardless. “But I was wanting to ask a favor.”

Our leader is one of the youngest in the NCAA, but he’s not looking that way. Despite, or perhaps in salute to the team’s big win last night - the one he’s reminded several times that I almost cost him - heavy blue bags line his eyes, and I swear, as he leans back in his chair, the guy looks grayer than he did yesterday. “You got some nerve, kid.”

“Yeah, I do. That’s why you made me captain.”

Muttering what sound like, cocky, punk bastard, Coach tilts further back and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Spit it out, Petterson. What do you want?”

I wipe the sweat from my brown and clear my parched throat. “A job.”

With a squeak, his chair snaps back into place and he appraises me with appropriate suspicion. “A job?”

“Yeah. A job … but not for me. For a friend … the friend of a friend really. You might even know him. Marty Klein? He runs—”

“Green Line Ice. Yeah. I know him.” Coach’s phone begins to ring, but he reaches into his pocket, silencing it without looking to see who it is. “Klein’s a legend. No one prepares a surface like he does. Smooth as a baby’s butt and twice as shiny. Why does he need a job?”

Pleased that Marty’s reputation precedes him, I perk up a little. “His place was vandalized. Whoever it was tore the place apart. Everything, ice included, is destroyed and he doesn’t know if his insurance will be enough to repair the damage. Even if it is, it will be weeks, months before he can reopen. I thought maybe, you might be able to send some work his way in the mean time just help him through the rough patch.”

“You did, did you?”

“Yes sir, I did. You’ve always talked about turning out not only great players, but empathetic and responsible citizens. What better way to show that than by helping a member of the hockey community in a time of great need.” Using his own words against him is a dangerous play, but I can see by his change of expression it’s one that’s paid off.

“It just so happens that Dean Mankato is desperate for BC to host the Frozen Four this year. Having the best surface in the league could help secure it.” He taps the desk, and rises to his feet, pacing back and forth along the window that overlooks the ice “You got Klein’s number?”

“Right here Sir.” Hoping it’s still legible, I hand him the prepared slip of paper I’ve been clutching in my sweaty palms.

He inspects it, screwing his face a little. “Why is it wet?”

“I’m nervous, Sir. Not only because I had to ask you this but because you’ve done nothing but believe in me. I’m well aware that I’ve let you down recently. I hate it and want to fix it because I hold you in such esteem.”

“Is that so?”

“It is sir. Yes.”

“Right then. The first thing you can do is stop calling me, Sir. The last kid that did was chasing my daughter…” The pacing pauses at my feet, and he leans in till disturbingly, intimidatingly close. So close I can see another gray hair sprout. “You’re not chasing my daughter, too, are you Petterson?”

“No sir … ahh, no Coach. No, I’m not.”

“Good.” Seemingly happy that he’s put the fear of God into me, he snaps back and forces out a saccharine smile. “You want to repair our relationship? Be the captain I know you can be. Forget the beef with Donnelly, forget the girls … or guys if that’s your thing. Focus on the game and leave your friend Klein to me.”

Words similar to those have left this man’s lips so often lately, they’re becoming a cliche. Probably best not to tell him that though.

He motions towards the door in a get the hell out of here manner and I do, mentally checking one task of the make things right with Lotte list as I go.

Like the loyal friend he’s become, Brady and his ever-present blush are waiting for me just outside the administration entrance. He’d offered to come join me, but looked relieved beyond all comprehension when I turned him down. I can’t say I blame him. No one wants to go into Coach’s office if they don’t have to.

“What’s the verdict?” He grins as he bounces on the balls of his feet. The guy’s a constant ball of flustered energy, a six feet five beagle puppy.

“Seemed keen. Marty’s reputation precedes him. I think Coach is going to make something happen.”

He exhales loudly and gives a congratulatory pat on my back, “Sweet.”

“Yeah, sweet.” We stop at the small cafeteria that sits right at the entrance. My stomach is still too twisted to handle food or drink, but Brady orders his standard extra large, extra hot-hot chocolate and slice of banana bread.

As we wait, I recount my interactions with Coach, the pain of guilt after what happened last night refusing to budge even with the positive reaction I received. When we finally exit the dark corridor and burst through the double doors into the crisp fall air. Boston is putting on a show. Red, orange and auburn leaves fall from the sky like rain, something else that may fall soon if the ominous clouds lurking in the distance are anything to go by. Brady watches me curiously as we walk towards his dorm, wrapping a scarf around his neck, then burying his chin inside it.

“Dude,” I scoff. “It’s not even cold. It’s like fifty. How are you going to be when winter hits.”

“Frozen solid, most likely. And by the way, fifty is fourteen … which is cold. I freaking hate the cold,” he grumps.

“Tell me again why you play a game on ice?”

“Because I’m an…” Trailing off, his words end on a squeak as he comes to an awkward halt, skidding on the soggy leaves. I follow the direction in which he’s looking and laugh.

“Hey, Quinn.” I smirk, nudging him in the elbow. “How’s life as the daughter of the giant, angry coach that holds our futures in his hands treating you?” Two sets of eyes narrow. My discrete - hands off - reminder to Brady, brutally indiscreet.

“Fine, thanks. How’s life as the giant guy my friend hasn’t stopped crying over going?”

“Ahh, .” Brady’s laugh is snuffed out by my palm slapping over his mouth.

“Lotte’s crying over me?” Quinn nods, and all traces of the cocky punk hitting up her dad for a favor fizzle away. “Why is she crying over me? I basically told her I want to be with her and she sent me away. Does she blame me for what happened to Marty? Fuck, does she hate me? She hates me, doesn’t she. Fuck.”

“HMM HMM UHMM.” I peel my hand from Brady’s face.

“What?”

“You told her you want to be with her?” he repeats, his now legible words and wide-eyed expression make it turn to blush.

“I may have mentioned the word ‘couple’, yeah.” Without waiting for a response I take off, heading straight to Beanz and Bookz … or is it Bookz and Beanz? Knowing exactly where I’m heading, Quinn runs along beside me.

“She’s not there, Noah. She’s home in bed.”

I come to a screeching halt. “Is she sick?”

All color drains from her panic-stricken face. “No … yes … um … I can’t say.”

Time to go low. I step into her space, whispering in her ear. “Spill it. Quinn, or I’ll tell your dad about the goo goo eyes you’ve been making his goalie.”

On a guttural, “No!” Quinn’s mouth falls open, and Brady, who I genuinely didn’t want to hear that, but did, turtles himself further into his woolen shell.

“You wouldn’t,” she snaps, her voice heavy with false bravado. Not backing down, I cock my brow on a quick up nod. “Fine.” She stomps her feet, crosses her arms against her chest and jutting her chin in defiance. “Lot told me when she got home from the rink, she had what she described as an attack . She called me when she couldn’t find her way out of it, and I’ve been with her since five am. She finally fell asleep so—”

“You left her?”

“Not alone. Your sister is with her.”

“Oh … good. That’s … I’ve seen that, you know. The tic attacks people can have. I’ve been googling Tourette’s, and I saw some videos. It’s almost like a seizure.” I run my hand over my chin, scratching at the modest three-day growth. “Shit, I had no idea it was that bad.”

“Well it is. And I’m sick over what I, or we, should and shouldn’t do about it. That’s why I’m here. As much as I hate to admit it, I need to talk to dad. I tried to call but he wouldn’t answer his phone.”

Fuck. “That’s my fault. I’ve just left his office. He’s probably cowering in the fetal position or drinking whiskey straight from the bottle.”

Quinn gasps. “Did he know what happened last night? At the rink?”

“He didn’t. But he does now.”

Suddenly she grabs the sleeves of my jacket, before his fingers slide down, gripping my hands and squeezing. We’re effectively holding hands and it’s a position that has Brady grunting under his breath beside me. “You didn’t tell him you were there, did you? Or that Lotte was?”

“No, I’m quite fond of my head remaining attached to my torso. I told him what he needed to know, for me to get what I needed to get.”

“Good. That’s good,” she says with another squeeze. “And what did you need?”

“A job for Marty.”

Relief washes over Quinn’s face. “So, you definitely didn’t tell him you were with Lotte, or at the rink?”

“I definitely didn’t. Can I have my hands back now?”

Her eyes dart between our still , to Brady, then back. “Oops, yes of course. Sorry.”

“Can I ask a question?” Brady huffs, pulling a goalie slide to insert himself between us, “Or is this a strictly Lotte, Quinn, Noah three-way … um. I mean … Never mind.” Blushing, Brady takes an exaggerated sip of his drink as thunder rolls throughout the skies.

“You can ask me anything, Brady.” Quinn tills her head, her eyes crinkling as she smiles. “You know that. Ask away.”

Brady collects himself, swallows the drool pooling in his mouth and speaks. “Why can’t your dad know Lotte and Noah were at the Green Line? Why is that such a big deal?” A beat of silence, as heavy with awkwardness as the clouds are with rain, passes. Eventually Quinn quits fidgeting with her bracelet and answers.

“Dad thinks I was with Lotte after the game, but I wasn’t. I.” Pausing, she looks to her shuffling feet. “I was on a date.”

Brady jerks like he’s been slapped across the cheeks with a wet fish, and stumbles back. “A date? Who? Who were you on a date with?”

“Troye Becker.”

If a fish got him before, he’s just been taken out by a killer whale. “Troye Becker? Forward for Boston U. BC’s arch rival, Troye Becker?”

Whoa. Quinn’s desire to hide her whereabouts now makes sense. Normally, I’d be breaking out the popcorn and pulling up a chair, my sister isn’t the only one to binge trash reality TV. But I’ve had quite enough drama for one day. “You know what, guys,” I say, to the absolutely no one listening to me. “I’m out. See you later.”

Brady’s pained, “I thought you didn’t date jocks.” Is the last thing I hear before slinking away.