Page 63 of Fake Skating

“So as soon as the doc gets here, we’ll get you wheeled down for surgery.”

“Thanks,” I said, a big fan of the nurse because whatever he’d put in my IV had calmed my shoulder way the hell down.

Also, his name was Dan , which I found to be strangely amusing as the meds did their thing.

“Great,” my mom said, nodding.

My dad was still at the X, taking videos of the celebration. He’d FaceTimed us with thirty seconds left in the game, so at least I’d been able to virtually be there when we got the dub.

As it turned out, karma was a five-minute major. And grounds for a suspension.

Nothing gave me more joy than learning that Worthington’s time in the box had allowed us to score two goals during the power play.

Fucking yes , holy shit, we were moving on.

It was literally Benji’s fault that his team lost, so that was just the sweetest irony, the cherry on top of the quarterfinal-win sundae.

Of course, as soon as time expired I had to put away the phone and go down to X-ray, followed by an immediate surgical consultation, so not everything was a win. My collarbone was fractured, and my labrum was shredded (and probably had been for a while).

Hence the surgery.

But the painkillers were providing help in multiple ways. In addition to numbing my shoulder, they were allowing me to not freak the fuck out about what this injury meant. Being out for three months, more medical bills—this was a nightmare.

But I was calm about it for the moment.

There was a knock on the door of my ER room, and when I looked over, I saw Mick Boche.

What the fuck?

He was standing there, looking uncomfortable.

Maybe these pain meds are too strong and I’m hallucinating.

“Hi, Mick,” my mom said.

“Hi.” He stepped into the room and said, “How’s the shoulder?”

My mom launched into a medical explanation, thank God, because I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t want to talk about my shoulder, and I didn’t want to talk to him.

He reminded me of her , and I didn’t want to think about her.

I watched them talk, not really listening to their words, because I was exhausted.

I let my eyes close, and I don’t know how much time passed before my mom said, “I’m running to get some coffee, Al—I’ll be right back.”

“?’Mkay,” I said, so tired.

I heard the door close behind her, and then I heard, “Barczewski.”

My eyes sprang open because, shit , Mick was still there. He was standing next to my bed, looking down at me like he had things to say.

“What’s up?” I said casually, even though I couldn’t even guess what Mick would want to talk to me about, especially now.

“I, uh,” he said, grabbing the reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and putting them on his nose. He looked down at his phone and said, “I just want to make sure you know that everything’s gonna be fine.”

“What?”

He glanced at me, put his eyebrows down, then looked at his phone again. “Even though you can’t play juniors this summer, this injury’s going to heal quickly, and before you know it, you’ll be back on the ice. You don’t have to worry.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, wondering if my mom was texting him. Maybe she’d asked him to talk to me, which would be super weird.

But no less weird than if Mick was actually saying these things to me. “Thank you.”

“And this won’t affect your NHL chances, either,” he said in a weird tone, like he was reading instead of talking. “You’re still going to have an epic draft and—”

“Did you just say ‘epic draft’?”

The drugs are definitely messing with me, because my mom would never text him the word “epic.”

“Goddamn it, I did,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “But you get it, right?”

“I get it,” I said, even though I actually did not get it.

“Oh yeah.” Mick put his phone down and reached into his jacket pocket. “Here.”

I watched as he pulled a king-sized Charleston Chew out of his coat.

“What’s this?” I asked in disbelief as he held out the candy bar. My favorite candy bar.

“I just, uh, thought you might be hungry after the game.” He cleared his throat and pointed the Charleston Chew at me like he was dying for me to grab it, like it was burning his hand. “Here.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, because I had no idea what this could be about.

“What do you mean?”

“Why would you give me this?” I hadn’t had a Charleston Chew in years, but it’d been my favorite candy bar the summer after sixth grade, when Dani and I discovered how good they were frozen.

“I don’t know, it’s a snack,” he said, shrugging.

“But why this snack?” I asked.

“You don’t like it?” he said with a scowl.

“That’s not the point,” I said. “What made you get it?”

Mick sighed. “For the love of God, can’t you just take the damn snack and say thank you?”

“Fine. Thank you,” I said, grabbing the Charleston Chew.

“You’re welcome,” he said with a beleaguered sigh.

His phone chirped, and he made a growling noise in the back of his throat before pulling it out of his pocket.

He looked at the screen and sighed yet again.

“One more thing,” he said as he looked at his screen. “Did you tell the doctor about the shoulder troubles you were having before the game?”

“What is all this, Mick?” I asked, because something was obviously going on. “Level with me here.”

He stared at me for a minute, like he was weighing his options, and then he said, “Oh, for fuck’s sake—just look.”

He held out his phone, and I could see a string of text messages.

A string that started ten minutes ago.

From Dani.

Dani: Tell him that everything’s going to be fine and that even though he can’t play juniors, this injury’s going to heal quicky and before he knows it, he’ll be back on the ice. Make sure he knows he doesn’t have to worry.

Mick’s response was a simple: Got it.

Dani: Coming from you this will mean a lot. Make sure you tell him that it won’t affect his NHL chances, either. Tell him he’s going to have an epic draft.

Mick’s response: OK

Dani: Don’t forget the Charleston Chew

Mick: Christ

Dani: Did you make sure the surgeon knows his shoulder was already messed up?

“What is this?” I didn’t understand but suddenly felt wide fucking awake.

He put his phone back in his pocket. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Were you reading over my shoulder?”

“So.” A buzz started in my body from head to toe, like I’d just been switched on. “She asked you to come in here and talk to me. Why?”

“Why do you think?” he said as if I was an idiot.

“But she walked away,” I said, confused because her texts definitely made it seem like she was worried about me. “She’s done.”

He shrugged. “Is she?”

Isn’t she? “But she said—”

“Sometimes people don’t mean what they say,” he interrupted. “Did she look like she meant it, dipshit?”

“Geez, Mick, I don’t know,” I said, offhandedly wondering how the hell this bizarre conversation with Mick Boche could be happening.

And also—no, she didn’t look like she meant it.

She’d cried while she told me she needed a break.

“And sometimes people do things they don’t want to do. That they feel like they have to do.”

“Can you stop with the code and just tell me?” I said, because it was obvious Mick knew something that I didn’t.

“Maybe you should ask her.”

Should I? It seemed like a bad idea.

I should just let it go; I’d already swallowed every bit of my pride when I begged the other day.

I’d be a pathetic moron to open it up again.

Mick’s phone chirped again, and he cursed, glaring at me like this was somehow my fault.

“What’d she say?” I asked.

He looked down at the message. “She said, ‘What did he say? Does he seem okay?’?”

“Where is she?” I asked.

I realized she had to be nearby. “Where is she, Mick?”

“I don’t know,” he said, but he pointed his head toward the door.

“She’s in the hallway?”

The old guy just shrugged.

“Collins!” I yelled. “Get your ass in here!”

Mick looked over at me, and I swear to God he gave me a nod, like he approved.

“Dani Collins!” I hollered even louder.

“It’s about damn time,” Mick said, almost smiling.

A second later, Dani came running into the room—literally stopping short when she saw Mick, looking bored, and me sitting there with the Charleston Chew in my hand.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking like she wasn’t sure what was going on, which was fair since I’d just screamed bloody murder in a hospital. “Are you okay?”

Her hair was piled on top of her head, that mass of golden curls, but her brown eyes were red and puffy behind those big glasses, her face blotchy like she’d been crying.

“Why did you send him in here?” I asked, my eyes tracking over the sadness on her face, trying to reconcile it with everything else that didn’t add up.

I could only come up with one thing that made sense here— please let Mick be right —and I wanted it so fucking badly.

“I didn’t,” she lied, clearing her throat and glancing at her grandpa.

Who shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t lie to me, Collins,” I said, but I wasn’t pissed.

At all.

I was… on edge.

Suddenly thrumming, on fire, alive.

Again, could be the painkillers.

“I’m not,” she lied again.

“Mick, do you think I could talk to your lying granddaughter alone for a minute?” I asked, my eyes staying trained on her as she blinked faster, like she was trying to come up with an escape plan.

“No, Grandp—”

Without a word, Mick walked past her and exited the room.

I was really growing fond of that guy.

“Um, what’s up?” she asked quietly, crossing her arms over her chest and gnawing on her lip, looking downright jumpy.

“For starters, would you mind coming closer so everyone outside the door doesn’t hear me?”

More fast blinking and a nod. “Sure.”

She walked over, turning me on in that fucking Southview jersey and pressing play on ROLE MODEL in my brain, and she stopped beside my bed.

I’m sorry, but I’m deeply still in love

“Now tell me why you made him come talk to me,” I said. “And don’t lie.”

In love with you

Her eyebrows crinkled together and she cleared her throat. Her voice was barely there when she said, “You’re my friend, and I knew how stressed you were about everything. So, as your friend, I thought it might help to hear from someone who knows—”

“What about the Charleston Chew?”

I stared her down, trying to read her mind as she avoided meeting my eyes. I could tell she didn’t want me to know something, but dammit—I was going to make her tell me.

She shrugged and said, “I mean, you probably haven’t eaten since—”

“Can you please just be honest with me?” I said in frustration, needing her to open up. “I could die in surgery, Dani, so stop fucking lying.”