Page 6 of Goal Line (Boston Rebels #4)

Chapter Six

EVA

S itting on the top level of the Boston Rebels parking garage in my dad’s Jeep with the top down, I soak up the late-afternoon sun. It’s shockingly pleasant for mid-June—not dry heat like Los Angeles has, but not oppressively humid like Boston can get once July rolls around.

Normally, that’s when I’d head back to LA to start training again. Now, I have no idea what my summer will look like. I glance at my phone again.

Christopher

Are you sure you’ll want to continue training when you get back to LA? I don’t want you to push yourself too hard or do anything that might jeopardize your health or the baby’s.

Eva

I’ll be fine. Remember, my OB said I could keep skating until I had a pronounced bump. And even then, she said we could train off-ice. I need to stay in shape or our chances of qualifying after I have the baby are SLIM.

We’ve already met one of the requirements for the Olympics—we placed in the top three at nationals this spring.

But we narrowly missed the second requirement—meeting the minimum technical elements score at the international competition a couple of weeks ago.

First, I downgraded our jump, and then Christopher made a small error that cost us another few tenths of a point.

Suddenly, our spot on the US Olympic team, which had previously seemed like a sure thing, was in question.

In ordinary circumstances, we’d still have two more shots at qualifying in an international competition. But one of them is in October, not even a month after I’m due, so I won’t be cleared to compete. That leaves a final opportunity in December.

My careless one-night stand has put our careers in jeopardy.

Christopher

We’ll figure it out, Eva, but we’ll do it in a way that’s not going to risk your health. And we need to talk to Jessie. If we’re truly determined not to work with her anymore, we need to find a new coach...yesterday!

Jessie hasn’t even reached out to see if I’m okay after watching the EMTs take me off an airplane a week ago. Some coach she is .

Neither Christopher nor I have particularly liked working with her. At first, we chalked it up to the fact that we’d had the same coach for many seasons, and we just needed to acclimate to someone new. Now, at the end of our second year with her, I’m dreading the idea of working with her again.

I don’t shy away from hard work. I’ll put in the time, do whatever I need to do to get better. Christopher always calls me his “little workhorse,” and he’s not wrong. I keep up with him in every regard, pushing myself much harder physically than he has to push himself.

I want that Olympic medal, not just so I can hang it on the empty hook in the display box that showcases Mom’s medal for show jumping and Dad’s medal for hockey, but because I’ve trained too hard and come too far to give up now.

Pregnant or not, I need to qualify for the Olympics by the end of the year or, come February, Christopher and I will be watching the Games instead of participating in them. Again.

Last time, we were sidelined when Christopher blew out his knee during warmups for our first Olympic competition. The alternate pair took the ice, and we watched from a TV in the hospital before we flew home for his surgery. This time, if we don’t make it, it’ll be entirely on me.

The problem with Jessie, though, is that we don’t trust her.

There’s no end to how hard she works us, and it doesn’t seem to be helping us improve.

If anything, we’ve stagnated while working with her and she blames that on us.

Nothing we do is ever good enough...and honestly, I have enough of that with my mom; I don’t need it from my coach, too.

Jessie was actually Mom’s choice after our last coach died in a tragic car accident.

Christopher and I were so distraught over the tragedy and devastated to lose a coach we loved and had worked with for our entire careers that we let Mom lead the search.

We weren’t in a position, mentally or emotionally, to be more involved in the process, and so we only met Jessie for a brief skating session before Mom hired her.

“Hey, pumpkin,” Dad says as he walks up to the car.

I slip my phone into my bag, hoping that I don’t look as guilty as I feel about my plan to fire Jessie and find a new coach. I’d like to stay in my parents’ good graces.

“Hey, thanks for letting me use the car.”

“You get everything done you wanted to do?”

“Yeah.” I’d come into the city with Dad late this morning, and while he attended some meetings at the practice rink, I drove into the Back Bay and visited some of my favorite shops.

Not only did I feel like I needed a few new items of clothing since most of my clothes aren’t quite fitting right anymore, but after being home for a week now, I’m climbing the walls.

There’s only so many times I can sleep in, go to the beach, visit Mom at the stables, or catch up on TV shows and movies I’ve been meaning to see before my days start to feel pointless.

In past years when I’ve come home for the summer, Luke’s been home at Wellington Manor, and we’d spend our days at his pool, or at the beach.

We’d take trips into Boston, or we’d drive north along the coast to explore the seaside towns, always in search of the best ice cream shops.

Luke’s an ice cream connoisseur and still in search of the best flavors in New England.

But that was when Luke played for Calgary and planned his summer visit home to coincide with mine. Now that he plays in Boston, he bought a place downtown. Having him an hour away instead of just down the road has made everything about this trip feel different.

Even though I still keep in touch with my other high school friends, most of them have moved on.

They either got jobs wherever they went to college, or they live in the city now and have made new friends—ones who are around for more than a month a year.

Seeing them when I’m home is a coffee date or meeting up for drinks, not long days of catching up on what we missed in the last year since we saw each other. It all feels a bit...superficial.

Not with Luke, though. Maybe it’s because we still text each other fifty times a day and tell each other everything—or almost everything—but when the two of us are together, it’s like no time has passed.

“Good,” Dad says. “Am I dropping you off at his place?”

“No, he’s going to be here to get me any minute.”

“Okay. How are you getting home?”

I know Dad’s just being a dad and making sure his baby girl is taken care of, but I’ve lived on my own since I graduated from high school and moved to LA to work with a new coach and a new skating partner. I can take care of myself.

“We’re going to watch Pride and Prejudice after we get something to eat, so I’m going to stay at his place tonight. He has ice time in the morning and wants me to skate with him. I’ll text you and let you know when I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Dad looks uneasy at the idea of me spending the night at a guy’s house.

I figured this would be his response, which is why I snuck my skating bag and a backpack into the back of the Jeep this morning before we left Newbury Falls.

It’s such a teenage avoidance tactic, but I just didn’t want it to turn into a big discussion.

“Dad,” I say with a laugh, “ it’s Luke. ” Luke, who I’ve had a million sleepovers with, starting when we were little kids and stopping...never. He’s visited me in LA, I’ve visited him in Calgary, and every summer, we practically live at each other’s houses.

“I know,” he says, relaxing his shoulders as he folds his arms across the door of the Jeep and leans in. “How’s he doing, by the way?”

I’ve only seen Luke once since our dinner nearly a week ago.

“You know Luke,” I say, worried that if I say too much, it’ll influence my dad’s opinion of him as a player.

“Things just roll off him. But, if I’m being honest, I think the constant sports commentary about his performance in the game is probably affecting him more than he’s letting on. ”

“He needs to turn that shit off,” Dad says with a sigh.

If only it were that easy.

“Sometimes other peoples’ voices just get in your head. We’ve all been there, it sucks.”

“I hope the skills work he’s doing with Evan helps with his headspace,” Dad says. “I’m far more worried about that than his actual skill level. He’s going to be fine, as long as he doesn’t let that one game get to him.”

“Have you told him that?”

Dad twists his lips together, his classic thinking face. “Not sure if I have.”

“Might be good for him to hear it. You know how much he hates disappointing people.”

“Does he think we’re disappointed in him? ”

“Dad,” I say, my voice flat, as though to indicate the answer is beyond obvious. “ Clearly, the fans and his teammates are upset about the loss, and most of all, he’s disappointed in himself. There are no two ways about it; he is the reason the Rebels lost Game 7.”

By now, I’ve watched the replay of the end of the game dozens of times, trying to figure out what the hell happened.

His head wasn’t in the game, obviously. And given the panicked texts he had sent me and Christopher right before the game started, I’m worried that he was too focused on me, too afraid something was wrong with me or the baby, or that my mom would find out I was pregnant when she got to the hospital.

Damn it, I need to tell my parents. There’s a little voice in the back of my head that reminds me that he probably could have focused more on the game if he hadn’t been worried about whether my secret would be exposed before I was ready.