Page 22

Chapter 22

Olli

I think maybe you’re the one who got those words wrong.

Two days, and I’m still humming the song he wrote for me. Well, not for me—for my poem. Somehow, that’s even more intimate. Not that I’ve ever had a guy write a song for me, but like . . . this dude set my stupid words to music , and I don’t know what to do with that.

Luckily, the next two days are so busy I don’t have time to dwell on anything that’s happened: My conversation with Coach. The kiss at the bar. The boy with the green eyes and the backwards cap.

That song, however, is doing wonderful things for my mood.

I know it’s not real, this buzzing high of the crush. It’s external validation, it’s the false rush of a drug. And when it wears off, it’ll leave me lower than ever.

But for right now, I’m gonna ride this wave, right onto the bus, onto the plane, and into the next away game.

I hope.

We’re on the ice once more, poised for another face-off.

Puck drops, and I surge forward. Shove my back to the opposing center as that puck hits the ice near my feet.

Kick puck to stick.

Flick—it scoots forward to reach Holls on the wing, dropped back in a perfect read of my play.

Holls zooms forward, and I race free to open for the pass .

Puck to tape. In my control now as I sail over the blue line into the Eagles’ zone. Two defense, goalie ahead. Dev lurking just behind.

Defenseman hurtles towards me, and I drop the puck for Dev as we collide. Dev follows with a cross-ice pass onto Holls’s blade.

One-timer.

The puck bounces off the goalie’s pads, evoking a sigh of relief from the watching crowd, but I’m already cutting in, crashing the net.

Lifting the puck in a shot—

I let the game take me.

For whatever else I might be, for all the self-doubt I’ve let invade my soul, I am damn good at hockey, and every once in a while I let myself remember it.

This is one of those games. I own every play, every shift—skates on the ice, hands on the stick, eyes on the players, dictating the direction of the game.

My passes fly tape to tape, saucering over the ice in neat little arches, flitting into the tiny gaps between opponents’ sticks and pads to find Dev’s or Charlie’s waiting blades.

I always know where they are.

I’m always open for them.

The Eagles’ defense can never quite seem to catch us, touch us, stop us.

Somehow, somehow, we’re everywhere and nowhere all at once.

My very first shot finds the back of the net, launching our bench into a frenzy of cheering and sending the crowd behind us into a volley of groans.

I grin.

This is still my game, my team, my surrogate family. Even if I’ve doubted myself more than maybe any other person in the universe.

The Dingoes dominate the first period. We pile into the locker room during intermission to celebrate a resounding 3 – 0 lead.

We dominate the second period, too, enter the third with a 5 – 0 lead.

We win .

It’s not the end of our away-game stint, though, so we’re back on the bus.

We drive. We fly.

Another rink. Another game, another team.

We play.

We win.

The next morning, we grab breakfast too early, zombie-shuffle to the bus, do another zombie-shuffle to the plane, pass out with our heads against the windows or tipped back onto the seats.

I spend the flight with my temple pressed to the window, studying the land beneath us.

I watch as Day River draws into view. A speck on the horizon, a spill of silver on the snow. Needles of skyscrapers prodding the crystal cerulean of the sky, and yet utterly dwarfed by the immensity of the mountains beyond. Such an apt representation of nature and man, no?

Off the plane. Off the bus. Back at our own rink. Back to reality . . . and Coach Ethan marching towards me and my truck like a man on a mission.

“Nothing good ever started with a look like that,” I admit as he draws near.

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “I’m inclined to agree with you there.”

“Now I’m deeply concerned.”

Another huffed laugh, a hand dragged through his hair. “Look. I . . . am a man to admit when I’m wrong.”

“Oh man, this is serious .” I school my features into stern composure, clasp my hands together against the strong desire to fidget. “Lay it on me, Coach.”

“I think you’re right about the Ice Out.”

“I . . . what?” My hands fall out of their weave in shock.

“I think I’ve been trying the same thing over and over, and it’s not working.” His dark gaze lifts to meet mine. “Instead of a transfer, I want to consider recruiting someone local. ”

“What?” My brows shoot upwards in realization. “Local . . . You’re talking, like, an Ice Out player?”

His gaze slides sideways, away from me. Can’t tell if I’m just too hard to look at, or he’s still thinking this through. Both, maybe. “I’m going to host an open practice. A tryout. And I’m going to invite top Ice Out players to join us.”

I stare at him with my mouth literally hanging open. I might start drooling if I don’t get the damned thing closed soon. “What?”

Apparently that’s all I’m capable of saying anymore. Great. Great for a team leader—

“I can handle the organizational aspects. But I might need your help for things like . . . selection and general communication.”

Another wave of realization hits.

“You think,” I say slowly, “that because I’ve been to the Ice Out, I know how all that works?”

“You seem to know more about it than most people,” he says. Which okay. I guess I could see how he assumes that, after my little curation of Ice Out-themed TED Talks.

“I just observe more,” I correct. “Watch people. But that doesn’t mean I know anything about it.”

“You certainly got the word out about the first Dingoes–Ice Out interaction.” His brows curve upwards as he drives another point home. Okay, yes , but . . .

“It blew up on social media,” I say, correcting him again. “I got lucky. I don’t know anything about who actually skates there.”

“Then maybe”—Coach’s gaze slides back towards me—“you should ask Mr. Taylor for recommendations.”

“What—”

Coach snorts. “Please. He’s been skating in that bullshit since it started.”

That one I can’t refute .

“He knows where to get the invites,” Coach continues, like I’m not struggling to formulate coherent thoughts. “Bet he’d know who to give them to, too.”

I grit my teeth together, trying to tread water against this tidal wave. “He doesn’t know who people are!”

“He doesn’t need to, does he?” Coach shrugs, already walking away. “I just need to know the number on the shirt.”

He’s gone before I can find the words to formulate a protest. So then I’m standing by myself, reeling. Because how the hell . . .

I slump back against my truck. Stare out over the empty parking lot—the rest of the team sure seems eager to get home.

But I’m not.

Why would I be? No part of me wants to sit alone in my house, trapped with my thoughts, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to handle this whole open-tryout thing. You know, in order to save this team and my career.

My grasp on positivity feels suddenly precarious. How easy it would be to slip and fall into darkness.

Maybe I’ll take myself on a nice long, snowy hike. That always helps me think. Or see if they’ve opened the ski lifts yet, snowshoe up if they haven’t. Or maybe . . .

But I don’t want to be alone. That’s the bottom line.

I lean against the back of the truck, and I do something that is maybe dumb or brilliant or who even knows anymore ’cause my brain’s rolling around way too fast.

My phone rings against my ear.

“Olli?” Nat’s voice on the other end registers definite surprise. Oh, probably because who the hell calls anybody anymore? What am I, eighty?

“Wanna go for a hike?” The words tumble out of my mouth and plunk onto the sidewalk at my feet. Welp, no going back now .

“A hike?” The confusion in his voice deepens, but it’s tinged with something else—amusement? “Oh, the one where we’re not sure if you’re gonna kill me or kiss me against a tree?”

“Yes, that one.” I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning like the stupid idiot I am. “Nature helps me think.”

“Well, that’s a new one.”

“C’mon, what else you got to do? There’s no practice—” I wince. Because I’m implying that the team, his job, is all he’s got, when I know for a fact it’s not. “Bring the kids!”

“You want to go on a hike with two teenagers?”

I shrug even though he can’t see it. The wind’s starting to pick up, sending a sheet of icy air straight through my light jacket. “Sure. I mean, it might protect you from being kissed or killed?”

He laughs. “I’d hope. But you never know.”

“I am rather devious.” But he’s right—it does kind of save me the effort of having to think about whether it would be appropriate to pin him to a tree, and you know. Kiss him.

“Bring them,” I say, so bold, so self-assured.

And that’s how I wind up in the snowy woods, miles outside of town, with two cranky city slickers. And Sydney. Trying to explain how Coach and I are supposed to be saving this team with some half-baked idea . . .

“An open tryout?” Nat asks as I hold out a hand to let Avery take the lead onto the trail. “What does that mean?”

Avery’s Vans crunch through the thin layer of crusty snow at the trailhead. Kid’s in Vans, ladies and gents. Vans, ripped jeans, and a jacket that wouldn’t be warm enough for a mild fall day in the South, let alone Day River brutality.

He seems unbothered.

“That’s what Coach is calling it.” I wave Syd onto the trail after Avery, then fall into stride behind her. Nat brings up the rear. At least he’s in work boots, I guess? “He wants to invite Ice Out players to try out for the Dingoes. ”

“What! That is so cool!” Sydney seems to have inherited a more practical set of genes, maybe from her mother; she wears actual hiking boots, leggings, and a scarf. “Like, is it gonna be masked?”

“I have no idea.” Compared to the City Slicker Brigade, my boots make almost no sound in the snow. Even Nat, still behind me, sounds like his own personal herd of elephants. “Maybe?”

“It would be so cool!” Syd says. “And like, ‘open’ means the public is allowed to come and watch, right?”

“Um?” I scratch at my hat. “We can add that to the list of things I don’t know slash didn’t think to think about thinking about.”

Syd giggles. But then goes serious to say, “Okay, but that would be awesome .”

She’s right. How much would people absolutely love watching their Ice Out boys with the Dingoes? “It would be pretty cool.”

“If they’re all masked,” Avery calls back over his shoulder. “Then everybody’s trying to guess and bet and shit.”

“Right!” Syd throws him a bright grin, and I turn back to notice Nat definitely noticing them. Aww, poor Papa. “And what if—”

Sydney’s voice goes quiet, like she’s lost all her confidence. Her fingers curl around the brim of her backwards baseball cap. “Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

One of the most amusing things about this strange little family, I’ve decided, is that they all wear backwards baseball caps. Like some kind of uniform. Avery’s blond hair leaks out in silken tufts, alongside his cold-reddened ears. Syd’s got a long black ponytail draped over her shoulder. And Nat . . . Well.

He’s Nat.

“I have loved every idea you’ve had so far.” I hurry to get in front of Syd, then stop, forcing us all to pause.

“Really?” A wide smile blooms across Syd’s face, transforming her from an awkward teen into a young woman—honestly kind of disconcerting when I consider that she’s Nat’s daughter.

“Yeah.” I grin in return. “Tell me more. ”

“Okay, so . . .” She nibbles her lower lip—then plows ahead. “What if the Dingoes gave half-priced game admission to everyone who comes to watch the open tryout?”

“Dang.” My brows lift. An idea woman, eh? “That’s pretty good.”

“You think?”

“I truly do."

“I really like the masks idea.” Avery slides up next to Syd—damn, does he feel Nat giving him the stink-eye? Surely, a look like that’s gotta burn? Maybe that’s why he adds, “How do you pick who gets invited?”

Well, he got there quick.

“Um.” I wince. “That is kind of my first hurdle . . .”

“The crowd should do it.” Nat’s voice drifts up from behind. “Since the crowd picks who gets invited back to the Ice Out.”

“Yes!” Avery snaps his fingers. “Exact—not that I know—I mean . . .”

“This is America,” Syd cuts in smoothly. “Let the people vote!”

“Hm.” I scratch at my hair under my itchy wool cap. “I agree. But . . . how do I arrange a vote on secret masked players in an illegal underground arena that’s not supposed to exist?”

At the back of the group, Nat lifts a shoulder in a helpless shrug.

“Are you kidding?” Syd takes over, green eyes wide with excitement. “This is why social media exists. Anything Ice Out–Dingoes mashup is already viral.”

She’s got me there.

“Maybe the Dingoes could do some masked practices or something,” Syd muses, eyes going slightly out of focus. “For like, Instagram pictures. Or reels . . . Get people trying to match them to Ice Out numbers.”

“That would be sweet!” Avery agrees, giving Syd’s already fast-rolling train a hearty push. “Syd, you could for sure make some amazing posts with that kind of shit.”

“Right. And since Dad definitely doesn’t go to the Ice Out.” Syd tosses a pointed glance behind her. “Maybe he could take videos of some of the best guys, and people can vote on it . . .”

Man these kids are rolling . I can barely keep up .

“And we should record the tryout! And live stream it! And—”

“Okay, well. I love all of this.” I slip between them, throw an arm over each teen’s shoulder. “Syd, you kind of have a talent for this.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. Which is why . . .” I pause for dramatic effect. “I’m bringing you on as the Ice Out–Dingoes social media specialist.”

“Wait . . .” Syd’s voice goes high with excitement. “What? You mean . . .”

“If you'd be interested, of course,” I clarify, like Syd isn't grinning with every tooth in her head. “Though, I think you might be essential, at this point.”

“I’m . . . shit. Hell yeah, I'm interested!”

“Good.” I start walking again, taking them both with me before I release them from my embrace. “Now, however, we’re gonna do some walking so that Olli’s Big Fat Brain can do some serious pondering. Capiche?”

We walk.

Avery and Syd take the lead, side by side, and Nat and I fall in together, a comfortable, companionable distance apart. It’s quiet, beautiful, peaceful—

“Yo, Google Maps doesn’t know where we are.” Avery stomps through the thin layer of crusty snow on the trail ahead of me. He sounds a little awestruck as he taps at the screen of his phone.

“I know where we are,” I assure him. “All trails have landmarks, right, that help you know where you are. Or what direction you’re going. Or how far you still have to go. And this trail has freaking markers , so we’re fine.”

“Don’t you see the blue paint splotches, Av?” Syd asks.

“Okay fine, but . . .” Avery shoves his phone back into his pocket, angles a wary gaze towards me. “How are we somewhere the internet doesn’t know about?”

Behind him, Nat bites his lip in laughter .

At least the Taylors and Avery seem unbothered by the cold, even if none of them are particularly at ease in the woods.

“That’s the whole point,” I chuckle, swiftly leading the excursion down the right prong of a fork before anybody—who shall remain nameless—can wander off the wrong way. “You escape into nature for a while, leave the woes of the modern world behind.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Are you bored?”

“I mean, we’re just . . . walking.”

I stop walking. Turn. Level my gaze on him. He’s tall for a teen, but not as tall as me, so he has to tilt his head to meet my gaze.

“Close your eyes,” I say, and surprisingly, he closes them. Beside him, Sydney does the same.

Avery shifts from right foot to left, to let me know that he’s not quite sold on whatever this is, but at least he’s listening.

“Breathe in deep,” I say, and I breathe in, deep, in demonstration. “And just . . . notice. Pines, right? Pretty sharp smell. And snow too, that burning cold sensation inside your nostrils. But if you breathe a little deeper”—another inhale—“you can still kinda smell the dirt, just pretty faint under all the snow, and oh . . . I think a deer was here. You get that little hint of musk?”

“What are you, a hound dog?” Avery asks, and I squint an eye open to find that his eyes are still closed. Teasing but listening—still. Beside him, Sydney’s face has relaxed into smooth lines of calm.

I rein in my smile. “Nope. Okay, now stop talking and listen.”

The silence rings in my ears, profound, deep—hollow, almost—until they start to pull noises from nature. The soft whisper of wind through barren trees and tangled pine boughs. The frail twitter of a hopeful bird, somehow equipped to battle the cold and ice of this world despite his small size and fragile bones. The oh-so-faint hum of the city below, its own tangle of contrasting sounds blended into one harmony.

“You hear it?” I murmur, my voice a brutal slash of sound through the quiet .

“Mmm,” Avery responds, and when I open my eyes, he stands motionless, lids fluttered closed. Sydney beside him, her face that same serene sheet.

Behind them, Nat stands still as a statue, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sun.

Listening. Listening to the world around us, like he too wants to be a part of it. I wonder, when was the last time any of them stopped to listen ?

“Okay.” I refocus on Avery. “Now, reach out your right hand. Little more . . . there.” I mimic his motion with my left, so my fingers brush the bark of the same tree, the rough scrape almost jarring when my energy’s so tuned, so focused. “You feel it?”

Avery hisses in a quiet breath.

“Open your eyes,” I murmur, following my own instructions. “And tell me we’re just walking .”

Nat chuckles, and Avery opens his eyes. His face is expressionless until he catches me looking, scrunches it into such stubborn denial I almost laugh. But he doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.

“Well,” he finally huffs. “I am pretty sure we’re lost.”

Nat groans, but I turn and point ahead. “You see that rock there?”

Avery’s gaze follows the line of my finger. “Yeah? It’s just a rock.”

Behind him, Sydney’s looking, and behind her, Nat’s looking too.

I try not to let his attention heat me from the inside out. Focus, Olli. “Nah, see how it’s kinda square on the edge there? Good climbing rock. Which I know, ’cause I climbed it, and you can actually see over the tree line a little, get some views of the city. Really nice, actually.”

Avery’s gaze goes suddenly intense, and I know what his next question’s gonna be. “Can I climb it?”

“Let’s do it.” I take the lead to the oversized hunk of granite bulging out of the trees. We’re in the foothills, no real elevation gain happening here—seemed unwise given the company of my city slickers—so the rock is more a roil and froth of the land than a piece of mountain terrain .

Still makes for a fun, if short, little hand-and-foot shuffle to the top. I pop up onto the slightly concave ledge, watch as Avery makes light work of the climb. Behind him, Nat and Sydney follow in smooth pulls of their hands, thrusts of their feet.

Avery comes to stand beside me, and Nat moves to my other side, so they flank me as we stare out over the world beneath us. The trees fall at our feet in a tumble of pines interlaced with snow and—

“That’s an aspen, isn’t it?” Nat murmurs, leaning slightly into me. The words trail through my hair, caress the shell of my ear. Send the most delightful shivers down my spine.

“Yes, it is.” I tilt my head so he sees my dramatic eye-roll. “Along with the thirty or so ones around it.”

“Right. Yep.”

“How does Google not know about this?” Avery murmurs, maybe a little awed at the wonder of nature. The majesty, the greatness . . . the damn call of the wild.

“Google doesn’t know about things unless people tell it,” I say, adding a note of warning to my voice. “You aren’t gonna tell Google about this, right? Cause if you tell Google, Google will tell other people who don’t love this trail as much as I do.”

“No,” Avery hums. “I’m not gonna tell Google. But . . .” He hesitates, turns his gaze away so I can’t even read his profile. “Would you mind if I came back sometime?”

I rein in my smile. “No, I wouldn’t. We are gonna have to get you some better hiking shoes, though. C’mon, let’s keep walking. I have more thinking to do.”

I slide back down the rock, and as my boots crunch down into the snow and I tilt my head back to watch Avery, Syd, and Nat descend behind me, I think that this strange company of sojourners . . . something about it feels right.

It shouldn’t. Just like Nat and I shouldn’t feel so right. We inhabit two different planets, or we should, and yet here we are. With his daughter and her damn boyfriend, conquering a snowy trail on the edge of the civilized world.

Dreaming up ways to save a hockey team, to bring the fans of hockey back to the topside world. Maybe it’s not just a hockey team we’re saving, eh, but a whole damn town?

And it feels so right.