Off the Ice (Juniper Falls) Page 7

  Ron, our football team’s largest linebacker, is right behind me. Jamie glances his way and retracts his statement. “No offense, dude. I gotta support my teammates, right?”

  Lucky for all of us, the bell rings. I’m out of my seat so fast the girls from the back of the room, approaching me and Jake, don’t stand a chance of catching me. But my teammates do. Out in the cramped hallway, I can feel everyone looking my way. Jamie slings an arm around my and Jake’s shoulders. “I’m going through the cafeteria line with both of you. A royal court member beside me…I’m bound to get an extra-large scoop of mashed potatoes.”

  The volume in the cafeteria rises above the noise inside my head. I take one look at the jam-packed room and turn right around.

  “Hey,” Jamie calls after me. “Where you goin’?”

  “Library.” I don’t look over my shoulder or wait for a response. I need some air. This place is suffocating me.

  I glance at my phone while walking and read the text Claire just sent in reply to mine.

  CLAIRE: Yep

  Huh. I don’t know if I’m just paranoid, but something about that reply seems cold and distant. Maybe I should just talk to her in person? What if she took those rumors seriously? Or thinks I spread it around that we hooked up last Friday night? Claire’s not an idiot, but still, it’s an excuse to talk to her.

  I shove Leo’s clear directions to stay away from Claire far out of my head, push the doors to the school open, and step outside into the cold midday sun. But when I cross the high school and ice rink parking lot, my plan is quickly squashed.

  Claire is leading a guy up the steps to the upstairs apartment. I recognize him from years of high school hockey games, before I played for JFH. He’s probably twenty-one or twenty-two.

  I stand there for way too long watching Claire smile at the guy with her, rest a hand on the front of his jacket. I don’t know what this is, probably just another apartment showing, but regardless, I don’t like where my head is going. With Claire, I can kid all I want about the reasons for this impromptu need to see her in the middle of the school day, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not thinking straight. And this is the worst time possible for me to become a head case. Well, more than I already am, anyway.

  And I can’t help thinking that when I was eleven, wishing for Claire, she was probably wishing for Luke Pratt.

  Chapter 11

  –Claire–

  The trio of old ladies finally makes their way off the stage and out the back entrance of the great room in town hall. Haley and I simultaneously groan.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” she grumbles while I write a big no under The Sparkle Gals’s name on the auditions list. “Who’s next?”

  We’ve been auditioning bands for three days now. It’s getting to both of us. Not all of the groups have been awful, but none are versatile enough to play familiar tunes—from several different decades—for the five hours required of the New Year’s Eve ball. I scan the list. “We Love Shawn Mendes.”

  “What? That’s not a band name.” Haley leans over to read the name for herself just as the doors nearby are opening again. Four middle-school-age girls stride in, decked out in what is probably the result of a recent trip to Duluth to hit up Justice. Haley sinks back in her chair. “We’re doomed. The entire Juniper Falls Women’s League is gonna rip up their votes for me, not to mention the letters of recommendation I asked for…”

  “You never know; these girls might be good.” I watch them lower the mic stands and adjust their hair and tops.

  The tallest in the group, a five-foot-nothing blonde with a side ponytail, walks up to our table and hands me an iPhone I stare at it. “Um, what’s this for?”

  “Just plug it in and hit play.” She flashes me a pageant-worthy smile and flips her hair over her shoulder before joining the other three onstage.

  I turn to Haley. “Plug it in and hit play?”

  “I’m too tired to think about this.” She rolls her eyes and then attaches the iPhone to the soundboard.

  A teenybopper song blasts through the speakers. The girls attempt to sing along, but they’re a bit too focused on the corny hand gestures and swaying in time to the music to think about the singing part. I’ve heard my fair share of children auditioning—I’ve been that kid auditioning—I should be more tolerant of this. But it’s been a long week.

  “Stop them, please,” I plead to Haley under my breath.

  She maintains a warm smile for the girls but says through her teeth, “Let them finish one song.”

  I glance over my shoulder, feeling eyes on us. At the very opposite end of the great room, which is pretty far away, an old British lady is giving more etiquette lessons to the members of this year’s Juniper Falls Court—including Tate Tanley. Before anyone sees me looking over there, I drop my eyes to the table.

  Finally, the song ends and Haley yanks the plug out of the iPhone. She puts on her sympathetic face before addressing the girls. “That was really…”

  “Interesting,” I supply.

  “But for the New Year’s Eve ball, it’s very important we have a band.”

  “We are a band,” Side Ponytail Girl says.

  “A band that plays instruments,” I add.

  The girls look around the stage, as if just noticing the keyboard and drum set. They all drop their heads and mumble thank you before shuffling off the stage.

  Haley’s pressing her pen harder and harder onto the page of notes, obviously stressed. I drift wistfully into the world she gets to live in right now, where these band auditions and the competition for Juniper Falls Princess are responsible for the majority of her anxiety.

  With a sigh, I turn back to the audition list. “Midlife Crisis is up next.”

  “Well, they should all be over thirteen, right?” Haley says. We only have to wait a couple of minutes to find out, and when Haley sees the band members, her face fills with shock and then she shakes her head over and over. “No! No way!”

  Mr. Stevenson, Haley’s dad, lifts his hands in surrender. “Roger and Artie needed a percussionist.”

  “A drummer, Dad!” Haley jumps up and walks toward the stage. “It’s called a drummer, not a percussionist. If I wanted to book the marching band, I would have called you.”

  Roger Cremwell, still wearing a tool belt and a Critter Crusader T-shirt, takes his guitar out of its case and blocks Haley from getting to her dad. “He’s telling the truth. We all just decided to do this a couple of days ago.”

  “Sounds promising.” Haley folds her arms over her chest and glares at her dad. When no one moves for several seconds, she finally throws her hands up and says, “Fine! Play. Might as well, since you’re here and we’re already prepared to beat our heads against the table.”

  Midlife Crisis preps for another minute or two, and when they play the first few bars of their song, I straighten up in my chair, recognizing the tune. Finally, a group that actually picked a song from the Juniper Falls Women’s League set list. The music major in me is also quite impressed with their arrangement. They get all the way through the first verse and chorus of “Jesse’s Girl” before I tap Haley and say, “Is it me, or are they sort of good?”

  “Figures.” She pushes to her feet again and waves a hand to stop them.

  The guys look startled but cut the music off quickly. Behind us, Leo and Red have appeared.

  “Hey,” Leo says. “I was enjoying that.”

  Haley ignores him and walks in front of the stage again. “Okay, so you’ve got one good song. You’re gonna need way more than that.”

  Roger lifts an eyebrow. “Play something else?”

  “Oh! I know!” Kayla has popped up behind us, too, and the others are drifting this way. Looks like etiquette class may have finished. “Vampire Weekend!”

  “Remember last year at the ball when we got the mayor singing ‘Do you wanna build a snowman’?” Leslie says.

  Haley spins around to face us. “None of you are helpin
g.”

  A hand grips the back of my chair and I’m distracted by the warm fingers and the swinging arm now beside me. My gaze travels up the swinging arm until I’m looking right at Tate.

  He releases his hold on my chair and shifts his weight to the other foot. “Sorry. My leg’s asleep.”

  “It’s fine.” My cheeks heat up, and I quickly turn back to the stage. Roger begins playing an acoustic version of “Just Dance” by Lady Gaga. Already they’ve achieved the status of most versatile.

  I try to sit still and not notice the fingers only an inch from my back, but soon it’s all I can think about. I look up at Tate again, dying to know what he thinks of his new stepdad singing. His face is flushed. Maybe this is embarrassing him?

  “Dude, the exterminator can sing,” Jake Hammond says.

  A lot of eyes turn in Tate’s direction, and he quickly drops into Haley’s seat, ducking his head. Leo comes up on my other side and squats down. “How’s your dad doing?” he says in a low voice.

  “Better,” I whisper, the answer comes out almost robotic.

  I’ve nearly got my emotions in check when Tate picks up the pencil near my fingers and jots something down on a piece of paper, then folds it half before sliding it over to me. I look around, make sure no one is watching, and then stuff it in my apron—I came here right from working at the bar.

  I brave eye contact, and that, along with the proximity of our chairs, sends my stomach flipping around. He’s the intense Tate from last fall.

  “…you can’t cover the set list without a keyboard player,” Haley argues with her dad and Roger. “Asking people doesn’t count unless they can play and they agree to play at the ball. This isn’t some amateur event.”

  The note in my apron pocket is practically burning a hole, but I ignore it for now. I jump to my feet and stand in front of Haley, giving her a salute. “Keyboard player at your service.” If this gets us out of here sooner, I’m willing.

  “But…” Haley’s mouth falls open in protest, probably because I already have a job on the planning committee. She leans in close to me and whispers, “Are we really going to end up with the high school band director, local hardware store owner, and the town exterminator providing the music for the New Year’s Eve ball?”

  “If they’re the best.” I shrug and look the guys over. “Plus, the ball is formal. A tux can really do a lot.”

  “I guess,” Haley concedes.

  “That’s a great idea!” Mr. Stevenson says, waving a hand between the keyboard and me. “Claire can fill in now until we find someone.”

  “See?” I grin at Haley and step up on the stage. “I’ll fill in, we’ll finish the audition, and all the big hockey muscles can pack up the equipment for us and—”

  “We’ll be done.” Haley’s face lights up. “God, I wanna be done.”

  “That makes two of us.” I clap my hands. “Name that tune, Haley.”

  I look out at the table where Tate is still seated. He leans back in his chair and stares at me. My hands freeze over the keyboard. What did he write on that piece of paper? I shake my head and focus on the song Haley’s just asked us to play.

  A little while later, when the Juniper Falls Court is busy helping pack up the band equipment, I get reminded yet again why ignoring Tate is the best plan.

  Haley is whispering to him, her head ducked, her eyes shiny. She wraps a hand around his arm and he immediately jerks out of her grip, and then he’s across the room, out the door, carting a mic stand. Haley stares after him, and then Leo comes up beside her, both of them within hearing distance.

  “You gotta back off, Stevenson,” Leo says. “He’s not gonna be your date. Take Hammond. He’ll keep it drama free.”

  Haley drops her face in her hands and groans. “When is he gonna be out of this tortured, brooding phase? I just want things to go back to the way they were.”

  The way they were? Like at my going-away party?

  I sink back in my chair, realizing the truth. Tate does seem different now. Not just the varsity status. He’s not the lighthearted, happy kid he was when I used to hang out with Jody at the Tanleys’ house. And I can’t help wondering if things with his dad have gotten worse than last fall. I shudder at the thought of what that could mean. I had heard that he took a coaching job at SMU. That’s a lot closer than Michigan, where he’d been working. Maybe he pops into town more often? And with Jody away at school this year…it can’t be easy dealing with Keith’s visits. According to the poster at the ice rink, Keith and Tate are running that hockey clinic together, so he’ll be in town for that. With Tate nominated for Prince this year…there’s a carnival, parade, the shoot-out with alumni—Keith played in that game two years ago.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing away all this concern and curiosity. He’s not your problem, Claire. You’ve got enough of your own problems.

  ...

  Later, I pull Tate’s note out from beneath the table and read it.

  If you ever want to talk about stuff...this time I’ll bring the minivan, you bring the burgers.

  My insides warm; my vision blurs. I can already see us sitting in Mrs. Tanley-Cremwell’s minivan in the middle of the night, with decent burgers this time. Me spilling all my problems, everything I’m now petrified of, and Tate listening in that careful, intense way he did that night last fall.

  I look up at him again and wonder, not for the first time, if we’re past the point where we could go back to being like we were last year. Maybe I’m past that point. Maybe I want to be alone with him for different reasons now.

  Chapter 12

  –Tate–

  “What’dya get, T-Man?” Jamie asks me.

  I glance inside the top shelf of my locker and pull out the clear container with green and silver ribbon tied around it. I lift it up and spot the slices of yellow. “Pound cake.”

  Jamie’s stuffing cookies in his mouth from a tin his locker buddy left for him. I remove the card from under the ribbon and open it up.

  Tate,

  Good luck tonight! I’m so proud of you!

  Love,

  Haley

  She also left a thirty-two-ounce bottle of my favorite Gatorade, lime green. Last week there was no cake, just an orange Gatorade—the only other flavor I can’t stand—and a note that said:

  To: Tate

  From: Haley

  I flip this week’s note over a couple of times, searching for a punch line on the back or another request to be my date for the New Year’s Eve ball. Bakowski walks into the locker room from his office, and I quickly stuff the gifts back on the top shelf. Everyone goes silent and turns to face Coach. It’s so quiet, I can practically hear my heartbeat. I try to hold my hands still, but the second I stop wringing them, my leg bounces up and down. Beside me, Jake takes his stick and presses it to my skate, stilling the hyperactive leg.

  Bakowski paces a straight line down the length of the locker room, pivoting each time he reaches the end. He stops and glances at something near the door, out of my line of sight. “I’m gonna let one of the Otters’s most distinguished alumni talk to you about how important it is to get a great start early in the season.”

  Okay, not something. Someone.

  Before he even steps inside the locker room, a cold feeling sweeps over me. Sure enough, my dad strides in, his dress pants, shirt, and tie perfectly pressed for the ceremony later at the winter carnival.

  “Keith was the lead scoring forward my last year as assistant coach,” Bakowski says. “And he’s this year’s recipient of the Otter Lifetime Achievement Award for his work as assistant coach for two Division I hockey teams.”

  I lean forward and make myself busy re-lacing my skates. Even without looking up, I feel the eyes on me. I’m supposed to be excited about this, proud, even, I’m sure. Dad is grinning widely, enjoying the whistling and clapping from all the varsity guys and the “Big Tanley!” shouts.

  Dad points a finger at Owen Jensen’s mop of hair that nearly touches his
shoulders. “Still haven’t located any scissors?”

  Everyone cracks up. Owen made it onto the All Hockey Hair Team last year. It’s something only the “cool” alums know about. Something we teased Owen about constantly last season.

  “I heard a rumor Longmeadow is planning to dunk their heads in bleach,” Dad says, earning more laughter. “You boys will need a counterattack.”

  Coach clears his throat, and all the laughter is cut off immediately. Dad turns in his direction and gives a sheepish grin. “Right. Speech time. I get it.”

  “Dude, your dad rocks,” Red whispers from my right side.

  I bite back words of protest and focus on lacing my skates again.

  Dad puts on his charming, I’m important face. “As many of you already know, I’m assistant coach for the SMU Hawks and before that, I was assistant at U Michigan.”

  One of many assistants. But whatever. No one seems to ever look up that shit.

  “Here’s the thing,” Dad says. “I don’t know where all of you are headed after you’re done with this team, but I know from personal experience, you’ll never be more appreciated and respected than you are right now, right here, playing this game for this town. Some days, I don’t feel like driving two hours just to be here to watch a game or accept an award. But the second I step into this arena, I’m cursing myself for forgetting what it’s like to be someone who played for this team.”

  I look up from my skates and glance around the room. A sick feeling washes over me. I should be eating this up, I should be getting pumped for the game, but I’m too busy faking those things to actually feel them.

  “…Every game you play, every time this town gathers to watch you boys, is a memory for someone. Doesn’t matter if it’s not the playoffs yet; doesn’t matter if we aren’t ranked yet. All that matters is this game. This could be the best moment of your life, right now.”

  I rub my sweaty palms on my jersey. I don’t want tonight to be the best I’ll ever play. No matter how it goes. I want more than playing in this town. Something bigger. Something all my own. Without my dad.