Текст книги " Bittersweet"

Автор книги: Sarah Ockler

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Can we pretend that didn’t happen?

Not a chance, Blackthorn. Not a chance.

Chapter Twenty-One

Woolly Mammoth Freeze-Outs

Chilled chocolate cupcakes with chocolate buttercream icing rolled in dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate shavings

Half an hour before the face-off against the Fairplay Sharks, Baylor’s is humming, air heavy with the smell of buttered popcorn and anticipation. I grab a hot chocolate from the concessions stand and find a seat near the center line, away from the influx of random new spectators, away from Ellie and Kara and the rest of the hockey wives. Dani’s next to a few girls I’ve seen at the parties, but if she notices me, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

Down behind the player’s box, Will’s local news fan club sets up their equipment, panning across the crowd for the folks watching from home. Even Dodd’s got more guests tonight—a bunch of stuffy VIP-looking dudes in suits, all shaking hands with Will’s father. Probably the recruiting squad.

I swirl the hot liquid in my cup, heat radiating against my palm. Everyone is glowing, all of them clinging to an unfaltering, unified hope, and when the boys skate out across the ice and wave to their newly adoring fans, the murmurs in the stands give way to a thunderous roar. My heart races as Josh brings up the end of the line, and when he spots me in the stands and raises his stick in the air, my head spins.

I know I’m not part of the practices anymore, but now, as they glide around the rink in their blue-and-silver jerseys in perfect formation, the crowd stomping its collective feet, my whole body tingles with pride. Not to get all mama bear, but it seems like only yesterday the pups were stumbling out of the box, lumbering over the ice with all the grace of bricks.

Tonight they’re playing in the semis, heading for the finals, breaking records with the unlikeliest, craziest, most insane comeback in the entire history of Watonka High. Even if they lose this game, they’ve still performed miracles. When everyone else told them they couldn’t do it, they marched out to the rink, banged their sticks on the ice, and raised the dead.

Cheers to that, wolf pack.

I raise my cardboard cup to the ice and take another swig, whipped cream tickling my lips. Down on the rink, the opposition slides out to a boo-hiss symphony, and the starters on both sides line up for the face-off.

The whistle blows. The puck drops. And it’s on.

Josh takes it first, cutting across the ice and slapping the puck down the rails to Rowan. Two more passes between them, one back to Gettysburg, back to Rowan, sliding into Sharks territory, over to Josh, Josh lays back to take the shot, but Will cuts across and nabs the puck, shoots hard, and scores, right between the goalie’s skates.

First goal of the game, less than two minutes in.

Will dominates the ice again, weaving in and out of the Sharks’ defensive line, the tightest turns I’ve ever seen him pull. When the other team steals the puck, Will steals it right back. He’s keeping it away from the Sharks, but he’s also keeping it away from his own guys. They’re total showboat moves, and in the final seconds of the first period, the opposing defensive line swipes the puck, sends it down the ice, and scores.

One to one at the first intermission, and Coach Dodd calls Will over for a private conference. Dodd’s hands flail around, his face red and blotchy, and Will’s shoulders slump. Dodd hasn’t paid much attention to Will’s technique all season, but when you’re backed by a pack of recruiters, priorities apparently change. Will should know better. Playing the showman card won’t score him any points with the suit committee.

At the start of the second, Frankie snags the puck from the Sharks’ center and slaps it to Josh. Josh takes it down the line, passes it to Micah, back to Josh at the Sharks’ net. Josh shoots and scores, right over the goalie’s shoulder, setting off a crushing roar through the stadium. My heart speeds up each time the boys skate back to the center line, and for the entire game, even though I’m sitting alone with no glittery signs or wolf-ear headbands or blue-and-silver flags, I cheer as loud as I can.

The Wolves are on fire, but Dodd lays into Will again at the next intermission. Josh stands behind them on the ice, bracing against the force of Dodd’s secondhand rage. By the time they line up for third period, both co-captains are on edge, elbowing each other as the ref drops the puck.

The score is tied three-three, and in the last five minutes of the game, a chant rises in the stands. By the time it reaches me, it morphs into a song, and soon the entire arena is belting out the chorus to Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London,” changing the words to “Wolves of Watonka,” which doesn’t have the same lyrical ring, but gets the point across.

The boys are completely pumped.

With one minute on the clock, Amir saves a goal and passes the puck to Luke, who brings it up to Brad, who sends it up to Josh, safely out of Wolves territory. I stomp my feet and sing the wolf song with the crowd, and in the final seconds, Will swipes the puck from Josh, charges ahead, crosses the Wolves’ blue line, the red line, the Sharks’ blue line, pulls his stick back, and slaps the puck straight at the goalie, straight through his gloves, straight into the net.

The buzzer sounds.

The game is over.

The formerly untrainable, apathetic, obnoxious, and most losingest team in history has just won the semifinals, four to three.

The wolf pack is going to the finals.

I push my way down to the ice, the boys smashed together in a free-form mosh pit, sticks high in the air. I dodge between groups of parents and step out onto the rink in my boots, scanning the crowd for Josh.

Both co-captains hang behind the pack, just out of reach of the celebratory crush. I slide closer. Will is surrounded by Dodd and the suit committee, news guy Don Donaldson edging in with a mic and a cameraman.

“Will, is it true that your coach is already fielding interest from NHL Central Scouting?” Don asks.

“We’re looking at our options,” Dodd answers for him. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak actual words all season. “No comment at this time.”

“What about you, gentlemen?” Don asks the suits. “Like what you saw out there tonight?”

“No comment at this time,” Dodd says again, nodding curtly at the camera and ushering his well-dressed buddies off the ice. Without so much as a congratulatory smile, Will’s father goes with them, disappearing behind the stands.

Will turns to skate away, too, but Josh grabs his jersey and yanks him close, their helmets almost touching.

“Josh!” I slide over to them in my boots, trying not to stumble on the ice. “Stop! What are you doing?”

Josh sees me and loosens his grip. “Go ahead,” he says to Will. “Tell her about your godfather.”

“But …” I look from captain to captain. “Dodd? That’s what you’re fighting—”

“You knew about him?” Josh’s eyes blaze.

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I say, utterly lost. “Will didn’t like to talk about it, so … what’s up with you guys tonight? You just won the semis!”

Josh skates close to me, face red, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. “You two have been scheming together this whole season, and you’re asking me what’s up?”

“What are you talking—”

“That’s it, Blackthorn,” Will says. “I’m benching you next game. Keep it up, you’re out for the rest of the playoffs.”

“You’re the coach now, too?” Josh shoves Will’s shoulder. “Was that part of your sweet little deal with Dodd?”

I wedge myself between them and try to grab Will’s arm, but he dives around me, slamming Josh against the glass. I wave for Amir, but the rest of the pack is still hugging and fist-bumping on the center line, oblivious.

“Will, what are you doing?” I shout. “Back off!”

Will lets out a sarcastic laugh. “That’s not what you usually say.”

Josh’s face changes from red to ice-white to red again, Will’s cocky smirk undoing everything I said at Hurley’s yesterday. All the promises I made, the moments between us, erased in the heat of some stupid, testosterone-fueled misunderstanding.

“Josh, don’t listen to—”

“Was Hudson part of the package, too?” Josh asks. “Bonus for selling us out? Dodd’s really got the hookup, huh?”

Will tells a hundred more lies with a single suggestive look, but his smirk falls when he sees my face. Something like regret flickers behind his eyes, and then the wall goes back up between us, cold and solid.

“Jealous, Blackthorn?” Will spits at the ice, and suddenly, Josh winds up for a swing. Amir is next to me in a millisecond, the other boys close behind. Before Josh can connect, Amir hip-checks him into the glass, and the rest of the team swarms us, Amir holding Josh while Rowan and Brad pull Will across the ice, back to the locker room.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask Josh, voice shaking. “What do you mean, scheming? And why are you letting Will get under your skin?”

Josh shakes his head, panting and red-faced. I reach out for his hand, but he turns on me, speed skating his way to the other side of the rink, melting into the crush behind the stands before I can ask any more questions.

“Hudson?” Dani pushes through the tangle of undisturbed and still-singing fans. “Are you okay?”

“I’m … that came out of nowhere.” I shake my head, shock coursing through my veins. Everything happened so fast, a flash hailstorm on the ice. “I don’t … can we sit for a sec?”

She nods, and I follow her back to the seats at floor level, collapsing into the first empty chair I find. She joins Frankie a few feet behind me.

“You okay?” Kara loops her purse over the chair next to me and sits, face lined with genuine concern. “What happened out there?”

“Will and Josh got into it. Something about Dodd.” It’s all I can manage without breaking down.

Kara sighs. “Hud, I don’t mean to sound like—”

“So don’t.” I close my eyes. “Sorry. I’m just not in the mood for ‘I told you so’ right now.”

“I wasn’t. I just … I meant what I told you that day. Be careful with Will. He’s got a lot going on, and I don’t think he’s being honest with the guys about what he wants for the team. He’s not—”

“This isn’t about me and Will. You have no idea, okay?” My voice wavers, and I close my mouth, willing her to go away. Why is she the one trying to protect me while my best friend is cuddling up with Frankie? Why didn’t Dani sit next to me? Why didn’t I ask her to?

Kara stands and grabs her purse from the back of the chair. “I just don’t want you to get hurt over this. That’s all.” She watches me a moment longer, but when I don’t respond, she finally says good-bye, following the crowd toward the exit in search of Ellie and her other friends.

“Heading home?” I ask Dani.

She looks toward the exit, then back to me. “We’re … um … we’re supposed to go for wings after the guys get changed. Do you … you could come if you want.”

“Maybe I’ll catch up later.”

“You sure?” Dani asks.

No. I’m not sure. I’m not sure if I’ll catch up later. I’m not sure if I want to go out for wings with you and Kara and Ellie, everyone laughing and chatting like this didn’t just happen, you and the hockey wives inseparable now. I’m not sure if I want to sit here and wait for Josh to come out of the locker room, try to talk to him again. I’m not sure if I want to scream at Will or ignore him. I’m not sure if you even want me around or if you just feel sorry for me. I’m not sure of anything.

“Yes,” I tell her. “Definitely sure.”

She squeezes my shoulder and for a second I think she might stay, convince me to go out with her or insist on ditching her plans. Look me straight in the eye, fold her arms over her chest, and call me out. Talk to me, girl, she’ll say. Spill it.

But she just sighs and slips behind me, weaving her way to the exit where the other girls wait.

When I turn around again, they’re gone.

Fresh snow blankets the parking lot, but my truck is totally clear, ready to go. Far from the crowds of Baylor’s, Will leans against my driver’s side door, jacket sleeves coated in snow, waiting.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he says when I get close. He’s got his boots and coat on, but underneath it all, he’s still wearing his hockey gear. His eyes are glassy, cheeks red from the cold. “I totally messed up. I tried to …” He motions toward my clean windshield.

“And now you think I want to hear anything out of your mouth? Just because you brushed the snow off my truck? Excuse me.” I push him aside and jam my key in the door lock.

“Let me explain. Please, Hudson.”

Behind us, a car crunches over a snow-packed section of the lot, speeding up and spinning into a donut on the vacant other end, the tracks making slippery black snakes in the white-gray slush.

“Two minutes,” I say.

Will sticks his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t tell you the whole story about Coach Dodd.”

“I got that much, Will. Clock’s ticking.”

“Okay.” Will shakes his head, eyes closed as he blows out an icy breath. “All year, my father kept laying into Dodd about giving up on hockey, giving up on me, spending all his time with the football guys. So one night after spaghetti dinner, Dodd looks at my dad and says he’s got an idea. Best of both worlds for everyone.”

“Why does this feel like an episode of Friday Night Lights?”

“It kind of is. Remember I told you Dodd wanted Watonka to drop the hockey program? I was supposed to help make it happen. That was my end of the deal. We already sucked, so all I had to do was keep the team losing and demotivated, and by next season, the school would drop us officially. In exchange, Dodd would hook me up with his recruiting connections.”

“On about ten different levels, that makes no sense.” I look beyond the parking lot to the black silhouette of the steel plant, smokestacks pointing their accusatory fingers into the sky. “If your whole team sucked, why would recruiters look at you?”

“Why does anything happen in this world, Hud? These guys are Dodd’s college buddies. I just had to be good enough to show I was a talented player stuck on a losing team. I could still get noticed if the recruiters saw potential, and Dodd would make sure of that. In return, he wanted the Wolves to crash and burn. I didn’t want to screw over the team, but I wasn’t about to pass up my one chance to get out of here.”

For sure, for real, just like everyone says.

“So you took the deal.”

Will nods, drawing circles in the frost on the rusty hood. “But then Josh told me about you, and I got this idea. I thought … okay, if this girl can help us train, we might win a few games without Dodd. He could stay with the football team. And chances are we’d still get canceled anyway, but at least I could avoid selling out my friends, and instead of being known as the one talented guy on a suck-ass team, I’d be the guy who led a suck-ass team to break a ten-year losing streak with a couple of unexpected wins.”

“Ah. Nice to know your ego hasn’t suffered any critical blows this season.”

“No, that’s just it.” Will steps right in front of me. “After a few games, my ego checked out. We came together as a team. For the first time in three years, I felt like I was part of something bigger. Like we could really do this. Win—not just a few games, but a lot of games. Dodd kept pressuring me to tone it down, but he couldn’t do anything about it in public. I dodged him for weeks, but tonight, he finally lost it. I was so mad after first period, I just took over the game. I wanted to show Dodd what I could do without him, but that made everything worse. I screwed my friends, embarrassed my father, and Dodd completely freaked. It was like he forgot there were people around.”

“Josh overheard?”

“Yep.”

I stomp my boots on the ground to warm my numb feet. “Did you explain to him about Dodd and your father?”

Will shakes his head. “You saw what happened after the win. Josh laid into me, and I was so upset about Dodd, and when I saw you looking at Josh like … like you always look at Josh … I don’t know. I flipped. I lost it. I’m sorry.” Will looks into my eyes, his voice soft and sincere. There’s no award-winning toothpaste commercial smile, no expensive cologne, no charmingly cheesy one-liners, no soft and distracting kisses. “You did so much for the team. For me. You’re actually kind of … amazing. Just like Josh always said.”

“Josh isn’t …” Was Hudson part of the package, too?

“Hudson?” He pulls me toward him again, but I press my hand against his chest, holding him back.

“I can’t do this.”

He sighs and leans in to kiss my cheek, close to my lips, sending a familiar zing across my skin. But it doesn’t last; it slips out into the night air, disappearing with Will. He gets into his car, reverses out of the spot, and vanishes down the road, brake lights fading into tiny red specks, the deep gray hole in my chest going black around the edges.

I turn my face to the sky. Heavy, wet snowflakes pelt my cheeks, sticking in my eyelashes until I blink them away. How can I be upset with Will when he was just doing what he had to do to secure his future? To find his own golden ticket out of here?

I don’t even know what’s important anymore. What’s worth fighting for, even if it’s not always a clean fight. Skating? Cupcakes? Hockey? My family? The diner? The scholarship? Dani? Will? Josh? My father? The past? The future? Everything I touch slips through my fingers like spilled hot chocolate. All I have left is the competition, the one thing that really can alter the course of my life. Fear and doubts aside, that was the deal. The promise I made myself when I signed up for the Capriani Cup.

Win it, and everything changes.

Now, more than ever, no matter how much it hurts to admit, that promise is the very last hope I’m holding, the only thing in my life that I haven’t yet spilled.

In six days, I’ll skate for those judges.

In six days, nothing else will matter.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Bittersweets

Bavarian orange chocolate espresso cupcakes topped with dark chocolate ganache, chocolate icing, and a flower of orange buttercream

A plume of snowflakes swirls through the light of the Mobil sign next door, black lines on a pale blue glow announcing the price of gas and Newport Lights and something else with missing letters. Lake-effect wind lashes my bedroom window and my thin curtains ripple in the early morning draft, swaying at the edges.

I yawn and stretch and reach up to flick the light switch. From Bug’s room next door, Mr. Napkins squeaks out a lengthy response on his hamster wheel, which I can’t quite translate, because it’s too early and I haven’t had my hot stuff yet—coffee and shower, priorities one and two.

Twelve minutes later, I set my cup of joe on the bathroom sink as I examine my aching body in the fluorescent light, the parts I crash-landed on in training all week finally standing up for themselves. My triple/triple is solid, but my hip is bruised, a purple rose blooming on my skin. I feel a matching one on my elbow, and when I push up the sleeve of my bathrobe to inspect the damage, the door swings open with a rush of cold air.

“Don’t you knock?” I pull my robe tight as Bug looks up with his huge, matter-of-fact eyes, glasses fogging up from the steam of the waiting shower.

He holds up the hamster’s water bottle. “Mr. Napkins is thirsty. What happened to your arm?”

“Nothing.”

“Can I see it?”

“It’s fine.”

Bug looks at the shower stall and back to me. “Hudson, if it’s bruised, you should ice it. Heat will make it swell.”

“Thanks for the tip, Dr. Avery.”

“Saw it on House.” Bug nudges in front of me to get to the sink. He reaches for the faucet. Turns it on. Fills the water bottle. Twists and twists and twists the cap closed. Stretches to shut off the water. Dries the bottle on the hand towel. Turns toward me. And wraps his tiny arms around my waist, pressing his cheek against my robe. “It’s from Mr. Napkins,” he says, words muffled by the closeness of us.

I run my hand over his head and squeeze him back.

“Almost time for Hurley’s,” he says. “Mom said I can peel gum off the tables today. Holy cannoli!” He pumps his fist in the air. And then he’s gone.

He forgets to close the bathroom door.

I down the rest of my coffee and meet my eyes in the mirror. This is it. The day I’ve been training for all winter. In ten hours I’ll skate in front of a panel of judges for a chance at a fifty-thousand-dollar scholarship. Every one of my nerves stands at attention, my whole body buzzing with equal parts excitement and dread.

In ten hours, I’ll finally prove myself.

I’ll nail it.

I’ll win.

I’ll—

“Hurry up, Hudson!” Bug shouts from his bedroom down the hall. “Mom’s waiting for us.”

“Fifteen minutes!” I call back. I look in the mirror again, one last time before everything changes.

“Hudson, are all the blinds dusted?” Mom asks, zipping around the Hurley’s kitchen like some kind of cracked-out, nightmare hummingbird.

“Yep,” I say.

“Even the ones in the kitchen?” she asks.

“Did them myself. Twice.”

“And the tabletops? Did you check for gum and—”

“Bug’s on gum detail.” I push open the doors to the dining room and point to the booths by the window, where my brother diligently scrapes specimens from table underbellies into a small bucket.

“What about the walk-in cooler?” Mom asks. “Did you chuck any expired food and make sure everything on the shelves is alphabetized and—”

“Ma, he’s not the health inspector, and he’s not coming for two more days. You’ve been at this all week—calm down.”

“Go.” Mom points to the walk-in without further explanation, and thirty seconds later I’m knee-deep in dairy, organizing milk products for the third time this week.

“Holy meltdown.” Dani ducks into the cooler five minutes later, pulling the door shut behind her. She wraps a sweater around her shoulders and joins me at the shelves. “Girlfriend’s on my last nerve out there.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The dining room is so clean you could eat off the floor.” Dani picks through a few bricks of butter, separating the salted from the plain. “The guy’s gonna love us.”

“I wonder what he’s like,” I say, eager to keep our nonargument going. “Like, will he show up with a notebook and tape recorder, all official?”

Dani laughs. “Testing, testing, this is Bob Barker, reporting live from Hurley’s Homestyle Diner on—”

“Dude, no. Bob Barker is the guy from The Price Is Right.”

“When did the Price Is Right guy become a restaurant reviewer?”

“This year, I guess.” I laugh and check the time on my phone. Just under an hour until I make my escape.

“Soooo,” she says, stretching it out until it’s so long and loaded I already know what’s coming next.

“I haven’t spoken to either of them.”

“That bad, huh?”

I sniff a recently opened carton of heavy cream and set it back on the shelf, face out. “Josh thinks I conspired to get Will in front of hockey scouts and screw the rest of the team. It’s this whole mess with the coach—he’s Will’s godfather.”

Dani nods. “Frankie told me that part. But why are they mad at you? You obviously helped the whole team, not just Will.”

“There’s a lot more to it. I was hanging out with Will, but then Josh and I were supposed to … okay, it’s a crazy long story.”

She reaches for another stack of butter bricks, checking the dates. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I just thought …”

“Are you working brunch tomorrow? Maybe we can go to Sharon’s for a late lunch after and talk about stuff?”

“Lunch tomorrow would be awesome,” she says. “But I’m working a double tonight, so if you want to start filling me in on the basics …”

I check my phone again. “I can’t.”

“Why are you so antsy?”

“I have the … my competition starts in a little while.” I pick up a tub of sour cream and inspect the contents. “The scholarship thing.”

“That’s tonight? I totally forgot! Why didn’t you remind me?”

“We haven’t exactly been on speaking terms.”

“Hudson.” She leans against the metal shelving that holds all the eggs, hands on her hips. “I know things aren’t all lovey-dovey, but that doesn’t mean I’m ditching out on the biggest event of your life.”

“You aren’t ditching. It’s fine. You don’t—”

“What time does it start? I’ll call Marianne.” She digs the phone out of her apron pocket and flips it open, scrolling through the numbers. “Maybe she’ll switch with me so I can—”

“Dani, listen to me.” I reach across the small space of the cooler and close her phone. “It’s not you, okay? I know I haven’t been around much and I don’t even deserve your awesomeness, and I totally appreciate that you still want to be there for me. But this event … I just … I can’t really explain it.”

“Try,” she whispers, eyes shining.

“I need to go it alone.”

“Alone. Right.” She wipes fresh tears with her fingertips. “Guess you’ve made that pretty clear, haven’t you?”

“Dani, wait.” I grab her arm.

“Let go of me.” She pulls away and stomps out of the cooler. She tries to slam the door, but I catch it and follow her to the big dishwasher at the back of the kitchen.

“Please listen,” I whisper, keeping an eye out for Mom and Bug. “I’ve been so stressed about this, and the competition is so hard. That scholarship … it’s everything to me. You have no idea how—”

“No, you have no idea. I’ve been dealing with your multiple personality disorder for months. I kept telling myself, ‘Ease up, she’s having a hard time with her family.’ Then it was, ‘Cut her a break. She’s really busy with hockey and skating stuff.’ Then, ‘Wow, waitressing and baking and school and training—must be tough to balance it all.’” Dani shoves one of my mixing bowls into the dishwasher, followed by a cutting board and a few dinner plates.

“Dani—”

“I tried to convince myself that things would get better once you got the hang of serving, or after the Wolves won a few games, or once Christmas break started, or New Year’s, or blah blah blah. But it never happened. Know why? Because there’s always another reason, Hud, and there always will be. Always something to give you a bad day or put you in a funk. Life is hard—I get it. The thing is, best friends don’t use that stuff as an excuse to treat each other like garbage. Best friends don’t make you feel like the slush under your boots.”

Her eyes are wild and her words hit me like steak knives, but she’s right. I can’t argue a single point, and hearing the entire soundtrack of my horrible behavior set to the tune of her wounded, angry voice kicks me hard in the chest. I hate that I put that edge in her jaw, the angles in her stance, the stain on our formerly unblemished friendship.

“I totally hear you, Dani. I know I got caught up in my own thing this winter, and I’ve been a mess of a person, but this is my last chance. I need to be in the zone tonight. No distractions—not even well-meaning ones. If I don’t nail this thing, that’s it. I’m stuck in this hole for the rest of my life.”

Dani slams the dish rack into the machine. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy trying to bail on this ‘hole,’ you’d remember that some people call it home, and that you don’t have it all that bad. Maybe if you stopped trying so hard to escape, you’d see some of the good stuff, too.”

“For you, sure. You still have both of your parents. You know they’re going to help you, whatever you decide to do. Look around. Look at this place. This is my future. My whole life. Name one good thing—”

“One and two,” she says, counting on her fingers. “You have a mom and a little brother who adore you. Three, Trick always has your back. Four, a warm bed. Five, all those friends you made on the hockey team—crushes or breakups or not, those guys adore you. Six, a decent job, when you show up. Seven—”

“What about you? Do I still have my best friend, or is that just a regional thing? Because it seems you liked me a whole lot better when you thought I’d be stuck in Watonka, working as a Hurley Girl for the rest of my life.”

Dani moves toward me, anger rising from her lungs, coloring her face. But then she changes directions, breaking for the staff closet. She digs through her bag and pulls out a folder, neat handwriting etched across the tab: PHOTO—FINAL PROJ./PASSION.

“Seven,” she says, fingers ashen against the plain manila. “Something you love. Something that used to make you smile.”

“Dani, I—”

“You forgot who you are, Hudson Avery.” She flings the folder at the prep counter and a few eight-by-tens slip across the metal surface. I recognize them from the shoot we did months ago for the cupcake flyers. We’d just finished taking some close-ups and I was messing around with a bowl of frosting, licking the spoon mock-seductively. I did it to make her laugh—to make both of us laugh.

It worked. I laughed so hard I didn’t even notice she was still clicking away on the camera. And now, staring down at a picture of the former me—the me who only a few months ago could still laugh like that, who still believed a good bowl of icing and a best friend were the keys to happiness—my heart shatters. She’s right. She’s right and I’ve risked everything that ever mattered to me, just for one more impossible chance on the ice.

But I’ve come too far to walk away from it. After all this, I owe it to myself to try. To go after the one thing I know will make me happy. Skating. Winning that competition. Getting back out there and proving to the judges that yes, Hudson Avery does have what it takes. Knowing that I worked hard for this, no matter who else is standing with me in the kiss-and-cry room when they call out the final scores.

I scoop the photos into the folder and hand the packet to Dani. “If you still want to come with me—”

“It’s too late. You made your choice.” Dani marches to the other end of the counter and tears the folder in half, dropping the whole thing into the trash. “Good luck tonight, girl. I hope you win that prize. And I hope it’s everything you dreamed it would be.”

In the third stall of the ladies’ room, I shed my Hurley Girl dress and slip into jeans and a sweatshirt, my old, slightly too-small skating dress folded neatly beneath the skates at the bottom of my backpack. My eyes are blurry with tears, but I can’t let Dani’s words get to me—not now. I have to focus on the competition. Visualize my routine. The applause. The scores. Everything I worked for all winter, all my life, finally happening.