Out of Play

Chapter Four

Pe

I sit in the kitchen with my coffee, staring out the window at the cabins. It’s probably rude to always be watching, but I can’t help it. These guys don’t ski. They don’t have snowmachines. They don’t seem to know anyone up here. They walk. Like every day. Normal people don’t go on walks in the winter when there are a million better things to do outside, all of which are faster.

If I had to guess, I’d say Bishop is pretty pissed about the whole situation because I have yet to see him without a scowl. That Gary guy’s always going to his door to stand and chat for a minute, and then leaving. There’s something about the situation that feels off, and I want to know what it is. I dug through all Mom’s paperwork for the cabin business, but all I came up with was Gary’s name on the cabin rental, his name on the VISA, and nothing else.

Bishop steps outside and lights up another cigarette, reminding me how seriously hot he is. He really has the whole dark, brooding thing going on. I’m sure part of it is because most of the guys I know my age, I’ve known for a while, or I know their family, or am friends with their cousin, or something. This guy is all new, felt all new when I patched up his nose, and he looks…misplaced up here. But more than that. He looks misplaced inside. That’s not something easily fixed. And maybe that’s where the whole brooding thing comes from.

“How’s my button nose this morning?” Gramps grins at me from across the table. His blue eyes are so bright, and his face so filled with his kid-grin, that he looks like an expectant three-year-old.

There’s no way to hold in my smile at something he’s said to me since I can remember. “My nose is not a button, Gramps.”

He reaches across the table and lets out a loud beep as his finger makes contact. “I beg to differ.”

I wrinkle my nose, but I’m glad he’s having a good day today.

“Why are we looking so introspective this morning?” he asks.

“The guys. In the cabins.” I jerk my chin. “Just trying to figure out their story.”

Gramps gives me his pro eye of suspicion. “Trying to learn, or harassing that boy?”

I freeze for a moment and scramble for something to say that won’t give up the fact that I’ve maybe been watching Bishop more closely than I should, and maybe enjoyed fixing his nose more than I should. “What?” I wonder how well I pulled off i

“He left here bloody with a tampon in his nose. You need to stop doing that.” He chuckles and stands, heading for the fridge.

“What? They work great! It’s not like I gave him the bloody nose or anything.” Like I’ve been known to do.

He shakes his head.

And yes. Okay. The tampon might not have been totally necessary, but I wasn’t lying when I said it’s one of the most used things in our first aid kit.

“You got an offer from Boston University to check out their rink.” He reaches into the fridge. “Possible scholarship.”

Another college. I’m good, but I didn’t think I was good enough to get so much attention for it. They’re the fourth team this month, and if I wanted to leave state, and if I wanted to play on a women’s team, they’d be worth listening to. Time to change the subject. “Gramps! You’re not supposed to open other people’s mail! It’s a federal offense,” I tack on for added seriousness.

He snorts. “Distraction may work with your mother, Lucky, but it won’t work with me.”

“I’m sticking around.” I shrug. “No point in ru

“Pe

“That’s not the point, Gramps.” I stick my chin out. I can’t miss it. Him. Gramps can’t always take care of himself, and with Dad gone, Mom can’t take care of him, either. She barely sleeps. Just works, eats, and lately, is only doing the occasional stop by home.

“The point is that you have some serious talent, and it shouldn’t go to waste.” Gramps mimics my set jaw, which makes me immediately pull mine back in.

“I’ve got a good thing going here, Gramps. Both UAF and UAA have seen me play enough to take me on the men’s teams, and I could probably be an assistant coach at my high school.” Every one of those things is something I want to do. Why would I leave? I hate that they try to push their choices on me.

His brow wrinkles in worry. “College players are a lot bigger than the high school boys, Pe

“Is that what your son would say? Dad’s the one who got me playing with the guys in the first place.” I shove back my hair and push out a breath. Gramps blinks a few times, hopefully reading me well enough to change the subject.

He rubs his thumb across my chin, tilting his head to the side one way and then the other way until I can’t hold in my smile. “Why don’t you work on your car today?”

I’m surprised he didn’t ask if we were both working on my car. For Gramps, it’s like therapy. It’s something he has yet to have a hard time remembering how to do. “For a while. I’ve got practice today.”

“Sunday?” His brows go up.

“Semifinals are coming up.” We barely lost state last year. I’m determined to make it all the way this year. Semifinals, and then finals, and we have to go all the way.

…

My Corvette sits here. Just like it has for years. I got it ru

I suck in a breath and shove the thought away. Normally, it’s a good thing to be in the room with this car, but sometimes it just makes me miss Dad more. Puts an ache in my chest that I don’t think will ever totally go away.

I run my hand up the side of the body toward the hood. The car is ugly now, but it’ll be perfect when I finish. 1975, buffed out and ready to paint—once I get some more money and decide on a color. It’s the engine that’s still giving me fits.

I lean under the hood and stare at the same problems. We’re basically rebuilding a rebuilt engine. Not easy. And as I stand here, the puzzle that I usually can’t wait to get my hands on doesn’t feel like it wants to be touched. So much for this distraction before practice. Gramps is napping anyway, and it’s not the same working without him here.

Instead of cleaning, or trying to get the wheels back under my toolbox, I sit in the driver’s seat, which reminds me that I have to find a steering wheel that’s in better shape. The top is off the T-top. No one appreciates T-tops anymore, but I think it’s perfect. Especially for up here. It’s not like there’s months and months of time when I could have a convertible top down.

Sliding my hands across the wheel turns the ache in my chest to hurt over missing Dad. There’s too much stuff in my head today. Gramps telling me I need to get out of town. Some guy who looks like a rock star with a tampon up his nose. Mitch with a girlfriend he actually seems to like, and who doesn’t seem to mind putting up with him.

I slump lower in my seat, feeling like with the end of hockey season, and the end of my senior year, things are going to change a lot more than I want them to.

…

“Where’s your ball and chain?” I shove Mitch from behind as we warm up on the ice.

He frowns. “She’ll be here later.” Mitch hates me harassing him about her. She’s just…such a girlie girl—preened and high-maintenance, with her dark hair always shiny and smooth or done up in tiny curls. My stomach flips. I have no idea how to make myself that way, or even if I’d want to.

Mostly, I hate that he hates me teasing him about this. It means, again, that whatever I feel for him is not something he feels, and that he either doesn’t care that Rebecca’s starting to come between us or hasn’t noticed. I’m not sure which is worse. I push around him and start doing laps while I wait for the rest of the guys to get on the ice. It’s like silk today. Smooth and fast. Almost fast enough to make me forget the one thing I shouldn’t be thinking about today with the mess my head is in.