Center Ice (2 page)

Chapter Two

- Tyler -

“Move it, MacDonald! You need to be faster than that!”

I forced my legs to keep moving, driving forward over the smooth white ice. I was keeping up with my line mates, but the coach was right; I needed to be faster.

I put on enough speed to finish the drill a few strides ahead of the rest of my line and then I bent over, my stick braced on my knees as I gasped for breath. I didn’t look up when I felt a body run into the boards beside me, and I knew it was Winslow as soon as I heard his ragged breathing.

“Out of the way,” Coach bellowed at us, and we managed to push ourselves off to the side of the rink just as five other heavily padded players charged past the goal line and slammed their gloved fists down on the ice. I straightened up and forced myself to watch number 52, the center, racing back to the other end of the ice. I’d need a stopwatch to be sure, but I didn’t think he was quite as fast as I was. He might end up being my replacement, but hopefully he wasn’t going to push me out of my spot quite yet.

“He’s not a playmaker,” Winslow said from beside me. He knew me well enough to know who I’d been watching. “He doesn’t have your instincts.”

That would be really comforting, if it were true. Speed and strength could be developed, and Christiansen, the rookie center, was almost two years younger than I was; if he was nearly as fast and strong as me
now
, he’d almost certainly be faster and stronger by the time he was my age. But an instinct for the game was something that players either had or didn’t; it could be developed, maybe, but not created. But I wasn’t sure Winslow was right about Christiansen’s instincts. “Let’s get him drunk tonight, and see how fast he is when he’s skating with a hangover.”

Winslow grinned at me. He was my best friend, and he knew that I wasn’t quite
that
much of an asshole. “You’ll be fine, Mac,” he said and glided a few feet away.

I’d be fine. Yeah, if I could just do as I was told, turn myself into a hockey machine, focus on the game, not let myself get distracted by that girl in the park, the way her hair moved as she ran, the way she’d been a bit of a smart ass about the allergies thing, the way—

Then the coaches were yelling again, and we got back to work. I didn’t have time to think about anything but drills and skills for the next couple hours, and that was fine by me. It was weird to be feeling like I was over-the hill when I wasn’t even eighteen yet, but if I started thinking about all the young guys coming up behind me, it tended to freak me out.

I was showered and just pulling my clothes on after practice when Coach Nichols waved me into his office. I followed reluctantly; there was no way of avoiding the conversation, but that didn’t mean I was looking forward to it.

I was the fourth person in a room that had originally been a storage closet, and there were only three chairs: one behind the coach’s desk, and two on my side, where my father and my agent sat impatiently. They’d been in the stands for the practice and had obviously been comparing notes.

My agent, Brett Gaviston, didn’t waste time on formalities. “I need to see more out of you, Tyler. If I’m going to get you where you want to be, I need you to put at least a little effort in. I can’t just carry you to the NHL.”

I wanted to point out that
I’d
been the one sprinting around the ice for the last two and a half hours while he sat in the stands and let himself be courted by the dads of other players, but I kept my mouth shut. I’d long ago learned that there was no point.

“You need to be
dominant
,” my father said. “Even in practice. You should have been carrying that team around on your back. This is the Ontario Hockey League, Tyler. It’s the biggest supplier of NHL talent in the world! Every kid in that locker room wants to get to the show, and every kid out there is working for it. Are you?” He gave me a disgusted glare. “This ain’t the bush leagues, son.”

The bush leagues were the only place he’d ever played himself, but somehow he was an expert on all things hockey. But, again, there was no point in me opening my mouth.

“You need to understand that I put my reputation on the line with every player I represent,” Mr. Gaviston said. “If I recommend you to a team, if I
sell
you to a team and you go down there and you’re lazy and uncommitted to the game,
I
look bad. I don’t want to look bad, Tyler.”

“You were supposed to be keeping in shape over the summer.” My dad squinted at me as if trying to see the muscle definition beneath my clothes. “That was the deal when I let you stay down here. You did the clinics, so that was something, but what were you doing the rest of the time? If you’d been at home, you know you’d have been working your ass off.
Travis
was working his ass off, and he’s only thirteen. I expect you to be a leader, to blaze a trail for him, not stink up the family name with your
total
lack of hustle!”

“I wasn’t concerned with Tyler’s performance,” Coach Nichols said quietly. The other two glared at him impatiently, like he didn’t know what he was talking about, but neither one of them had the balls to contradict him openly. He was one of the most respected coaches in the league, a thirty-year veteran who consistently produced winning teams and high draft picks. My dad and agent cut on him behind his back, but they didn’t say much to his face. Coach shrugged nonchalantly. “He’s doing extra dryland training on his own, on top of the regular team workouts. He’s come out well on all our pre-season testing: cardio, strength, even flexibility. Practice is practice, and I saw a good effort today; when the games come, Tyler will be ready.”

It caught me by surprise, I guess, because I suddenly had a weird tightness in my throat. The coach knew I was working; he knew I was doing the best I could. It was a great feeling, but one that was almost completely destroyed when my dad turned his frown on me. “You should stop doing the extra training,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Work harder when you’re with the team, when people can actually
see
you. Just because there’s no scouts in the stands right now doesn’t mean that they aren’t going to hear about what’s going on. And we need them to hear good things.”

“They’ll hear good things from
me
,” Coach said firmly, and that shut my dad up because a coach’s recommendation was incredibly valuable. “Tyler’s training program is team-approved, and I don’t want changes made to it without running it by our staff.” He stood up, and even in that tiny, dingy office, his authority was clear. He might have been wearing a ratty pair of training pants and a ten-year-old team jacket, but he made Mr. Gaviston in his fancy suit look like a little kid playing dress-up. “Thanks for your time, gentlemen. Tyler, you’ll make sure the rookies understand that watching game film is
not
optional, right?” There might have been a twinkle in his eye when he added, “And have a good run tomorrow.”

The rookies were mostly gone by the time I made it back to the dressing room, but I wasn’t too worried about it. Toby Cooper, the alternate captain who shared the leadership duties with me, had already made it crystal clear that they’d damn well better do everything the coaches said if they wanted to have a prayer of sticking around, and I’d backed him up. We were still pre-season and hadn’t made the final cuts yet, so the rookies were being really well-behaved. I might have to sit on a few of them later in the year, but for now, they were good. I was pretty sure the coach had made the comment just as a way to remind my dad and Mr. Gaviston that I
was
a team leader, whether they thought so or not.

“You want to do something?” Winslow had stuck around and waited for me, but I could tell he knew the answer to his question before I said it.

“Nah. I’m just gonna…” I waved my hand vaguely toward the doors of the arena. Winslow knew what I meant. We’d never had a long conversation about it, but he knew how much meetings with my dad always bugged me. I needed some time to decompress afterward.

“I think we’re playing Xbox at Sully’s, if you want to come by later.” Tim Sullivan was over eighteen and was allowed to have an apartment instead of billeting with a local family, so we mostly hung out there. My billet family, the Cavalis, were nice enough, but there wasn’t a lot of privacy. Not that we needed privacy to play Xbox, but doing
anything
at the Cavali house was sometimes a bit like being an animal on display at a zoo.

“Thanks. I’ll call if I run out of things to do.”

“And we should go out tonight, right? Not too many curfew-free nights left, man, and so many lovely ladies looking for a little attention.” He grinned. “I know, you’ve always managed to fit them into your schedule even during the season, but it’s a lot more convenient when you don’t have to worry about getting into your own bed by ten o’clock, right?”

And that was another thing I didn’t really feel like dealing with. “I’ll call you, okay?”

Winslow let me go, and I headed out to the parking lot, the heat of the day hitting me like a body check after the cool of the rink. I saw my dad waving at me from the front of the arena, but I kept my head turned away. I didn’t need a second dose, not right then.

My pickup was big and old and ugly, and it burned both gas and oil like it was trying to heat the world all by itself, but it was mine. I shut the door behind me and laid my head back against the seat for a second. I would have liked to have stayed like that for a while longer, but I could imagine my dad’s progress across the sun-baked parking lot, and I peeled out through the back exit before he could get too close. I’d turned off the ringer on my cell phone so I was free, at least for a while. Now, if I just had something to
do
with that freedom.

Chapter Three

- Karen -

I took my time getting showered and dressed, hiding in the security of my little basement home. Eventually I heard sounds of activity from upstairs. Will had probably left for work, but the rest of the family had hauled their lazy asses out of bed and were starting their day of leisure and perfection. I’d missed my chance to have breakfast without company, and since eating with them pretty much turned my stomach, I decided to wait a while. There was a full-sized fridge behind the bar in the basement rec room, and I wondered about stocking it with some milk and fruit so I could have meals on my own. The closer I could get to self-contained living, the better, as far as I was concerned, and I was sure the others would share my sentiments.

But it might not
look
right, and that would slow them down. They could justify me having a bedroom in the basement: it had been their spare bedroom for years, there was lots of natural light, and it didn’t make sense to move any of the kids out of
their
bedrooms just to move me in. Minimal disruption, that was the goal. Keep everything normal, just the way it always has been. Let’s all just try to ignore the fact that there’s a
whole new person
suddenly living in the house.

“Karen?” I heard Natalie say from the top of the stairs. She seemed to be following the same rules I was about not trespassing on the other’s floor. I appreciated her reticence, but still decided to ignore her and hope she’d go away.

No such luck. Her voice was a little closer when she said, “Karen!” and I poked my head out the door of my bedroom. She was standing halfway down the staircase, leaning over to be able to see me.

“Hi.”

“Morning!” Her face was as cheerful and dishonest as her voice. “We’re making waffles. Want to come up and have some?”

“Oh, no thanks. I already ate.”

Natalie’s face tightened a little. “Will said you hadn’t.” Not quite calling me a liar but pretty damn close.

“Huh,” I responded. It’s amazing how often refusing to communicate will actually work and get people to leave you alone.

But not in this case. “Why don’t you come up and have some waffles?”

“I’m actually just on my way out. My allergies are acting up, and I was going to walk down to the drug store and get something for them.”

She took another step down the stairs, looking concerned. That was a bit of a backfire; I’d been looking for guilty retreat, not guilty advancement. “Do you need me to drive you? The drug store’s downtown.”

“I was going to go to the one on the hill,” I clarified.

She gave me a weird look. “That’s even farther. That’s clear across town.”

Which was pretty much the point. “‘Across town’ doesn’t mean too much in a place this size. I’m used to walking places, in the city. I’m not a fan of this rural car culture you guys have going on. You shouldn’t have to drive everywhere.”

She looked like she was about to argue, but then the forced smile was back. “A crusade. Okay. Enjoy your walk. But it’s already getting hot out there, so if you get tired, give me a call and I’ll come pick you up.”

She turned around and headed back up to her wonderful children, who had probably dutifully prepared the waffles by now. I could imagine them, all wearing matching aprons, their blond hair carefully combed and tied back, mixing their wholesome ingredients with whisks instead of a mixer. The batter would be from scratch, of course, with a little family secret (nutmeg!) mixed in. The twins, Matt and Miranda, were almost eighteen, so they’d be in charge of the stove. Little Sara was only fourteen, so she shouldn’t touch something so
dangerous
. She’d be washing fruit, and maybe cutting it up, but only with a table knife in order to protect her precious fingers. Crushed food was fine, if the alternative was even the
chance
of harm to dear, sweet Sara. They’d all smile and agree with that sentiment, and Matt would probably ruffle Sara’s hair, or tweak her ponytail or something. Then he’d carefully wash his hands again before touching any food. Not because there was even a chance of dear Sara’s hair being dirty, but just because that was the proper way to do things.

I’d rather get heatstroke.

Which I almost did. Before I left the city, my best friend Lindsey’s mom kept going on about how nice it would be for me to be out in the country for the summer, away from the awful heat. I think it was literally the only bright side she could see to anything that was happening to me, and she was trying to be positive, so she said it
a lot
. And I think possibly she was high, because the heat today was as bad as anything I’d ever felt in the city. My short sundress that had seemed so light and airy when I put it on was hanging wetly off my body, and my feet were sore and swollen inside my sport sandals. Not a drop of a breeze, either. I had to walk across a bridge, and I looked down at the river beneath, all sludgy and green at the end of a long, dry summer, and I was seriously tempted to jump in. I’d end up looking like the creature from the black lagoon, but at least I’d be cool.

But going home like that, bringing my algae-covered self to the house of perfection? No. That would not be appreciated. So I kept walking, dodging into any patches of shade I could find, and finally made it to the air-conditioned sterility of the drug store. There was only one mall in town, and it was dark and full of stores for old people. All the new development was up here on the hill, big box stores separated from each other by endless parking lots, the asphalt softened in the heat. I tried not to think of all the funky boutiques mom and I had shopped at in Toronto. Maintaining my personal style was going to be a bit challenging out in the sticks.

I picked out some allergy pills just so I could say I’d bought them, browsed listlessly through the aisles while my sweaty skin chilled, and then headed for the cash register. There was a cluster of girls in front of me, probably about my age, deep in conversation.

“I can’t even imagine,” a tall brunette said. “It must be
so
awkward.”

“And Miranda said she’s a total bitch, too.” The shorter brunette seemed absolutely thrilled with this news. I was getting a weird feeling in my stomach. How many Mirandas could there be in a town this size?

“She’s just going to live with them forever?” A cute little blonde asked. “Aren’t there, like, boarding schools or something?”

“Mr. Beacon’s trying to be a good guy,” the tall brunette said with a careless flip of her hair. “You know how he is.”

“Yeah,” the blonde said. There was something in her voice that made her seem not quite so cute anymore. “The whole
town
knows how he is. My mom said he’s probably got a couple
other
extra kids scattered around. She says if he doesn’t, it’s a testament to the powers of birth control.”

The cashier smiled as she handed over their change, and the girls headed out the door, tossing their hair and laughing happily. I stared after them for a little too long, I guess, because the cashier sounded kind of snotty when she said, “I can help you now.”

I shoved the box of pills toward her and burrowed through my backpack to find my wallet. I could feel the tears coming, but I blinked hard and looked up at the ceiling and bit the inside of my cheek, and I made it out of the store without embarrassing myself. And then once I was outside, I started walking fast, and the moisture on my face might have been tears or it might just have been sweat. If I had to choose between being pathetic or gross, I’d take gross.

By the time I was across the wide parking lot and onto the sidewalk, I’d managed to change some of my mortification into anger. I was angry at the girls in the drugstore, at Miranda for talking about me behind my back, at my so-called father for…for
everything
. What’s so hard about keeping it in your pants? Natalie might not be my favorite person, but she was pretty and took care of herself, and clearly loved her husband and family. What kind of a guy can’t be satisfied with that? Is it just some pathetic male ego thing that makes them sleep around? Was Will like some of the sleazy guys I’d avoided at my old school, keeping an actual score of the number of people they had sex with? It was disgusting, and I wanted to stay as far away from it as possible.

So there I was, in the heat, sweat-crying, angry at Will and all the pathetic men like him. I was charging down the street, covering some ground, but I really wasn’t sure where I was going. That was probably a metaphor for something, I figured, but it didn’t seem like anything that applied to my current situation. The part about not knowing where I was going certainly fit, but I couldn’t find a way to pretend that I was covering any ground. In the metaphorical world, I was bogged down in a swamp even murkier than the river I’d crossed earlier.

Or possibly I was being a bit melodramatic. Why the hell should I care what a bunch of shallow strangers thought about me? I sure shouldn’t care what they thought about my so-called
father
. Maybe he was as much of a slut as they said he was, but that wasn’t my problem. It wasn’t like I’d ever thought he was a good guy. I kept walking fast, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t crying anymore.

It took me a while longer to realize that I’d been walking in the wrong direction, heading away from the house instead of back toward it. But I didn’t want to be the idiot who stopped short on the sidewalk, whirled around, and then started walking the opposite way, so I kept going. I was hoping I might find a store or something that I could pretend I’d been heading to all along, but I was on the outskirts of town by now and all I saw was an auto parts distributor and some place that seemed to center around farm machinery. But I kept walking until the sidewalk ended.

I was trying to decide whether to keep going or cross the street and go back along the other side when a navy pickup swerved to a stop in front of me. I had about a second of being scared, and then a familiar face appeared. He’d pulled himself out of the driver’s side window and must have been sitting on the door as he looked at me over the roof of the cab.

“Hey,” he said. “You running away from another squirrel?”

I desperately wished I wasn’t bathed in sweat and dust from the road, but I did my best. “I’m not sure… It might have been the same one.”

“You want me to drive you somewhere? You know, for safety.”

“I’m not sure that getting into a truck driven by a strange male qualifies as ‘safe,’ technically.”

“I’m not really all that strange.” His smile was slow and unbelievably sexy. I wondered just how much I smelled; I was sure my feet were toxic, but if I kept my shoes on, how bad would the rest of me be? “Where you headed, exactly?” He looked at the road in front of us. “There’s just farms out there… You going to one of them?”

Well, that was awkward. “No. I was just walking. I got a bit lost, I guess. I’m new to town.”

He nodded as if this all made perfect sense to him. “I don’t have A/C, but it’s not bad with the windows down.” He treated me to another grin as he added, “Come on, little girl; I’ll give you some candy.”

I knew it was stupid, but I just didn’t care. I was hot and tired, and following the rules had gotten me stuck in this ridiculous excuse of a life, so maybe it was time to break a few and see what happened. “Yeah, okay,” I said. I strode over to his passenger door, and by the time I got there he’d slid back into the cab and leaned over to push the door open. It was a strangely gentlemanly gesture, and I felt even worse about my totally disheveled state. “I may smell,” I admitted as I climbed in.

“Good thing the windows are open, then.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “So, where to?”

“I honestly don’t care,” I said. “I’m just killing time.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve got the afternoon off. You want to go swimming?”

“
Yes
.” It was simple and honest. “Yes, I really do.”

“All right, then.” He carefully pulled out into traffic, then said, “Buckle up. I’m a terrible driver.”

It caught me by surprise, and I laughed. “I’ve never heard someone admit that before.”

“No point in denying it,” he said cheerfully. “I’m a damn menace.” Then he glanced over at me and shifted around so he could extend his right hand. “Tyler MacDonald, squirrel tamer and chauffeur from Hell.”

I wiped my palm as subtly as I could on the skirt of my dress, then shook his hand. “Karen Webber. Damsel in distress, apparently.” And for the first time in quite a while, I meant it when I smiled at him and said, “It’s nice to meet you.”