“Bye, John,” Graham’s mom said.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I said again. Then I slipped out the door, saving us all any additional awkwardness.
When it shut behind me, I heard her voice. “I just love that boy.”
“He’s taken,” Graham replied.
—April—
Coast to Coast: Carrying the puck from deep in your own defensive zone all the way to the opposing team’s goal.
—Graham
My mother spent almost amonthat Harkness helping me stay current on my schoolwork. I ended up dropping my computer programming class, but everything else got done.
Eventually, as my stamina increased, there was less for her to do. So, in mid-April, the morning after taking Rikker and I out for a nice steak dinner, she flew home to Michigan.
For the first time in fifty-three years, the Harkness hockey team had made it all the way to the Frozen Four. This time, I rode the bus to Boston with the team. And I watched from VIP seats as my teammates eked out a win over North Dakota. And then promptly got their asses handed to them by the Minnesota Gophers.
Watching the loss of the national championship game was heartbreaking. On the other hand, it was our most winning season ever. And apparently, the hockey alumni gave more money to the school’s endowment than any other year in history.
So at least somebody at Harkness won.
Now the world’s longest hockey season was finally over. All that was left was the end-of-the-season surf ‘n turf party that Coach always threw. On a sunny Sunday around noon, I walked out of the Beaumont Gates with Bella and Hartley. We were supposed to clear the last few items out of our lockers, and then head over to Coach’s house together.
I didn’t have any stuff in my locker, obviously. It had all been cleared out for Bridger. But I tagged along anyway, following my friends to the rink.
The first thing I saw when I walked back into the locker room was Rikker.
Eight months ago, I’d been sent into a tailspin by the sight of him. This time, he was a sight for sore eyes. Rikker sat on the bench in front of his locker, pulling his phone out of his pocket. But instead of looking up at me, he frowned.
Rikker put the phone up to his ear. “Hey,” he said. “I saw that you called, but I’m kind of…”
Whomever was on the other end of the call must have interrupted him. Because Rikker’s mouth closed into a grim line. And then I watched the color drain from his face. The phone slid out of his hand, clattering onto the bench beside him. Then Rikker hunched forward, his free hand covering his eyes.
One second later I was across that room, grabbing the forgotten phone. The display said SKIPPY on it. And the thin sound of a voice was coming from the speaker. “Rik? Rikky, are you there?”
“Hey,” I said into the phone. “Skippy?” I sat down beside Rikker. “What the hell happened?”
“Who is this?”
“Mike Graham,” I said.
There was a beat of silence. “I had some bad news for Rikker. Can you get him to talk to me?”
I took another look at my boyfriend. He was staring at the floor with unseeing eyes. If I had to describe him in one word, I would have chosen “catatonic.”
My chest got tight. “Skippy,” I prompted. “Just tell me what’s the matter.”
He sighed into the phone. “Rikker’s Gran collapsed after church this morning. They took her away in an ambulance.”
“No!”
“Yeah.”
In my head, I was chanting it again.No. No. No. She had to be okay. She just had to. “Where is she now?”
“Fletcher Allen, I’m pretty sure. It’s the big hospital up here.”
