I couldn’t shake the feeling that Jamie’s dad would be back, and this wasn’t over. The knot in my stomach lingered long after I drove away, my mind running endless scenarios of what might happen next. Would he show up again? Would he corner Jamie outside school or try something worse? What would I tell him if he showed up again? I imagined confrontations, arguments, and threats, and each scenario ended the same: how would I keep Jamie safe?
Then, I thought about whether I’d stay calm and try to reason with him. Or would I snap and let the anger I felt boil over? And what if it turned physical? Would I be fast enough? Strong enough? I hated how powerless I felt, like no matter how much I tried to prepare, I wouldn’t be enough.
By the time I reached my driveway, I felt mentally exhausted. My mind tried to hold on to the bad, to let the worry fester, but then my thoughts shifted. Walker. The date. Something good to hold onto. Something better.
I’d done everything I could. Although I hated the situation and wanted to do more, I had to let it go for now. Until Monday, all I could do was focus on what was ahead.
And right then, what was ahead was something worth being happy about.
I wished I could find my freaking smile.
ELEVEN
Walker
“Oh,my freaking God, Walker,move over!”
Harper drove an elbow into my side that Gordie Howe would have loved. I grunted but stood my ground. There was only one mirror. She was going to have to share. “Why are you even in here? Since when do you spend ten minutes trimming your nose hair?”
“Okay, first thing. I am not trimming my nose hair. I’m just making sure none are sticking out.” I tipped my head back. She made a yucky face, then used her ass to push me behind her.
“That is so gross. Why are you worried about your nose hairs? You said you were meeting the art guys for pizza and a movie,” she grumbled as she began applying eyeliner to her left lid. I reached up to rub my nose. “Dude! Do not bump me. Holy hell! Why are you so big and dopey?”
“This is a community space.”
“Like hell. Get out. Go pluck your nasty body hairs in private.”
Knowing I was likely to get a roundhouse kick to the mug, I shuffled out of the cramped bathroom. The door hit me on the ass on the way out.
“Chicks are so emotional,” I whispered through the door. Profanities that would make my teammates blush flowed through the crack of the door. Snickering softly, I padded back to my bedroom. And that was when I hit problem number one. What to wear. This was a special night. Finally, Finn and I were able to go out together. That kiss we shared had lingered in my head. I’d even gotten sideswiped by Bob in morning skate during a scrimmage. Like totally laid out on my ass with a body check that really wasn’t all that robust. I’d just been daydreaming along the boards instead of paying attention to the locomotive named O’Ryan chugging down the tracks at me. The other Copperheads found it humorous as hell. Even Coach smiled. Bob patted my helmet and offered me a hand as I sat on the ice.
“Better get your head in the game, Han-Man.”
Rubbing my ass as I stood, I chuckled and nodded. It was kind of nice to have a nickname. That was a rather big sign of acceptance in hockey. Not that I would have chosen Han-Man, but The Great One was already taken, so Han-Man it was.
I pulled open my closet and folded my arms over my bare chest. There was really nothing that stood out in my wardrobe. Most of my suits hung there, covered with dry cleaner plastic, having not been worn since I’d been in Rochester. The pros had a strict dress code, citing that suits had to be worn to games. This league was a little more lax. The Copperheads did ask that we dress respectably, with no offensive slogans on our clothing. I usually just pulled on some clean jeans, a tee, and a Copperhead hoodie. Maybe a toque in our team colors of cream, black, and gold. Some nice sneakers. Done.
But this was not a hoodie and jeans night. I wanted to look good, impress Finn, and show him that even though I was a hockey player with some head issues, I could romance a man with class. The eatery I had chosen wasn’t too fancy, but it wasn’t flip-flops and torn shorts either. Not that anyone was wearingflip-flops as the temps were hovering around zero. Aside from Arnaud, but I suspected he wore them just to try to prove how much tougher Canadians were than the American players. I’d caught him soaking his cold toes in a hot foot bath before gearing up for last night’s game, but I kept that tidbit to myself for future use.
I began rooting through my clothes. Fifteen minutes later, I had five outfits tossed over my unmade bed. I hated all five.
With a sigh, I exited my room and crossed the hall to rap on Harper’s door. She called me in, so I stepped into her domain. She was on the bed in a baggy sleep shirt, legs in a lotus, and hair pulled up atop her head in some sort of wild do. Her gaze flitted from the bottle of nail polish in her hand to me. Three toes on her left foot were painted crimson.
“I’m painting,” she told me as if I couldn’t see that.
“Can I get your thoughts on what to wear?” I asked and instantly knew I should have just pulled on whatever. Her slim brows narrowed, a small hoop in her right brow catching the light from a garage sale lava lamp beside her bed. She was watching season one of some anime about a kid and his demon protector. Typical Harper show.
“Why are you worried about clothes to meet the guys for pizza?”
“Never mind.” I spun and left. I heard her feet hit the floor.
“Wait, just wait.” I walked faster. She thumped into my room behind me, walking with toes up and heel down on one foot but normal on the other. “This is… shit, this is a mess. Okay, so this chaos,” she waved her red nail polish bottle at the heap of shirts and pants on the bed, “tells me that you arenothaving pizza with the art guys.”
“How did we even get that name?” I asked as I reached for a striped polo. She pulled it out of my hand.
“Do not ever wear that out in public. Are you going on a date?”
I thought to lie. I really did, but I could never deceive Harper. We’d been through too much together.
