She doesn’t push me anymore. She just nods, sensing that I need to figure this out on my own.
After a moment, she asks, “But you’re still going to the finals tomorrow?”
I freeze—the finals. With my existential crisis taking over, I’m desperate to bail.
“Uh, actually,” I say, shifting uncomfortably, “I was thinking I might back out. I just don’t think I can do it.”
Christine’s eyes widen a little. “You mean, you’re not going?”
I shake my head. “I was going to ask Darnelle if someone else could go.”
She sighs. “Harry, you and I both know nobody is going to take an overnight trip to Hartford with one day’s notice except you or Darnelle herself, and we’re not asking our sweet principal who’s months from retirement to sit on a bus with a bunch of sweaty fifth graders.”
“And their sweaty coach.” The image of Darius in my apartment last weekend after his practice, in his jockstrap, flashes in my head.
“Exactly.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Which is why you’re going.”
A few minutes later, I’m pacing outside Darnelle’soffice. It’s almost four, and I should be home reading cobbled-together essays, but I’m here, hoping for a miracle to save me from another bus ride and hotel situation with Darius.
“Mr. Peterson,” Darnelle’s voice calls from her office, warm yet authoritative, carrying the weight of someone who’s seen it all. I straighten up, taking a deep breath before walking into the room. None of the staff knows how old she is, but she’s been in education for almost forty years. She carries herself with a quiet strength that makes her seem ageless. Her short, silver hair is neatly tucked behind her ears, and her glasses sit perched on the tip of her nose as if she’s always scrutinizing the world around her with a keen, patient gaze.
I sit down across from her, the polished wooden desk between us reflecting the soft afternoon light filtering through the blinds. Her steady, reassuring presence contrasts with the unease bubbling in my chest. I pull my lips in, instinctively, like a student who knows they’ve been caught just shy of crossing the line. Darnelle’s expression remains gentle but firm, the kind of look that says she’ll listen but expects accountability.
“What’s up, Harry? Everything okay?”
“Yes. Fine. Great. Amazing.” Even though I’m babbling, I offer a smile, hoping to distract from my incoherence.
“Wonderful. And you’re all set to chaperone the boys tomorrow? I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you doing this. As does Mr. Applegate and the puppies.”
“Yeah, about that,” I say, but I don’t know how to finish.
I can’t tell her the truth.
She stares at me for a moment, then sighs. “Okay, Harry. Spill it. What’s this about? You were a big help at the semifinals. I was told you were—I believe ‘invaluable’ was the word Coach Hill used. And the boys need you.”
I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. She’s right. I was fine with it. I did help. But now, I just don’t want to go. Not if it means spending time with Darius on the bus. In the hotel.
“I’m just . . . I’m not sure I’m the best person for it this time. I’ve got papers to grade.”
Her neck bends forward, and I slump a little in my chair. “You can’t be serious, Harry. Papers? You can take them on the bus. Is that what this is really about? The boys need you. They look up to you.”
I glance at her, feeling the weight of her words pressing down on me. She’s right, damn it. She’s right. I know I should go. But the thought of being stuck in Hartford with Darius . . .
“You know,” she adds, “if you really can’t do it, I can step in. But I think you should go.”
I nod, even though I don’t feel like agreeing with her. “No, you’re right,” I say softly. “I can bring the essays with me. I’ll go.”
“Thanks, Harry.” She offers a small smile. “You’ve got this.”
As I leave Darnelle’s office, my mind races with what’s coming. I have to face Darius. I’m not sure what to say or how to act, but for now, all I can do is head to the finals and hope I don’t make things worse.
18
HARRY
The rink is buzzingwith energy as we file in, the sound of skate blades cutting into the ice and the chatter of kids echoing off the walls. The New England Peewee Hockey Finals. I may have only been to two hockey games in my entire life, but there’s a unique energy with this one. The arena is packed with parents, coaches, and bystanders, all lined up along the sides, their breath visible in the chilly arena. The air is thick with tension and anticipation. Both teams dart around in their team jackets, eager to play. This is it. The finals.
To distract myself from the uneasiness in my body, I focus on the boys skating onto the ice in their matching jerseys. I’m not sure who decided a group of fifth-grade boys were best exemplified by sharks, but there’s something adorable about the mean-looking creatures on the front of their uniforms. They’re trying their hardest to look like warriors out there, which only adds to the cuteness. I know ten-year-old boys never want to be cute, but they’re just going to have to deal.
