“Yeah well, he deserved it. Was trying to steal our farmer’s market booth,” Grandpa says and frowns.
“He says you flirted your way into the line in front of him,” I say, and Jace laughs.
“Clyde is always calling you a womanizer,” Jace laments. “You’ve been with Grams forever and he’s the one with the runaway wife. How does that even make sense?”
Somehow, Jace’s defense of him makes Gramps even more ornery. I’m more observant than Jace so I think I know why, but I’m not about to voice that suspicion. “I was nice to Kathy Oleson and Clyde’s blowing it out of proportion. He’s a drunk jackass. He and that group of miscreants he calls a family can take their fancy hippie cheese and shove it up their patchouli covered—”
The screen door slams behind me and Grandpa stops speaking instantly. I glance over my shoulder and see Grandma standing there, arms crossed and a look on her face that seems like it’s equal parts hurt and anger. “George Adler, you and that belligerent mouth of yours have some explaining to do. Walk with me.”
It isn’t a request, it’s an order. My grandmother rarely delivers orders to her husband, so when she does, you know it’s serious. George looks guilty as he marches by me and joins grandma as she starts toward the orchard. I walk over to the SUV, where Jace is chuckling. “Wow. Grandma is pissed.”
I think it’s because she heard me say Gramps was flirting with another woman more than because of his use of colorful language and brawl with Clyde. Because if the suspicions I’ve had since I was ten and Grandpa spent seven months sleeping on the couch in the living room are correct, he’s done more than flirt in the past. But now is not the time to explain that to Jace because it would take time neither of us has. “I’m pissed too because you’re still here and not tracking down Louise and getting her and the supplies grandma needs back to the house.”
Jace rolls his eyes. “Relax. I’ll find her. Can you believe Grandpa and old man Todd actually came to blows? Has that ever happened before?”
“I have no idea but I’d say it’s likely,” I tell Jace. “They’ve been enemies since the day we moved here, I think.”
Jace cocks his head and the backward baseball cap covering his light brown hair almost falls off as the brim hits the headrest on the seat. He adjusts it, spinning it forward. “Huh. Why?”
“What do you mean why?” I question. “Because Clyde Todd is a drunken asshole, you know that.”
“Yeah but there’s got to be more to it. What happened to trigger a grudge that lasts decades?” Jace asks.
“Jesus, I don’t know. Why are you always so full of useless questions?” I ask and grin at him. “Next thing you know you’ll be asking me why Zebras have stripes.”
“Modern day scientists feel that Zebras have stripes as a natural defense mechanism because the pattern wards off biting flies that can carry deadly disease,” Jace tells me. I smile at that because of course he knows why zebras are striped. He’s actually a giant brainiac. He would qualify for a scholarship in a heartbeat if he would just actually try to pass his classes, but he doesn’t, not for the last couple of years anyway.
I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the time and swear. “I gotta fly. Can you go find Louise? Make sure she bought the right ingredients for grandma and help Dad and Grandpa with the apple washer tonight, okay?”
“Will do.”
I jump into my car and take off as fast as legally possible back to campus. Today is not going as planned but what else is new? Since I started college the only thing that has gone right in my life is hockey. In a way it’s my own fault, I guess. If I’d checked in more from my prep school in Minnesota maybe someone would have mentioned to me that Grandpa wanted to remortgage the farm to tear out half our Golden Delicious trees and replace them with super expensive, already matured Honey Crisp trees. I would have done the Google search that Grandpa didn’t do and figured out that, though they sell for more, Honey Crisp trees often produce significantly less sellable fruit due to birds, insect infestations, and because they bruise more easily. Maybe we wouldn’t have lost over forty percent of that first crop. And last year if I wasn’t enjoying college so much and skipping visits home to spend weekends partying, maybe I would have noticed the cider press was on the fritz and in need of serious maintenance before it caught fire and burned down half the barn.
Now here we are, I’m a sophomore hockey star with a solid chance at going in the first round of the draft this coming summer, but I can’t enjoy any of it anymore. When I’m not running off to a job I’m not supposed to have, I’m running back here to solve some crisis, working my butt off at hockey practice, studying, or lying awake at night trying to decide what I’ll do if I do get drafted. Stay in school or bail immediately for a hockey contract and much needed money?
And as if all that weren’t enough, Grandpa is risking jail time just so he can continue his war with the farm next door. I huff out a frustrated breath as I pull into the campus parking lot closest to the rink and jog toward it. I hadn’t a clue why George was in jail at first. He just called and asked me to “spring him from the hoosegow” and I rushed over there without even asking why. But then Maggie Todd stormed in like a tornado—all red hair and pink cheeks and long, toned arms and legs—and asked to see her grandfather and the pieces fell into place.
Admittedly, I’m a little hazy on the details of the long-standing feud between the Adlers and the Todds. But that girl—who turned into a hell of a beautiful woman, unfortunately—has gotten on my last nerve since I was a kid. We went to the same grade school, and she used to run recess like she owned the place. All the other girls loved her and flocked to her, playing whatever game she wanted to play, giggling over whatever she giggled over and all that crap. Adults liked her too. She was always the teacher’s pet. She talked like an adult too, which was weird as a grade school kid. On the occasions I overheard her yammering in the schoolyard, she didn’t sound timid and used words I hadn’t learned yet. And she smiled at everyone all the time. Everyone but me. To me she only glared, even before I told all the guys in fifth grade to call her Maggot instead of Maggie…which I only did because she glared.
We did our best to ignore each other in middle school and then it was time for high school and my hockey skills brought me an offer to attend an elite boarding school in Minnesota with the best hockey program in the country, and Maggie and all the Todds blissfully became a distant memory. All but forgotten until I came face-to-face with her during freshman orientation here last year. In an unspoken pact we reverted back to middle school days and ignored each other—until today when I end up next to her at the police station listening to her slam her foot into the linoleum. And her glare—the one that gets under my skin worse than a sunburn—was back in full force so I made things worse by being a brat to her.
I make it into the locker room and my stomach sinks. Everyone is in their equipment with their skates laced, seconds from hitting the ice. Even our goalie, Josh, who is usually the last one dressed because he has so much damn equipment, is ready to go. I yank my shirt over my head and toe off my shoes while undoing my jeans. Lex, a freshman who has made a point of sitting beside me in the locker room at all our practices so far this year, stands up on his skates and starts handing me my equipment as I need it. “I thought maybe you were skipping.”
“You can’t skip practice, like unless you’re legit dying and even then I’d still be here,” I reply tersely and then feel bad. He seems like a good kid so I add a grateful smile as he hands me my pads.
“Let’s do this!” Coach Keller calls sticking his head into the room and slapping the wall by the doorframe. His eyes land on me. “You forget how to dress for practice, Adler?”
“Something like that, sir,” I say and give him a light smile that he doesn’t appreciate in the least. “I’ll be out there in a second, Coach. I’m sorry.”
“Uh-huh,” Coach says and turns his attention to Lex. “Let’s go rookie. Let him tie his own laces.”
I cringe inwardly as Lex shuffles off with the others. The guy is just being nice so I hope Coach doesn’t take the piss out of him for helping me. Bart Keller is a tough but fair coach and most importantly he is good at his job. He keeps us focused and motivated and he has been instrumental in helping a lot of his former players make the NHL. And maybe he’ll help me if I can get to practice on time. Fuck.
I get out there as quickly as possible but Coach doesn’t let me off the hook. Even though I work as hard as I can in every drill and keep my mouth shut in between them, not daring to joke around with the guys, he still stops me when it’s over.
“You were late getting here, you can be late leaving,” he says calmly as he tosses five pucks on the ice. “Twenty minutes of individual stick handling drills, and then swing by my office before you leave.”
I nod and make sure not to show him any kind of facial expression that might make him notice there’s a groan of dismay trying to escape my lips. Coach has every right to penalize me for this. I suck it up and do the drills. After I’ve showered and changed back into my jeans and T-shirt, I head out of the locker room to his office at the end of the long hall across from the entrance. As I pass by assistant Coach Garfunkle’s office he looks up from his desk. “Adler! Wait a second.”
