“I was waiting for Clark after practice one day, trying to figure out how to bring up prom without being weird about it. I heard him and Whitaker talking in the locker room. The door was cracked open, and Whitaker said something like, ‘Dude,are you sure it’s okay that I asked April to prom?’ And Clark just laughed and said, ‘Nah, man, go for it. She’s like a little sister to me.’”
The silence that follows is heavy with sisterly sympathy.
“He didn’t correct him,” I continue. “Didn’t hesitate. Just ... little sister. So I went to prom with Whitaker, had a fine time, and accepted my role in Clark’s life.”
The friend. The sister. The girl who walks his dogs, keeps his life organized, and will never, ever be anything more.
“April—” Ella starts.
“It’s fine,” I cut her off, forcing brightness into my voice. “Really. I’m grateful for our friendship. He’s achieved his dreams against all odds—made it to the NHL, plays for the Knights, and gets to do what he loves. He keeps me moving toward my own North Star. That’s enough.”
“Is it, though?” Whit asks quietly.
Before I can answer—or more likely, deflect attention away from the puck-sized disappointment that lodged itself in my chest—Scout starts barking at something, and all the dogs converge on whatever he found. Probably a particularly interesting stick or possibly a deceased rodent. Either way, it’s time for an intervention.
We spend another twenty minutes at the makeshift dog park, watching our fur babies play and cause chaos. By the time I’m ready to leave, all three of Clark’s dogs look like they’ve been participating in a mud-wrestling competition.
“This is going to be fun to clean up,” I mutter, clipping their leashes back on.
We say goodbye and I feel exposed now that Whit, Ella, and Jess know the truth about my feelings for Clark. I trust them—they have no reason to tell him what I confessed. In fact, I didn’t quite come out and declare that my crush on him endures like aneternal flame.
I know, I know. I’m so dramatic I qualify for a silver screen award, but still. I just have to get over him. A gust of wind stirs up his scent as I gather the neckline of his hoodie around me.
Giving my head a shake, I tell myself that I am immune to his scent. His charm. His good looks. Mostly. Maybe just temporarily compromised.
3
CLARK
There’sa moment right before the puck drops when the entire world hushes.
Not literally—the crowd still roars, the organ still blares the ubiquitous hockey anthem, and Coach Badaszek still yells something that’s probably important but gets lost in the general bedlam. But in my head, it’s as quiet as a winter snowfall in the woods. It’s just me, the ice, and the absolute certainty that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be in life.
I love the game.
Heck, I even love practice. You’ll never hear me complain. Not even when Coach makes us bag skate—sprinting between the lines until we collapse.
I love it in the bone-deep, soul-affirming way that makes people write country songs or get tattoos. Hockey gave me purpose when I was just a scrappy kid from the Pacific Northwest with more dreams than talent and a whole lot of people telling me I’d never make it.
But I did make it. Against all odds, through sheer stubborn refusal to quit.
The road here wasn’t exactly a straight shot. More like a crisscross-crossover through Rejection City with a few detours into “maybe you should consider a backup plan” territory.
I never let a day pass without counting my blessings. I spent two years on the AHL affiliate team for the Boston Breakers—the Saskatchewan Squatches, which, yes, is a real team name. And yes, their mascot is exactly what you think it is. They don’t take themselves too seriously and their fan base goes absolutely bonkers over “Sasquatch sightings” in the stands during games.
I loved every ridiculous minute of it.
Then their starting goalie went down with an injury, and I got the call up. Played a shutout game. Then another. Two consecutive defensive goose-eggs. No biscuits in the basket. I blocked the net and I blocked it hot.
A call-up goalie is the kind of thing that gets noticed. It’s unheard of, but I was on fire. It was my chance to shoot my shot. Or, in this case, not let anyone else get a shot.
Suddenly, scouts were paying attention. The next season, the Knights acquired my player rights via trade, and I found myself in Cobbiton, Nebraska—of all oddly charming places—living the dream I’d been chasing since I was six years old and my dad first laced up my skates.
“Culpepper, eyes alive!” Coach Badaszek’s voice cuts through my reminiscing like a sharp blade.
I snap to attention. The man has the uncanny ability to know when my brain has wandered, even for half a second. Some people think he’s got eyes in the back of his head. I’m pretty sure he also has them on the sides, top, everywhere.
“Yes, Coach!”
