In my room, I open the closet. I pull a hockey bag down off the top shelf and unzip it. Skates. Shorts. Shin guards. Gloves. Helmet. Stick out of the rack in the hall on the way back down. A roll of stick tape from the desk drawer. I put on a clean Camden U hoodie and sling the bag over my shoulder.
In the kitchen on the way out, I stop. “Stan.”
He looks over. “Yeah.”
I hold up the key. “Thanks.”
He nods. I walk out.
The walk to the rink is fifteen minutes. I make it in twelve. The back door of the rink is the door Frank told us four years ago to use if we ever needed late ice, with the understanding that we would never abuse it. We have abused it twice in three years. Tonight is the third.
Stanley’s key opens the door.
The rink is dark. Frank has gone home. I know where the Camdenkers are — back office, second panel, the three on the left. I flip the ones for the ice surface and the bench. I leave the spotlights and the scoreboard off. The ice lights up.
I sit on the bench and lace up. My Camdenth comes out in a small cloud. I tighten my left skate, tighten my right, and pull on my gloves. I push off the boards at twelve oh-eight.
I take a slow lap. Then a faster lap. Then I do a sprint from the goal line to the far blue line, stop hard, sprint back, stop hard, sprint to the red line, stop, sprint to the boards. My quads start humming on the third sprint.
I do another set. Five sprints. Stop hard each time.
My mind’s overthinking absolutely fucking everything. I thought coming here would clear my mind, and it’s doing just the opposite. It might be the silence or the booze, but I know that calling the tutoring center on Monday is going to be fucking hard. What bites me even more is all the shit I know about Lucy now. I wished I had heard it from her instead. I run more drills until my legs are shaking. I skate slowly to the bench and sit. I unhook the guards on my skate blades and pull them on. I pull off my gloves with my teeth one at a time.
I sit on the bench in the half-light and look at the ice — the long fresh ice, scored now with two dozen of my own stops, the rest of it clean — and I think about Lucy in her bedroom across town.
I taste blood. The lip is bleeding again. I let it.
Chapter 20
Lucy
Iwakeupstillin my jeans. My makeup is half on the pillow and half on my face. My mouth tastes like the inside of a wine bottle, which is a feeling I have not earned because I had less than one drink last night, and my cheek is stuck to my own hair.
I don’t move for a long time. Across the room, on the back of the chair by my desk, is Benson’s hoodie folded the way I folded it at midnight. I look at it for a count of ten. The collar is darker on one side than the other where his blood went into the cotton and dried. I look away and reach for my phone. I have no messages. Not from Mara, who always texts the morning after a party. Not from Gianna, who usually texts overnight. Not from him.
My back is sore like I slept in tight jeans. I wipe eyeliner from the corners of my eyes. I yank myself out of bed and walk to thebathroom. I brush my teeth and hop in the shower. I turn the water hot as I stand under it and let it soothe my sore muscles.
When I come out, I put on sweatpants and a Camden U Math Department t-shirt with a small hole in the armpit. I towel my hair and open my bedroom door.
Gianna is at the kitchen table, and I almost jump in surprise. I thought she’d hate me after last night and not come home. She has a mug of coffee in front of her, her own sweats on, and her hair in a low bun. She doesn’t look hungover. I can tell she’s been thinking, and when her eyes meet mine, they’re not harsh. She pushes a mug towards me, so I take it.
“Good morning,” I say, wrapping my hands around the warm mug and take a seat at the table.
“I talked to Benson last night,” she says flatly.
I inhale, not expecting to dive into this right away, but it looks like she’s been waiting for me. “Okay.”
“Did he tell you about it?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t have his number. I don’t have any way to talk to him.”
She nods, taking a sip. I take a sip too.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to tell me the truth.”
My gut sinks. “Okay.”
“Did you kiss my brother?”
