Fake Skating(54)

We walked out of the library, and just as he let go of my hand because we had to go in two different directions, he leaned down and said, “Hey, thanks for bringing me a sandwich.”

His eyes were a little squinty as he grinned at me.

“Hey, thanks for eating it,” I said, smiling back at him.

“I’ll never look at Spam the same way again.”

I didn’t see him for the rest of the day or after school, since Cassie whisked me away to ride with her to practice.

Being a team manager, so far, had been easy, and I was actually having a good time.

There were still a million things about hockey I didn’t know, but she was making it fun to learn.

Weird, right?

“Do you want to film today, or do you have homework you need to do?”

“I’ll film,” I said, mostly because I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on homework while Alec was hockeying.

It was becoming a problem. Every day, as soon as I set up the camera and started recording, I couldn’t do anything but watch him play.

I was obsessed.

On each play and on every drill, he played like his life was at stake and the only way he was going to see tomorrow was if he beat the other guy to the puck.

He was beyond impressive.

When the guys finished drills and I was able to hit pause, Cassie walked over and said, “I’ll see you at Vinny’s…?”

“Vinny’s?” I repeated, having zero idea what she was talking about.

“The team dinner is at his house tonight.”

“What? Do hockey managers have to go?” I asked, having no interest whatsoever in going to a team dinner. Me and a table full of obnoxious hockey players I didn’t know?

No, thank you.

“Yeah, it’s mandatory,” she said, and I felt like she was giving me a little side-eye for sounding so disinterested. “For all players, coaches, managers, and trainers.”

“Oh—I didn’t know,” I said dumbly, as if that weren’t obvious.

But I felt stressfully unprepared for this kind of social interaction.

I needed time to mentally prep for outings.

“It’s tradition,” she said as she put on her coat, “and super chill. It’s usually something like pasta or soup, and you just eat a plate and leave. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed for more than an hour.”

“Oh,” I said, my stomach filling with dread.

“Zeus said you’re riding with him.”

“Oh yeah,” I played along, even though I knew we’d discussed this. My stomach sank deeper inside my body at the thought of unwelcome social interaction while playing pretend with Alec—ugh. “I forgot about the whole thing.”

As if on cue, my mom texted at that very minute:

Mom: Sarah says there’s a team dinner after practice tonight—are you going?

I texted: I literally just found out about it. It’s mandatory, apparently.

Mom: Just stick with Alec and you’ll have a great time!

She’d seemed fine with my aversion to social situations before we moved here, but now it was like someone had lit a match under her. It was all the little things she said, her perky suggestions.

You should go!

Maybe you should see if Cassie wants to study with you at Starbucks.

Do you want to have anyone over for the game?

It kind of made me feel like she thought I was a broken weirdo who needed an intervention before my entire life was ruined. I could feelher stress that I wasn’t running around with a group of friends already, but the truth was that all the school bullshit wasn’t worth it.

It wasn’t.

I used to do it. I used to move to a new school and work my ass off for friends and sleepovers, feeling like everything was right and settled when I found people I connected with.

And I’d be the first to admit—that shit felt good.

But eighth grade was a nightmare of mean girls and embarrassment so terrible that I’d been excited to move, and then ninth grade was better but ended up being the worst.

After I left.

Because the awfulness that came with being forgotten felt ten times worse than the discomfort of assimilation.

It was never intentional, the forgetting, but it was always a given.

At some point, you would just literally never hear from your “best friends” again.

I probably would’ve played that soul-crushing game forever if it hadn’t been for Jackson Ford.

I dated him for six months my freshman year—six months. I’d been head over heels in love with him and it felt like a movie when we were together. I slept in his COIN sweatshirt every night (before his mom made him get it back because it’d cost a hundred bucks at the concert) and he held my hand in the hallways.

We were inseparable.

I’d seen literal tears in his eyes when we said goodbye and I moved away.

We talked on the phone and texted continuously. FaceTimed whenever we could.

But after about a month, he sounded different when I called. I convinced myself I was paranoid, but something was off.

And suddenly I was the only one calling.

That should’ve had me prepared for the end, but I’d been stunned when I’d seen the Instagram post making him and Olivia Lowell official.

It was a picture of them grinning at the movie theater, holding hands, and he was wearing the COIN sweatshirt that had once been my uniform for dreaming.