Being Sloane Jacobs Page 12

  I want to laugh. No one’s ever been so blunt as to say that someone else’s misfortune is my gain, but the look on Juliet’s face tells me she’s deadly serious.

  “We do need one more girl for pairs,” she says, then sniffs. Oh God, she can smell the hockey. I knew it. “I guess that will be you.”

  I let out an enormous sigh and thank her, but Juliet has already turned her attention back to her computer. I guess our appointment is over. Thank God.

  I leave the chair, most likely bearing the imprint of brass buttons on my bum, and rush out the door before she changes her mind or banishes me from camp altogether.

  In the outer office, I find Andy practically jumping up and down. “Well?”

  “Done and done!”

  “Yes!” he says. “I hear some girl snapped her tibia, so I figured it would work out. We are so partnering up for the end-of-season exhibition.”

  I gulp. For the last week, all anyone can talk about is the stupid exhibition that’s not exactly an exhibition, since we’ll be judged and there will be winners (and losers). The pairs kids have been scrambling to buddy up. No one wants to be left out or stuck with a dud partner. The singles skaters have all been not-too-subtly dropping hints about their chosen music to make sure no one else picks the same thing. It’s all very passive-aggressive ice-skaterly.

  “You and me,” I say, hoping he can’t tell that the idea of the exhibition makes me want to upchuck my lunch. Poor Andy. When he lifts me, I’m about as graceful as one of those hippos from Fantasia, if those hippos were missing four toes and deaf. He’s not going to buy my faux skating pedigree for long. Soon it’ll be put-up-or-shut-up time.

  “Of course you switched to pairs.” The syrupy voice makes the hair on my arms stand up. “Isn’t that just adorable.”

  “Nice dye job, Ivy,” I say as I turn around. It took her two days and a three-hour hair appointment to return her hair to its bleached-blond glory. I reach up and point to a patch near her forehead. “Looks like they missed a spot.”

  She swats my hand away. “Don’t think this is over, Sloane Jacobs,” she says. “It’s so not over.”

  “Sure thing, Ivy,” I say sweetly. Another benefit of the partner thing: it will bump me out of Ivy’s group and into the pairs group, which means larger lessons since there are twice as many of us. More people to hide behind. I’ll still have to do singles for the end-of-season competition, just like everyone else, but at least it will only be the short program. That means I’m spared—and am sparing the audience—two minutes of horror.

  It also means I won’t even have to have a one-on-one session with a coach, since all our one-on-ones will be two-on-ones—with Andy running interference, even if he doesn’t realize it.

  Ivy turns on her heel and marches away. Andy is doubled over laughing. “What do you think she’ll do to you?”

  “I’m not worried,” I reply. “Now let’s go practice.”

  Another day of practice has left my body a wreck. My hamstrings have practically calcified from all the leg extensions, leaving me feeling a little like the Tin Man as I walk back to my room. All this standing up straight has done a number on my neck and shoulders, not to mention the strain on my core. My abs feel like Muhammad Ali has been using them as a heavy bag all day.

  I hobble into my room and gaze at my bed. It looks just as fluffy and soft as it did in the brochure Sloane Emily showed me, and I can’t wait to fall into it.

  My phone buzzes inside my bag. I dig it out and see a text message from a number I don’t recognize.

  Playing a pickup game today. Wanna join up like old times?—Nando

  I breathe in, reading the text over again, and find my neck loosening up. I put my phone on the floor, bend over to stretch my legs, and read it a third time. Old times. I stand up with another deep, yoga-style breath, and find my abs don’t hurt quite as badly as they did just a few minutes ago. I read the text one more time and smile.

  Suddenly, I’m no longer feeling sore at all.

  One Google search, two buses, and a twenty-minute walk later, I’m standing on a concrete landing looking down at an ice rink. Only this one isn’t perfectly crystal and smooth. There aren’t a half-dozen skinny princesses spinning around making figure eights on the ice. There isn’t classical music tinkling softly out of the overhead sound system. This isn’t BSI.

  This is the Rue de St. Laurent Patinoire Communauté. And with rented hockey skates over my shoulder and an armful of smelly rented gear, I’m ready to hit the ice with the dozen guys down there working on slap shots and checks to the tune of something loud and metal that is too loud and metal for the crappy sound system to handle.

  “So, you think your peewee skills are still sharp?” Nando is already geared up and heading toward the rink, a hockey stick in one hand and a crate of yellow and red pinnies in the other. The sight of him—dark hair curling out from underneath his black helmet, brown eyes shining behind the mask—almost makes me drop my helmet.

  “Without a doubt,” I reply.

  “Then get changed. You can be on my team.” He grabs a red pinny from the crate in his hand and tosses it at me. I have to stop myself from skipping to the locker room. While I’m changing, I wonder if Sloane Emily is out somewhere in the city doing axels in secret. She’s probably busy icing down every bruise on her body. My body is barely hanging on trying to figure skate. There’s no way she’s surviving hockey camp.

  I’m the only girl on the ice, but that’s not unusual. I played coed hockey until I got to high school, which more often than not meant guys plus Sloane. Nando does some quick introductions, and the guys greet me with either a nod or a gruff “Salut.” Within minutes we’re all in pinnies and the puck is dropped.

  Nando mentioned it was just a pickup game, but these guys know their stuff. I try to look for the weak link in the yellow team to prey on and steal the puck, but I can’t find one. And from the way everyone swarms me when Nando passes me the puck, it’s clear they all assume our weak link is me.

  I haven’t played in a week and I’m rusty. It takes me a few minutes to settle back into skates without a stacked heel. One good charge that sends me tumbling straight over backward is enough to remind me not to stand up so straight.

  Nando comes skating up quick and hockey-stops right next to my head. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I mutter, thankful I’ve got a helmet on to hide the blush that’s creeping into my cheeks. I hate that I just bit it in front of Nando. This is my game. I’m back on my ice. I should not be falling over like a peewee hockey kid. I climb back onto my skates, nod at him to show I’m not dead, and take my position.

  Once I’m settled in, it comes back, just like riding a bike—or a really kickass motorcycle. And I find that some of the new spin techniques I’ve picked up from group sessions are even coming in handy. I’m able to steal the puck from a yellow skater named Mathieu by executing a near-perfect camel spin while sweeping my stick underneath his. Even though his face mask is on, I can see his mouth hanging wide open.

  I’m able to offer a lot of assists, mostly to Nando, who is an ace at positioning himself perfectly for the shot. After only ten minutes have ticked off the clock, the red team is up 2–0. We take a timeout. I’ve almost completely forgotten about life at BSI and the creature growing on my foot. Even rented skates can’t hold me back. This is exactly what I needed: down and dirty community hockey. No lights, no coaches, no scouts, just play.

  I’m back.

  The buzzer sounds and we take the ice again. The yellow team must have had a hell of a powwow, because within three minutes they’ve scored twice. We’re tied 2–2. On the next play, red number 8, whose name I didn’t catch, snatches the puck and drives it toward the yellow goal, where I’m skating backward ready to assist. A yellow player charges him, and 8 passes the puck to me with barely a glance. I scan the ice quickly to see what my next move should be, but everyone is covered or out of position. It’s just me, the goalie, and the net.
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br />   “Shoot!” Nando’s voice bounces off the ice and around the boards. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mathieu skating hard, gunning for me. It’s now or never. I plant my blades and raise my stick. I’m going to score. I’m going to take the lead back. For a split second I take my eye off the goal and see Nando watching me, trying to fend off a yellow player who’s all over him.

  My heart pounds. My shoulder comes up and I’m ready.…

  The tingles start, first as tiny little pinpricks in my joint, then as a swarm of bees flying down my arm into my fingertips. Within seconds the yellow player is on top of me, stealing the puck, skating away. No one expected it. I was lined up for the perfect shot, and I just let him skate up and take it. The buzzer sounds, the scoreboard flips, and the yellow team cheers. 3–2. They’ve won.

  I swallow hard and slap the ice with my stick so I don’t start crying. There’s no crying in hockey, especially not in front of a bunch of dudes. We line up for good game, and the guys thank me for stopping in. They’re all really nice, which only makes me feel worse. If they’d just rag on me for missing that shot, I’d feel okay, but the “good tries” and the “nice games” just seem like pity.

  Can’t figure skate, can’t play hockey. God, maybe I should take up curling. I’m in the right country for it.

  Back in the empty girls’ locker room, I take a quick shower and change back into street clothes. I need to return this gear and start the trek back to BSI before someone notices I’ve gone absentee.

  In the lobby, I return the gear and skates and turn to head back toward my bus, but Nando is waiting out front for me. He’s got his gear bag slung over his shoulder, a tight, faded blue T-shirt showing the remaining drips from his post-game shower.

  “Good game,” he says.

  “Not really,” I reply.

  “So you missed one shot. You can’t make ’em all.”

  “I didn’t make any,” I say a little too forcefully.

  “Yeah, but you had some great assists. Those two goals we scored were thanks to you.”

  “Assists don’t bring the scouts,” I say, then slam my mouth shut. Too much.

  He frowns and shakes his head. “Scouts aren’t everything.”

  “Says the guy who got scouted,” I reply.

  “Why don’t we go get some food?” he suggests.

  “I wish I could.” Dammit. I can’t believe I have to ditch Nando to go back to the land of the ice queens. “Next time.”

  He’s obviously disappointed, but he smiles. “At least let me give you a ride,” he says.

  One look at those rosebushes in front of BSI and he won’t believe for a second that it’s a hockey camp.

  “I’m actually, um, taking a class,” I say, latching on to the lie, another one I’ll have to remember for later. BSI definitely looks like some chichi private school. “For college credit, you know. Figured while I’m here, two birds, one stone. Whatever. You can drop me off there.”

  I follow him out to his car, and as I walk I notice a twinge in my knee. The adrenaline must have been enough during the game, but now that I’m back on dry ground, I can feel the stiffness coming on fast.

  I limp after him to a beat-up old Mini Cooper, an original, that looks like a tuna can on wheels. He opens the hatch in the back and tosses his gear bag in. He has to slam the door hard—twice—to get it to latch.

  When Nando turns the key the car sputters for a second, then roars to life, and we’re headed off. After I give him the address it’s quiet for a while, and I stare out the window watching the city roll by, happy I don’t have to give directions because I don’t totally know how to get back.

  “So how’s your mom?” The question shocks me like a punch to the gut.

  “You remember my mom?” I ask carefully.

  “Sure, she used to come to all our games in that red Mama Jacobs T-shirt.” When he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle.

  For as long as I’ve played, my mom has had one of those shirts made in whatever team color I happened to be wearing that season. She cheers louder than all the other moms, and most of the dads. She did mention figure skating lessons once, when I was first learning to skate. But when I stamped my foot and shook my head and said “No way, José,” she got on board the hockey train right away. Dad was the hockey fan, but he worked long hours, so it was Mom who carted me to practices all over the city. She learned enough about the game to cheer along with the other parents and even yell at the refs a time or two. But she stopped coming to my games in the last year or so, when things started getting bad for her—for us.

  “She’s fine,” I say quickly. “How’s college?”

  “Fine,” he says, just as quickly. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to push.

  The throbbing in my knee is getting worse. I really should just get the surgery the orthopedist has been recommending for over a year now, but I didn’t want to take the time off when he first told me. And now with Mom in rehab, it really doesn’t seem like the right time. Not to mention the fact that every spare cent is going into covering her legal problems and her treatment. Even with insurance, surgery would be a hefty chunk of change I’m fairly certain we don’t have.

  A couple of ibuprofen and some ice and I should be fine for tomorrow’s workout. I just need to stop thinking about it.

  “You looked really good out there tonight,” I say in an effort to take my mind off my knee. “You always were a great team leader. Even as a peewee.”

  “Thanks,” he says. His gorgeous smile is back. “You were really great too.”

  “I was okay,” I say.

  “Sloane, you’re too hard on yourself,” he says. “I can see you getting all worked up out there. You need to calm down.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I reply. He’s the one with the scholarship.

  “It’s not,” he says. “I know just what it’s like to be burned out, ya know? The pressure can really mess with you.”

  I stare at him, wondering whether he’ll say more. But just then he slows the car, and we pull up to BSI.

  “Nice place,” he says, peering out the windshield and up the hill at the main building.

  “Yeah, not too shabby,” I say. I climb out of his tiny car as quickly as I can before he asks too many questions. As I unfold myself from the seat, my knee nearly groans in anger, and I stumble onto the sidewalk.

  “You okay?” Nando ducks so he can see me through the passenger-side window. I don’t respond; I’m too busy gritting my teeth against the pain. In a flash, he’s out of the car and next to me. “Let me help you.”

  “No, no,” I say. “I’m fine. I just need to stand here for a minute.”

  “Let me at least help you to the door.” He gives me the single most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. My chest aches. I don’t want to say good night to him. It’s like saying goodbye to home all over again.

  So I nod, and he scoops me up into his arms. I wind my arms around his neck, and he marches up the long circular drive to the front door.

  “You’re the densest skinny girl I’ve ever met,” he says when we get to the patio in front of the door. “What are you filled with, lead?”

  “Muscle,” I reply. He gently sets me down on my feet.

  “I bet,” he says. He stands there for a second, looking around, then puts his hands in his pockets and sort of shrugs. “So …”

  “Uh, um, thanks,” I say. He’s nearly my height, and so we’re almost eye to eye, nose to nose.

  “You’re welcome.” His voice is almost a whisper. He smiles at me, a crooked half smile, but he doesn’t lean in. Which is good. I think. I let out a deep breath. This is Nando, a guy who knew me back when we were still too scared to watch parts of The Goonies. Nando, who knows my game, my mom; who could expose me to everyone. I shouldn’t kiss him. I shouldn’t kiss him. But that look, and he’s so close, and—

  The front door swings open and Ivy nearly knocks me over. She stops short when she sees me sta
nding there. She glares at Nando, then at me, then at Nando again. I step back and put some distance between us. Nando mutters a quick “bye” and practically sprints back to his car.

  “Mmmmm, very scandalous, senator’s daughter.” Ivy raises one defiant eyebrow at me.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply. I head inside, desperately trying to conceal my limp.

  Wherever Ivy was headed when she ran into us clearly isn’t as important to her as torturing me, since she follows me back to the room.

  “Hooking up with a townie,” Ivy says, and I can hear the satisfaction ringing through her voice. “That’s the kind of behavior that can get you kicked out of camp, you know.”

  I spin around. “What do you want, Ivy?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” The Southern venom drips from every word. She’s practically batting her eyes at me like Scarlett O’Hara, and frankly, I don’t give a damn. I’d been hoping my prank would be enough to scare her—let her know I mean business—so that she’d leave me alone. Apparently I’ve misjudged her.

  “Cut the crap, Ivy, and just tell me what I have to do to shut you up.”

  She marches right over to me and crosses her arms, like she’s been waiting for this moment since the second we met.

  “I want you to stay out of my way,” she says.

  “I’m not even in your category anymore,” I say. “I switched to pairs. What more do you want?”

  “I want to end this summer on top, the talk of BSI. I want all eyes on me, so that when I start this competitive season, it’s me everyone’s talking about, and not you.”

  I can’t believe this. I can’t believe she’s admitting that she’s scared of me. I can’t believe she’s asking me—well, Sloane Emily—to throw the competition. I can’t believe she’s saying all this out loud. And I can’t believe she’s just given me the perfect out to be a semiterrible skater all summer. I don’t even hesitate.

  “Deal,” I say. I stick out my hand to shake on it, but she waggles her fingers at me.

  “Manicure,” she says, then winks and sashays out of the room.