Being Sloane Jacobs Read online

  I skid to a stop and spin fast, holding the imaginary hockey stick high over my head.

  “Nice moves, ice princess.”

  The voice comes out of nowhere and sends me spinning right onto my butt. I look up and around and spot Andy leaning in the doorway. His arms are crossed, and though I can’t quite see him that well in the dim light, I can imagine his left eyebrow is arched high.

  “How long have you been there?” I have to work to control my breathing.

  “Long enough to see you win the invisible Stanley Cup,” he says. He walks to the edge of the ice, and I see he has his skates slung over one shoulder. “And I thought I was the only one doing secret midnight workouts. You got something you want to tell me?”

  My heart is pounding. I climb to my feet and start gliding, my legs out straight. “What do you mean?”

  “Girl, don’t mess with me. I know you’re hiding something.” He takes one tentative step out on the ice in his sneakers, and once he’s confident of his footing, he strides over to center ice. “You do all right, but your posture is garbage, you eat like a trucker, you can’t execute a simple lift, and you dyed Ivy pink. But obviously you can skate. After seeing this little display, I’m inclined to think maybe you’re not the pretty princess you’re pretending to be.”

  I rack my brain for an excuse. Maybe I can tell him I had a traumatic brain injury that caused amnesia as the result of a plane crash, and so I forgot how to skate.

  As if he can read my mind, Andy holds up a hand. “Don’t even think about trying to lie to me,” he says.

  Just like that, I know I have to tell him the truth.

  “You figured right,” I reply. I feel like Zdeno Chara, the biggest, scariest Boston Bruin, has just climbed off my shoulders. I breathe deep and don’t feel afraid. He knows. I don’t have to hide. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  A wicked grin spreads across Andy’s face. He reaches out and pulls me into a crazy bear hug. When he steps back, his eyes are sparkling. We’re not just friends anymore. We’re conspirators.

  “Your secret’s safe with me, so long as you fill me in on all the dirt.” He cocks his head toward the bench on the far side of the ice. I follow him over and we plop down. I scissor my skates along the ice, forward, back, forward, back, a nervous habit I’ve had since I first started playing. I hardly know where to begin.

  “My name is Sloane Jacobs,” I say. Might as well start with the basics. “Only, I’m not the Sloane Jacobs who’s supposed to be here. I’m the Sloane Jacobs who’s from northeast Philly, who’s supposed to be across the city playing hockey for four weeks. Or trying to, anyway. But instead, I decided to switch places with the other Sloane. And now I’m spending my summer as a figure skater.”

  Andy stares at me hard for what feels like an eternity. I can practically see the wheels turning in his brain, and I know I’ve done a crap job of explaining. He finally takes a deep breath and puts his hand on my knee to stop my stationary skating. “So you’re saying there’s another girl, also named Sloane Jacobs, who is a figure skater and is supposed to be spending her summer here, but you guys pulled some kind of Parent Trap situation that has her being you playing hockey, and you being her trying to figure skate?”

  “What do you mean, trying?” I punch him softly on the shoulder and try to feign being insulted.

  Andy gives me another big, rocking hug, then sits back. “Sloane Jacobs, I think you’re my hero.”

  “Thanks,” I reply. I hadn’t realized until I began speaking how much I’ve been aching to tell someone, anyone, my secret. “We met the night before I got here. Ran into each other—literally—at the hotel. And we decided to switch. It was her idea.”

  “C’mon, there’s gotta be more to this story than that,” he says. “Why were you so desperate to change places?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it. Not right now, anyway,” I say. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “All in your own time, I guess.” He kicks off his shoes and pushes them under the bench, then starts lacing up his skates. “Come on. Stand up. We have some work to do.”

  “What do you mean?” I’m still shocked that he hasn’t written me off for being a big fat liar. Or at least a muscled one.

  “These first two weeks have been cake,” he says. He ties the last knot and jumps up onto the ice. “But things are going to get real hard, real fast. And you’re going to need some help if you’re going to keep this insane plan a secret. Now get up off that bench and come skate with me.”

  “But I was just blowing off steam out here, I wasn’t—”

  “Up. Now.” Andy stamps his foot down into the ice and little shards shoot up around his foot. He points a finger down at a spot in front of him and glares at me until I relent. “I saw you in class yesterday trying to do that baby lift with Roman. Pathetic. We’re going to master it, right here, right now.”

  “But, Andy, I’m tired, and—”

  “You whine like that to your hockey coach?”

  I imagine Coach Butler’s reaction if I told him I was too tired. It would probably involve a red face and some flying spittle. I shake my head.

  “All right, then. Let’s do it.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, we work the move over and over until I worry Andy’s arms are going to fall off. I can’t seem to get all the way into the air.

  “This sucks! Seriously, who learns to figure skate in a few weeks? What was I thinking?” I kick the ice hard, leaving a golf-ball-sized divot on the smooth surface.

  “Your problem is that you’re too tense. Too wound up. You’re not letting go, not going with the lift.”

  “People keep telling me to go with the lift, and I still don’t know what it means.” I cross my arms and tap my toe pick on the ice.

  “It means you need to imagine that you’re lifting yourself off the ice. You need to breathe in with the motion and trust your partner to do the rest. If you’re constantly trying to catch yourself, you’re definitely going to fall.”

  “I’m going to fall because I’m a freaking hockey player in a tutu.”

  “I don’t see a tutu, do you?” Andy gives me a friendly death glare. “Cut the crap and focus. You can do this. Don’t make me go all Dangerous Minds on you.”

  “You’re going to have to if you expect to get this butt in the air,” I mutter.

  “Eyes on me, tough girl.” Andy puts a finger under my chin and pulls my gaze right to him. “You can do this. Most people fail because they’re afraid to attempt the jump. But you’re not afraid, are you?”

  I look into Andy’s dark brown eyes. They’re focused right on me, unblinking. I think about the scout and the fact that I’ve probably tanked my whole future. I think about my mom, and how in one day she nearly died and then disappeared from my life. I think about hockey, and how much I love it, and how much I hate that I can’t do it anymore.

  “I’m afraid of a lot of things,” I say, “but this isn’t one of them.”

  “Damn right,” he says.

  Without a word, he pushes off down the ice. I follow him. At first we’re side by side; then I drop back. Andy grabs my hand and pulls me in fast. It only takes a split second for me to be at his side again. I bend my knees and take a deep breath. As I do, I feel myself rise off the ice. I close my eyes. Go with it. Andy’s hands are around my waist, and I let go of his grip and raise my hands high. When I open my eyes, I see that I’m over his head, speeding across the ice.

  “Go with it,” I hear him say below me.

  “What?” And then I’m spinning back over his shoulder, the same move we did back at the pub. I trust him, and within seconds I’m back on my skates, gliding next to him. Andy grabs my hands and spins me around in a ring-around-the-rosie move. We spin to a stop and he gives me a hard high five.

  “You did it!” he practically shouts. “If you keep this up, you’re gonna give Ivy a run for her money.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, about that,” I say. “It’s possible that I
told her I’d throw the final expo. Which probably wasn’t such a bad thing, since I have zero chance of not looking like a fool out there.”

  “Screw that, and screw her,” Andy says. He bends down and tightens the lace on his left skate. “What we’re going to do is work on one jump. One double axel. It won’t be easy, but you’re going to get it, because you’re not afraid, right?”

  I sigh. “Right.”

  “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound like that badass hockey player that you are,” Andy barks. “Because the badass hockey player could land a double axel no problem, right?”

  “Right!” I shout, my voice echoing off the ice and around the barn. I feel energized. I feel psyched. I feel tingles, only this time they’re in my feet and they’re making me want to leap into the air.

  CHAPTER 17

  SLOANE EMILY

  The elevator door slides open, and the smell of fried food, melted cheese, and musty basement washes over me like a tsunami.

  I stop outside the elevator doors, confused. “Your text said Coach Hannah wanted to see me down here …?”

  Matt is standing behind the couch, in front of the coffee table. I can make out a spread on the table behind him, and from the smell, it’s some kind of heart-attack-themed picnic.

  “Um, I might have told you a bit of a lie,” he says. He steps aside so I can see the take-out containers, bags, and bottles on the table. He gives a little vaudeville-style “Ta-da.”

  “What’s all this?”

  “This is a culinary blend of cultures. First, we have cheesesteaks. I found this place that’s almost just like Geno’s back home. For dessert, we have French macaroons in blueberry, raspberry, and vanilla and a few slices of apple pie from the good old U.S. of A. And to drink, your choice of a fine sparkling cider”—he shows off the bottle like it’s a ten-year-old bottle of champagne—“or Yoo-hoo, the American classic.”

  I still haven’t moved an inch. “You got all this … for me?”

  “But that’s not all!” he says in his best game-show-host voice. “I also rented Slap Shot for our viewing pleasure. Or yours. I understand if you don’t want me to stay.…”

  “But …” I can hardly form a sentence. “Why?”

  Matt shrugs. “You’ve been avoiding a date. Even a friendly one. So I decided to ambush you.” He spreads his hands. “Remember, I play hockey. Ambushing people is kind of my thing.”

  “I don’t get it.” I shake my head. “I blow you off, and you bring me a picnic?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Why?” I ask again.

  “I’m going to change your mind about me,” he says, watching me steadily. “I like you, Sloane.”

  I’m tempted to ask “Why?” again, but I refrain.

  “I did some crappy things in the past,” he admits. “But like I said, people change. I changed.”

  Looking at his smile and his floppy hair and the table full of food, I want to believe him more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

  I cross the room and pick up a bottle of Yoo-hoo, which is sweating from the humidity in the basement.

  “Swear on Yoo-hoo?” I ask. I present the bottle to him. He places one hand over the yellow label and solemnly holds up his other hand.

  “I swear,” he says. “I am no longer the cad I was. You can trust me. I hope you’ll trust me.”

  “We’ll see,” I say.

  He takes the bottle and cracks open the lid. “Now we toast.”

  We take turns swigging from the bottle. Somewhere in DC, my mother must be cringing: her spidey senses no doubt inform her that I’m not using a glass.

  We chow down on the spread. We’re so busy scarfing the food that we don’t even bother putting on the movie. We just laugh and chat. I can’t believe how comfortable I am stuffing my face in front of the cutest boy I’ve ever seen in my life.

  When we’re done, Matt leans back against the couch, both hands on his stomach. “I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”

  I’m lying with my head on the arm of the couch, my feet in Matt’s lap. “It’s possible I’m having a heart attack right now,” I reply.

  “You know what we need?”

  “Tums?”

  “A walk.”

  “Are you kidding? The only way I’m moving is if you put me in a wagon and pull me down the street.”

  “I’m serious,” he says. Matt shoves my feet off his lap and stands up. He offers me his hand, which completely envelops mine. He pulls me up. “Let’s go.”

  We make quick work of the cleanup, head out the back door, and set off down the street.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Well, we got to taste a little of Montreal,” he says. “Now I’m going to show you a little of Montreal.”

  The night is perfect: warm, with a slight breeze. Matt leads me down a residential street lined with the same kind of two-story row houses I saw on that first night we explored together, the night I pulled the fire alarm.

  Matt tells me about how he first came to Elite two summers ago. One of his dad’s old high school teammates had just been hired as a coach, and Matt was invited up. I hadn’t realized that all the players were invited or recommended. No one applies to Elite. It’s all about word of mouth and who you know. Which means Sloane Devon must be a pretty darn good player.

  So why was she so eager to escape?

  Matt leads me through a small green park in the middle of the city to a set of shiny glass doors that rise into the street seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Where are we going?” I look around for some kind of subway sign, but I don’t see one.

  “Underground,” he says, as if that’s as normal a destination as a movie theater or coffee shop. “I’m taking you to meet the mole king. I’m pretty sure you’d make a perfect sacrifice.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Matt laughs. “Trust me, okay?”

  He holds open the door for me and I pass through it without pausing. We’re at the top of a staircase, and as soon as we’re inside I realize it’s a bustling place. A pack of businessmen hauling rolling suitcases breeze past me, followed by a group of ladies laden with shopping bags. I dive into the crowd and head down the stairs.

  “Wait up!” he says, taking the stairs two at a time until he’s beat me to the bottom.

  “This doesn’t look like any subway station I’ve ever seen,” I say. The place looks more like a club or a museum. Next to us is a wall of heavy metal panels carved with rows and rows of symbols, all backlit so they glow like ancient runes.

  “Well, this takes you to a subway station, but actually it’s just a series of underground tunnels,” Matt says. “So which way?”

  I choose left, and we end up in front of a big glass case. Inside is a street map on a platform. Above it is a video projection that shows a building growing up and changing. A plaque on the wall says it’s a depiction of the first settlement in Montreal. We watch the building grow and then disappear, then grow and disappear again.

  Next to the glass case is another set of doors, with THE WESTIN etched into them. It’s the hotel where I stayed the first night in Montreal—the hotel where I first met the other Sloane and this crazy summer began.

  “These doors go directly to the hotel?” I ask.

  Matt nods. “There are dozens of tunnels running underneath the city so you can go from place to place without going outside.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it’s lovely here in the summer, but in the winter, it’s a frozen tundra,” he says. “I came up here for a tournament once in January and thought my eyeballs were going to freeze and fall out of my head.”

  Instead of going up to the hotel, we retrace our steps to the wall of runes. This time we continue past it. Only a few steps later, we come across a simple metal chair set into the wall and bolted to the ground. A spotlight shines down on it.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a chair,” he replies.

 
“Ha, ha,” I deadpan.

  “I don’t know what it is,” he says. “Art, I guess. There’s no sign. Just a chair.”

  We wander down the tunnel a little farther. We come to a few steps illuminated with faint blue light. Soon we’re in another tunnel, where we’re greeted by a wooden cart overflowing with brightly colored bouquets.

  “Choose one,” Matt says. When I hesitate, he insists, “Come on. I’m making up for lost time. Now pick.”

  I choose a small bouquet of pale pink peonies. Matt pays the vendor with a collection of brightly colored bills and coins of various sizes. I bury my nose in the bouquet and take a deep breath. My mother grows peonies in our backyard. And for a second I ache for home—not the way it’s been lately, with my mom all pinched and angry and my father avoiding us, but the way it was when I was a kid.

  We stroll through the tunnels a little more, stopping to look at maps and pieces of art. We toss coins into the guitar case of a folk musician and the hat of a blues guy going to town on a harmonica.

  After about an hour, we’re up the stairs and back where we started, in the little park surrounded by skyscrapers.

  “Where to now?” I ask. I check my phone and am shocked to see that it’s almost ten-thirty.

  Matt smiles. “I think we have time to see one more thing before we head back.”

  We get to the end of the street and turn right, facing an enormously steep hill. I have to lean into it to make it up without huffing and puffing. At the top, we round the corner and enter a huge cobblestone plaza that features an enormous fountain, all lit up and gushing water. Despite the hour, people are milling about, tossing coins into the fountain or sprawled on the stone ledges that surround it.

  Beyond the fountain, a cathedral of carved gray stone, soaring spires, arched windows, and Gothic-looking carvings rises into the night sky. Starkly illuminated from below, it has an almost movielike quality as if it’s being projected on a big screen rather than standing right here in front of us.