Any Way You Slice It (10 page)

Technically I can go home, but Mom is in bed with a migraine and I've tried not to be alone in the same room with her all week because I'm afraid to lie to her face. If I spend too much time with her, she'll know something is up.

Ever since the epic fall turned into an epic fail yesterday, I've been thinking about how to step up practice even more. I don't care so much that we lost, I just hate that we barely showed up to play.

I sneak out the back door and grab the hockey stick Jorge keeps in the corner for security purposes and dump a bag of golf balls in the alley behind the building. Jake says they weigh about the same as pucks and it's an easy drill for off-ice practice. The memory of being so close to him yesterday makes my heart flutter, but I shake the feeling loose to focus. After tomorrow, there'll be too much snow back here for this to work again until spring.

It feels really weird practicing so close to where I can get caught, but realistically, I could be out here for hours before either of them notices. I draw the shape of a crude goal in chalk on the concrete wall across the alley, and line myself up.

I think about what Jake told me. I think about the videos I've watched. And I try to put it all into something that feels right.

The balls keep rolling away, so I have to run a bit to catch them. I scoop one before it rolls behind a stack of crates.

Damn
.

I keep shooting, but it's not working the way I thought it would. One ball barely misses the garage window. Another rattles off the Dumpster. And one hits the concrete and ricochets back at me so fast, it nearly decapitates me as I dive out of the way. Coach's voice echoes in my head. “Don't think so hard.”

Yeah right.

A couple hit the zone, but nothing feels like it should. No matter what Jake says, this isn't working. I need to be on the ice.

“Nice shot, Twink.”

I jump about a mile into the air and my heart is pumping as I whip around. Jorge laughs at me from the back door.

Crap.

I brace myself for an earful.

“How long has
this
been going on?” He crosses his arms and ambles over to where I'm standing. One look at the outline of the goal on the wall and he whistles long and low. “I wondered how long it would take after that Gomes kid started hanging around.”

My shoulders slump. “A couple of weeks.”

I should have known better. I tap aimlessly at the remaining golf balls on the tar in front of me. “Are you going to tell my dad?”

He shakes his head. “Not my business to tell your dad. I'm no gossip.”

I roll my eyes because I know what's coming. “But … ?”

“Well, like I said, it's not my place. But sneaking around behind your dad's back when he's distracted by all of the TV show stuff doesn't seem like your style.” He gestures to the wall and shakes his head. “You do realize that this is not going to help you get better. All you're going to do is break something.”

“I figured that out.” I nod, choosing to ignore his disappointment in my deception. “It doesn't make sense. Why the heck did Jake tell me to practice with golf balls?”

Jorge laughs so hard he has to lean over to catch his breath. “I think he just meant to get a feel for the weight of the puck. Move it around a bit with the stick, try to move it down the alley without losing control. Using a golf ball for target practice will kill someone.” He's almost hyperventilating. “If you're out here practicing with golf balls, of all things, you must have it bad.”

I sigh and start picking up the evidence. “It's that obvious?”

“Afraid so.” He walks back to the building, but he pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “But what I want to know, is it the game or the guy?”

Leave it to Jorge to cut straight to the heart of the matter.

I think about Jake walking next to me on our walk home last week. How it feels when he calls my name. And how my whole arm tingled for ten minutes after he touched me the other day.

“I'm not sure,” I say under my breath, but it doesn't matter because I'm talking to the door. I turn and stare at a dozen golf balls littering the alley. I shake my head. What an idiot I am.

Two minutes later, Jorge returns with six plastic soda cups. Silently, he lines them up in a straight line between me and the wall. He looks at me for a second and pretends to zip his lips. Without saying a word, he strolls back inside.

I look at my watch. The dinner rush—what there will be of it—won't be in for another hour.

What the hell, I might as well give it a shot.

Ten minutes later, I'm getting a feel for moving the balls through the obstacle course of cups. Shifting the stick from side to side, keeping the ball on my stick and keeping my feet moving toward the wall. I try to envision being on ice. Opponents speed toward me, and Jake passes me the puck. I flick the stick and shoot the imaginary puck.

“She scores!”

I close my eyes and picture Jake carrying me around the rink to the sounds of a cheering crowd. Before my vision ends, the crowd disappears and we're slow dancing on the ice. He's leaning toward me …

“Penelope,” Jorge calls from the open door, snapping me out of my daydream. He's looking at me like I'm crazy, and I realize I'm leaning against the wall, staring into space. “You need to come in and work the counter. It's getting busy.”

As I follow Jorge into the building, I'm glad he doesn't ask me the question again, because I don't know the answer.

The game or the guy?

I pick a seat in the back of math class and hope Mr. Ford won't call on me. Before class starts, I put my head down and replay yesterday in my head. Between practice and work and homework, there hasn't been much time for sleep.

Jake's flying down the ice. A spotlight shines on him the whole way, and there's no one else even close to him. The way he leans over the stick when he skates. The way he cheers when anyone on the team does something good. The way his eyes light up when I hit the net. All of those things make me want to be at the rink.

All. The. Time.

I want to be the one to make him light up like that again. And again.

Caroline Chapman shifts in her seat in front of me and jostles my desk; I sit up with a jolt. The motion jogs my memory and that horrible moment in the sixth grade kicks me in the shins. The look on Jake's face when I turned around and saw my ponytail swinging in his fist. He just grinned when he'd held up my hair for everyone in the class to see. The whole class laughed. And it feels like I'm right back there again.

He's changed though, right? He's not the same immature boy.

Something has gotten under my skin like a virus. I think about what Jorge said and I'm still not sure if it's hockey or Jake.

I doodle his name in the margins of my notebook. Warren strolls by and as he passes my desk, he looks down at my paper.

“Jake Gomes?” He points at my doodling. “What the hell, Spaulding. You've got a crush on the delinquent?” He covers his mouth with his hand in mock surprise at the expression on my face. “You didn't know he did time in juvie back in the eighth grade?”

People near us stare, and I feel the blood rush to my head as I clench my fist around my pencil. “You're a liar.”

As he slides into the seat behind me, he leans forward and whispers so the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “I bet your parents would be interested to know you're playing hockey with a criminal.”

Dad knows Jake isn't a delinquent or he wouldn't have let him walk me home. And Grams talked to his mother the other day. There's no way he's a criminal. But Warren cannot talk to my parents about anything related to hockey. I turn around and give him my best see-if-I-care attitude. “Go ahead, it's not like I'm trying to hide anything from them.”

Mr. Ford looks over with a finger covering his lips, the universal sign for “no talking.”

For a second I think my bluff works. Warren just shrugs. “So then I guess you won't mind if I tell Troy Depalma about the Pizza Princess hockey phenom when he starts filming for
Local Flavor
next week.”

My blood runs cold. “What?”

“Oh, didn't you know? Troy's producer showed up during practice last night and asked everyone to be on the show about your restaurant. A bunch of us have appointments to talk to him about the town and how much we
love
your dad's pizza.” He taps his desk with his pencil. “I'll have to think about what I'm going to say.”

I stare at the board and pretend I'm focused on Mr. Ford's lesson about algorithms. I make a quick calculation about how fast Warren can ruin my life.

“What about your uncle?”

He shrugs. “My uncle's pizza sucks.”

“What do you want?” I can't believe I'm considering giving in to his blackmail.

“Free pizza for me and all my friends would be a good place to start.”

My stomach turns at the thought of Warren and his pals. “Wouldn't your uncle be mad if you're eating at Slice?”

“And …” He pauses, like there's a thought that's just out of reach.

I realize he's not done yet and I close my eyes waiting for the guillotine.

Hunter Tilton, who has been listening to the whole exchange with a huge smirk on his face pipes up. “Ha. Tim won't let him eat free pizza anymore. He fired him for using the delivery truck without permission.”

“Shut up, Tilton.” He snaps his fingers and whispers. “A date.”

I'm staring at him, waiting for the punch line.

He's serious.

Warren leans forward again. “So, Spaulding. What do you say?”

I want to say,
Gross. Not in this or any lifetime
. But my parents cannot find out I'm playing hockey from a cretin like Warren, so I nod my agreement.

Jake's going to be irritated. But he'll have to understand. “Free pizza. And one date. Only one. In exchange for your silence about me playing hockey with Jake and the Rink Rats.”

I cannot believe I'm caving to blackmail.

“Fine,” Warren hisses. “But you can't tell anyone why you're going out with me. I need to make Ashley jealous, so no one can know this isn't for real.”

I glance at Hunter, who draws his finger across his lips with an imaginary zipper.

“Miss Spaulding, one more word and its detention. You too, Mr. McNeill.” Ford weighs in a minute too late to save me.

Figures
.

Warren keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the class, but at the end, he says in a loud voice that everyone in the class hears, “Can't wait for our date, Penelope.”

I put my head down on the desk until Mr. Ford comes over. I think maybe he's going to comfort me, say something wise and perhaps parental, but he just says, “Next class is about to start Miss Spaulding, you've got to move along.”

It won't be that bad, or at least that's what I tell myself. But as soon as I see Jake, he's frowning like he just found out he's got detention for a month. News travels fast when Caroline Chapman is in your class.

“What's up?” I'm playing it cool, hoping he's just in a bad mood, but I know it's more than that. Since I've been on the team, Jake has
never
not smiled at me like I am the only girl in the room.

“Oh, there's nothing wrong. I just found out this friend of mine agreed to go out with my arch nemesis.” He's leaning against Caroline's locker while I open mine to stash my books.

Instead of feeling guilty, I'm pissed. “What are you, a superhero? Arch nemesis?” I throw my books into the locker and slam the door. “Who has an arch nemesis?”

“What the hell, Spaulding?” He pounds the locker with his fist. “You're not seriously going out with McNeill.”

“You never call me Spaulding,” I say softly. My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at him openmouthed. I knew he'd be mad, but I sort of thought maybe a playful mad. Or maybe he'd ask me to explain. I didn't expect ice-cold rage.

He scowls at me and I'm reminded of Jake's reputation. “You didn't answer my question.”

“Are you serious? Last time I checked I didn't need your permission to go out with someone.” I narrow my eyes. I can do mad just as well as he can. “And besides, why do you care?”

“If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you.” He turns on his heel and walks away.

“That's the stupidest answer ever,” I yell after him. “Don't be an ass, Jake. You have no idea how important this is!” I turn into my locker, at least glad that he doesn't see me crying.

Lori kicks me under the table during study hall as I wipe my eyes. “Look on the bright side,” she says. “At least you're not wearing makeup.”

Which makes me cry even harder. If even your best friend doesn't realize you're wearing makeup, you're clearly doing it wrong. I make a mental note to get Jules to show me again.

“You, know, it's sort of funny, actually,” she says, not missing a beat. “You said ‘yes' to Warren so he wouldn't tell your parents about Jake, but because you said ‘yes' to Warren there won't be a Jake to tell your parents about. It's kind of like a warped version of ‘The Gift of the Magi.'”

“This isn't the same thing at all.” I put my head down on the table.

We had both enjoyed the short story we read in English about a couple who each gave up something they loved so they could buy the other a Christmas present. “That was so romantic. This is just … sad.” I crumple up the math worksheet on the table in front of me. “I really thought there might be something between me and Jake, but I've totally screwed it up.”

“You don't owe Warren anything. Just ditch him,” Lori says, practical as ever. It sounds so easy when she says it. “Or on the other hand, I'm pretty sure Jake will understand if you sit him down and explain it. He might even realize you did it for the team.” She smooths the math homework back out and hands it to me; she knows I'll need it.