“I’m so sorry, Kara.” The words sting my throat on the way out. I take a deep breath and try again. “I’m sorry about kissing Will at that party when I knew you liked him. And I’m sorry about throwing the Empire Games. I got out there that night and I was pissed at my dad and kind of in shock and I just … I gave up. And after that, I disappeared. I couldn’t face up to anything. My parents got divorced, and I went into hiding because I thought it was my fault.”
Kara knew that my parents officially split up soon after Empire—everyone did—but by then we were no longer speaking. I never told her about everything that came before the divorce: The nights my father slept on the couch. The clipped arguments and silent breakfasts, forks scraping angrily on plates. All the endless pretending. How that night at the event, just hours after discovering the cheetah bra, I let my own dreams melt, right there on the ice in front of my parents, my coach, my skate club, and my best friend.
“He was having an affair,” I say. “I’m pretty sure Mom knew it all along, but I found the real proof that day, fifteen minutes before we left for Rochester. I didn’t fully realize what it was in the moment, but somehow I knew they’d split up. That night at the event, I saw it coming, and I freaked.” The ice machines tick below our feet and a shiver passes through my bones. “It’s not an excuse, but that’s what happened.”
Kara lets out a long, slow breath. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that by yourself. But you could’ve told me the truth. Maybe not that night, but after. Yeah, I would’ve been mad about losing our shot at the Empire sponsorship, but I would’ve understood. I would’ve … I don’t know. Maybe we’d still be friends today, instead of … not.”
I look out across the rink, tears blurring the ice into a white sea. “I know.”
“I thought I’d moved on,” she continues. “It was so long ago, I wasn’t competing anymore, we weren’t friends, why bother, right? But then I heard you were working with the hockey team, training again, hanging out with Will … I’m not the psycho jealous ex here, Hudson. Seriously. But every time I see you with him, it’s like watching the last three years unravel in reverse. I didn’t … I never forgave you.”
I turn to face her again and whisper over the tightness in my throat. “And now?”
She sighs, scraping a line in the ice with her toe pick, back and forth, back and forth. “So much happened; things are so different now. We’re different. But the other night at Amir’s, I realized something: Friends or not, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hating you.”
“Same,” I say.
“So let’s call this a mutual understanding. It’s the best I can do.” She smiles and holds out her hand. Despite the heaviness of her final words on my chest, I take it.
“Does this mean no more bathroom brawls?”
She smiles. “Afraid so. But, Hudson, I’m serious about Will. Right now he needs you for the team, but after that … just be careful, okay? And that’s all I’ll say about it.”
I drop her hand and nod toward her skates. “Fifteen minutes before I have to get back to work. Feel like giving those things a workout? Letting me kick your ass for old times?”
Kara raises an eyebrow, and for a second I think she might join me. I know we’re not friends anymore—not really. But I want her to say yes. I want her to skate with me again—to want to skate with me again. Because after everything that happened, if things can be okay with Kara, maybe it means my skating doesn’t have to be an either/or, a bittersweet choice that always leaves something else behind, some other dream unfollowed.
But Kara’s smile fades fast, her eyes turning serious and regretful. “I should let you get back to your training.”
“No, it’s cool. We could—”
“Some other time, maybe.” She taps her toe pick against the ice. “Good luck at the event, Hudson. I’m sure you’ll win the judges’ hearts. You always did.”
I nod, blinking back tears. Winning the judges’ hearts always meant more to me off the ice, after the roses and ribbons and camera flashes, when Kara and I sat side by side with a tuna melt platter in the window booth at Hurley’s, the celebration twice as special because we could share it, no matter who took first.
But things are different now. I made my choices, and so did Kara, and three years later our paths are as divergent as fire and ice.
Kara Shipley and I were supposed to skate around the world together. But now?
“Bye, Hud. See you at school.” She glides to the edge of the rink and slips the blade guards over her skates, and I take a deep breath, skate back to the center line, and without an audience, give that triple/triple another go.
Chapter Eighteen
Hester’s Scarlet Letters
Raspberry-vanilla cupcakes topped with chocolate Chambord icing, a fresh raspberry, and a scarlet monogrammed A
“I have news,” Will says in the hall outside my French classroom the following week. “Pun intended.”
It’s the first Friday after winter break, and despite Kara’s warnings, he’s been walking me to my classes every day, warming up my car in the school lot, dazzling me with his smile and unfailing intensity and all-around good-smelling-ness.
“Give it to me,” I say.
“You’ll never guess who’s coming to the game tonight.” Will slides his hand across my lower back, fingers curving around my hip. “My good buddy Don Donaldson. Heyyy.” He makes a shooting gesture with his free hand and clicks his tongue.
“Cheesy news guy Don? Why?”
“What can I say? I look good on camera.” Will flashes me his TV-ready grin. “I totally boost their ratings.”
I punch him in the arm.
“Hey! They like the human interest angle. Hometown heroes, underdogs, all that stuff. We are doing better than the Buffalo Sabres this season, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I smile. “What about Dodd? He’s cool with the media attention?”
“Not a chance. I’ve been dodging him since the interview last week. I figured I’d set this up now and apologize later.”
“You’re living on the edge, boy.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Will leans against the lockers and looks down the hall, his eyes suddenly dark. “Dodd doesn’t want any attention on us. My dad thinks he’s trying to get Watonka High to drop the hockey program altogether and funnel the leftover money into the football program.”
“Why?”
“Dodd wants a college football gig, but first he’s gotta make a winning high school team. To do that, he needs cash. Right now the Wolves are a money pit for the athletics department. By the way, this is all highly classified, need-to-know-basis type stuff. None of the guys—”
“Dirty secret, got it.” I smile just as the one-minute warning bell buzzes. “Hey, you okay? Should I be worried?”
“I’ll worry about me. You worry about this.” He slips his hand behind my neck and pulls me in, lips melting against mine in a totally sickening PDA special. Thankfully, the only witness is Dani; she sighs as she ducks behind us into the classroom.
“Gross. Get a room.”
It’s the most she’s said to me all week.
“Bonjour, étudiants. C’est une journée excitante!” Madame Fromme’s got her laptop open, rockin’ the I-can’t-wait-to-torture-you-with-a-pictorial-from-my-1980s-French-excursion glow. From her seat near the projector screen she prattles on, but I don’t pick out the French words for “vacation,” “trip,” or “boring as hell,” so maybe we’re safe.
“Dani,” I whisper as the room darkens and the presentation begins—French Impressionism. Much better than watching Madame traipse through the City of Light with her mall bangs and stirrup pants.