Page 8 of Riding the Pine

A couple hours later and my twin brothers skate off the ice dejected. We lost two to one. Winning streak of four games came to a crashing halt right here in Waterloo. As he leaves the ice, Scott looks up at me, pain twisting his features as though what happened between us is to blame for the loss. Or worse, I am.

Blame curls in my chest. Maybe it’s simply a guilty conscience and not at all what he’s thinking, but the more I stare at them as they leave the game, the more responsibility for their loss sinks into my skin.

Don’t fuck with hockey players and their routines, especially on gameday. That includes almost sticking your tongue in their mouth.

I swallow a groan, but apparently not well enough as Edith casts me a questioning sideways glance. “You good?”

I bite the inside of my cheek and nod, standing to follow her out of the stands. When we get outside, I sit in the car for a long while, trying to focus my thoughts and warm up my bones. Edith is already heading back to Cedar Rapids in her own car, but something won’t let me leave the parking lot.

By the time the door eventually opens, there’s a small throng of puck bunnies waiting by the exit. If I was to place a bet, I’d say they’re there for my brothers. They’re always there for my brothers. But when one of them places her hand on Scott’s shoulder, tosses her head back, and lets out an exaggerated laugh, my gut hardens.

It sinks when he smiles back at her, when only a few hours ago, he was smiling at me as our lips were mere millimeters away from each other.

He wasn’t wrong that we shouldn’t have crossed that line, not really. Their heads all snap to watch my car as I tear out of the parking lot. I thought we could revisit the topic, maybe talk about how my brothers don’t control my body, how they wouldn’t fall out with Scott if he kissed me… but it seems Scott has other ideas.

CHAPTER 5

Scott

(SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

November 2019: The Birthdays Part I

It’s November 28th, one of those double-holiday kind of years. The year my seventeenth birthday and Thanksgiving fall on the same day. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the holiday. We usually end up at Grandma’s house. Mom and I with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Gramps has kind of been my paternal role model since Dad left us when I was just a baby.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to be surrounded by people on the holiday, and I love nothing more than donning my stretchy pants and eating until I need a nap, but there’s always been something missing.

Bringing the family together around the table always seems to somehow highlight those who aren’t there with us. Every year, a different cousin ends up in jail, or one of my aunts has separated from my uncle, or vice versa. Mom never says it out loud but I know her heart hurts during the holidays. Grandma never misses an opportunity to take a swipe at Mom for being‘single’ or ‘alone’ or ‘unaccompanied’ during the festive season, as though it’s somehow her fault for not having kept her man.

To my knowledge, Grandma is the only one who blames Mom for not chasing after the piece of shit, sperm donor who helped create me and who ran off with another woman—one who’d help feed his addiction to gambling.

Not only did he cheat on Mom, and leave the two of us, but he cleared out everything of value that they owned, including Mom’s bank account.

It was a long, hard battle for her to recover from that. And some days, I wonder if she’s still fighting demons I can’t see. But Grandma still makes her little digs, she still pokes at Mom more than her siblings, and I have no idea why. Why wouldn’t she want Mom to be happier and safer by herself than miserable and broke with a piece of shit, absent husband?

We aren’t well off, not by any means, but from the little snippets I glean from Mom when she feels like talking about my sperm donor, we’re better off without him. And I have no reason to believe otherwise, given that Mom is here, and he isn’t.

Deadbeat dad who never paid child support. Fuck. I’m a walking stereotype.

Anyway, this Thanksgiving is going to be different. Mom’s away to New York City with two of her sisters. They’re doing Black Friday “the proper way,” whatever that means.

For me, it means I get to go to my best friends’ house to share in their Thanksgiving meal. I’ve got my best plaid shirt on, khakis, loafers, and I even dragged a brush through my hair. Mrs. de la Peña, Gabi or Gabriella as she keeps correcting me, said she doesn’t need me to bring anything.

Artemis told me that she is obsessed with York peppermint patties, so I’ve brought her a couple family share size bags to say thank you for having me.

I’m not sure whether shereallywanted me to come, or whether her sons convinced her to let me gatecrash, but either way, I’m standing outside their house having left my piece of shit car in their super wide, circular driveway.

Their house is like a fucking hotel. Or maybe two hotels joined together. It’s huge.

An older woman dressed in a maid’s outfit answers the door, and Ares stands a few feet behind her rolling his eyes as she ushers me in off the street.

“Come in.” He holds his arms out, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to steal his mom’s candy, or if he wants my coat. “Mom goes all out for big celebrations.” He indicates the maid chatting to a man who’s dressed in a butler’s uniform. Wow, this family really does have money.

I mean, I’ve heard the rumors at school. And I know from talking to the guys on the team and having been out here a couple times that they aren’t poor or working class. Butseeingit,experiencingthe wealth that oozes from even the driveway leading up to the massive building, the additional staff—even if they are hired just for special occasions—and the fancy schmancy décor inside, brings it to a whole new level.

There’s a huge, sparkly chandelier in the middle of the… foyer? Is this space called a foyer? It looks like it should be called a foyer. There’s a wide-mouthed, sweeping staircase with marble stairs leading up into the next level of the house. And the floor… the floors and walls are some kind of complimenting damask pattern.

At least I think that’s what Mom calls it. We have a far less bougie version in our bathroom.

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