Page 82 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
I feel the echo of a smile pull over my lips, and my heart’s no longer getting by on barely there thumps. It’s beating steadily, healthily. No part of my body is stuck in permanent panic mode. Everything’s, well,peaceful. And when Gage isn’t driving me crazy, he does seem to have that peaceful effect on me.
“I met a boy,” I tell her like some giddy schoolgirl with a crush. “I met a boy, and he’s perfect, Mom. He’s kind and caring, and he’s great with Teague. He’s there when I need him, but hedoesn’t always just fix things for me. Hehelpsme fix things. He supports me; he believes in me. He just…he means a lot to me.”
I’m not expecting my mother to weigh in at all, but she does, and it’s like a bellows blowing on the burning coals of my admiration, feeding the fire that Gage has reignited within me. She caresses my cheek, and now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I can clearly see the wide, toothy smile that uplifts her cheeks.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”
Maybe it’s because I’m an emotional wreck, but I swear I feel the tears regroup and scheme to plan another attack. “I like him. So much.”
Gage is the only person I see in my future. There’s nobody else. I don’t know what will happen with us, but he’s one of those rare people that comes along and just changes everything. He’s the kind of person who makes you fall back in love with life—the kind of person who alters your brain chemistry forever.
“Remember this feeling,” my mother replies softly. “Hold on to this happiness, Calista.”
And I do. I hold on to it more tightly than I’ve ever held on to anything in my entire life.
28
GO, TEAM, GO!
GAGE
The rink is alive tonight.
Okay, it’s more like half-awake, and it’s the afternoon, but still. I forgot how much I love being in the throes of a gnarly game—the hiss of skates slicing through ice, the mini snowstorm of loose shavings whirling in the atmosphere, the overlap of voices all competing for attention over the blood pulsing in your eardrums.
With all the stretching and flexibility Cali’s helped me with, I talked to my physical therapist about possibly getting back on the ice for the Reapers’ next game. I honestly wasn’t expecting him to even consider it, but my hip flexor’s healed surprisingly quickly, and he actually cleared me to play this upcoming Saturday.
Maybe it’s the time away or Cali’s anxiety rubbing off on me, but I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve ever really been nervous about playing. Well, aside from my NHL debut.
I just…I failed my teammates when I couldn’t block that last shot. And I’ve failed them every game since by not being there. This is my one chance at a comeback. This is my one chance to show the fans that I’m better than ever, and that I’m still a good fucking goalie. This is what I’ve been working toward for almost three months.
But today, it’s Teague’s turn.
Pods of tiny bodies skate across the ice, all shouting and attempting to chirp at one another with the cutest, most PG-13 insults. None of them could look intimidating if they tried—it’s like staring down a bunch of animated clouds. Their chunky, gear-swaddled figures bump into each other clumsily, shoving to claim the coveted title of star player. I’m impressed by some of the quick puck handling skills and well-executed defense strategies, but I’m equally as entertained to watch the more clueless players chase after the puck like lost puppies.
I don’t know if this pseudo parenting shit is getting to me, but me and Cali are the only ones repping any kind of spirit. The rest of the exhausted parents here settle for the occasional holler and cheer.
My parents never disapproved of my interest in hockey—or the fact that I wanted to pursue a career in it—but they never showed up to games or offered me any kind of support aside from money for gear, equipment, private lessons, and travel expenses. So I understand how important it is for kids to have a support system that goes deeper than half-assed promises and monetary compensation. If I successfully embarrass Teague with my overenthusiasm and large-ass poster, then I’ve killed this whole non-parenting parenting thing. A plus, baby. Read it and weep.
I pull out the gigantic poster I spent all night creating—to which I lost a few fingerprints in the process of making because of whatever dumb fuck created hot glue—and I’m pretty sure I still have glitter in places glitter shouldn’t be.
Cali’s entirely captivated by the game unfolding in front of us, and she’s so focused that her face is practically smushed against the plexiglass. It isn’t until my very loud poster scoochesinto her personal space that she rears back and glares at me before said glare melts into a look of comical shock.
“Oh my God. What did you do?”
I suck my teeth. “Why do you always have to sound so judgmental?”
“That’s going to distract him!” she whisper-hisses.
“Psh, he won’t even notice this thing is here,” I insist, keeping the twenty-inch cardstock monstrosity firmly plastered where everyone can see it, pride puffing out my chest.
Cali gives me her famous—and usual—unamused scowl. “A pilot from thirty thousand feet up in the air could see that thing and mistake it for an SOS signal.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
When I see Teague’s number flash past me, I whistle and point at the sign that says, GO, TEAGUE! HE’S THE MAN. IF HE CAN’T DO IT, NO ONE CAN! with a bunch of glittery hearts and poorly drawn hockey memorabilia.
Little Man’s head perks up, and a full-fledged smile sprouts on his lips…right before he’s bodychecked into the boards by someone twice his size.
