Page 12 of Heart Check
“I’m not pleased about the coaching news,” Dad says, expression dark.Not pleasedis an understatement. “But maybe this is the time to keep your eyes on your own game. Focus on fixing that before jumping to conclusions and letting Harper go.”
The front door bangs shut as Lindsey walks through the kitchen, tossing her purse and jacket on the island as she grabs a plate. “Letting Harper go? What the hell?”
“She got my coach fired,” I say with a frown.
“According to some adolescent speculation,” Mom interrupts. “We’re not letting anyone go.”
Lindsey raises an eyebrow at me over Mom’s head. My frown deepens, and I slump back in my chair. Bickering with Lindsey like this always makes me feel five years old again.
“Well, good,” Lindsey says as she plops into her chair at the table. “She’s the best waitress we’ve got. The guests love her. She remembers that Mr. Abril doesn’t like ice in his water, and that Shannon Bittle’s on that new low-carb diet and needs a lettuce bun. They don’t even have to ask! Do you know what that does for business? Fortips?”
I bite my tongue. Of course I know how good Harper is at her job! She’s hardworking and a quick learner, and she seems to genuinely care about people—as long as those people aren’t me. If she weren’t so aggravating, I’d be inspired by her work ethic.
But she’s also abackstabber. Are we really going to let herhang around the family diner when we know she’s willing to stoop to some seriously shady levels to mess with the athletics programs in this town?
Mom spreads her hands at me as if to say,see? “We’re not letting Harper go without something bigger than her bitc— complaining.”
“Focus on your game,” Dad repeats. “You’ve got the talent, but this year, of all years, you can’t let it go to waste.”
I frown. “Yes, sir.”
As I clear the table and start doing dishes, all I can think about is Harper. Harper and her digs aboutten good yearsand her smirky smile and the way she tilted her chin up at us even though we were practically her height still sitting down.
This isn’t over.
No one messes around with our season and gets away with it. Especially when my future’s on the line.
6.HARPER
Monday starts off annoying andonly gets worse. The first thing I see, half-asleep and inhaling coffee from my travel mug, are posters of the hockey team plastered on the school doors. Ridiculous glamour shots done by a professional photographer, each of the players staring seriously into the camera like they’re about to mow you down. I guess their season is starting. It’s impossible not to hear the whispers and questions and cheers, even in class, so I’ve learned against my will that their first game is next Friday. And Hamilton Lakes is kicking into full promo mode.
There’s Noah, blond hair gelled, blue eyes staring icily into the camera.
Brady, broad shouldered and burly, who seems to be fighting a smile against the photographer’s instructions.
Ryan, raising a saucy eyebrow and running a hand through dirty-blond waves. He turned this into his own personal photoshoot, and I almost respect it.
And Dawson. I pause in front of his poster, #47 displayed prominently below his head. School traffic flows around me while I glower at his photograph. Every plane of hisface is focused, determined—high cheekbones, strong brow, squared jaw.
Too bad we’re psychologically wired to assume pretty people are alsogood. Dawson’s proof of just how stupid our monkey brains are.
Well, proof for some of us. A girl pauses beside me to sigh at his poster. “He’s perfect, isn’t he? People are saying he could go all the way. Can you imagine, one of our players making it to the NHL?”
I can’t help my own grudging admiration—if Dawson works half as hard as everyone says, he’s not just coasting on his dad’s name—but I do my best to squash it. “I guess. They do it sometimes.” I shrug, wanting to keep this conversation short.
Girlie’s not having it. “If anyone can pull it off, he can. He’s even better than Noah, and he’s only a junior.” She sighs, pupils practically dilating into hearts before my very eyes. “I wonder who he’ll take to prom….”
“You should ask him.” I adjust my backpack straps on my shoulders and push open the doors, resisting the urge to rip down Dawson’s poster as I go. “As long as you don’t care if he’s too focused on his stats to remember your name.”
Her jaw drops, but I’m already striding inside. I flip off the trophy cabinet by the front doors, even more irritated than usual by its display of athletic wins without a single robotics or debate spoil to be seen.
I’m doing that girl a favor. I take a long swig of coffee, my face burning from the short interaction. I’m still pissed on Marissa’s behalf, honestly. Dawson’s clearly not to be trusted in matters of the heart, and any girl who’s brainless enough to fall for him is bound to get hurt.
I pop my earbuds in and head to precalc. I’m already grumpy from staying up late fulfilling back-to-school orders, and now I’m not at all sure how I’ll survive the only class Dawson and I share. Unfortunately for a wannabe entrepreneur, I’m not good enough at math to make it in the honors level, so I’m simply bored in class on a daily basis.
Dawson’s already at his desk and surrounded by a small huddle of fans. Or, I guess, classmates. Our eyes lock immediately, and my lip curls in disgust before I can control my face. His hair’s a little damp from morning practice, and I catch a whiff of mint and eucalyptus. Probably from his postpractice shower.
He could at least do us the honor of smelling like shit. The whole front is false advertising.
