Page 20 of Heart Check
I grunt sympathetically as we head toward the bench, but damn, Iwishthat was all I had on the line. Nausea churns in my stomach at the idea of this becoming a familiar view. At riding the bench during the season that matters most. This would never happen if Red were still here.
I square my jaw and send a text.
Harper crosses her arms over her chest against the growing chill as evening falls, bracelets jangling at her wrist. She’s wearing another one of her monochromatic sweaters. Black today, so her face stands out pale and delicate against the increasing dimness. The neon signage of the Lakeside Dinerflickers on behind her, casting purples and oranges over her cheekbones. She could be in one of those artsy indie movies. She probably likes those.
“Make it quick, whatever it is.” She frowns, jolting me out of my daydream. “I’m on break.”
I bite my lip and take a step forward. Close enough to see her slight shivers. It’s early November. The trees have lost their leaves. Doesn’t she have a coat? “Are you cold?” I ask. “If you want, you can borrow my—”
“Okay, now I know you’re up to something.” She narrows her eyes. “I take back what I said about you having potential. You should know that I’m not one of your groupies, and I’m not going to fall for that trick. I saw you use it just last week.”
This girl doesn’t want me to do anything nice for her, does she? I cast my eyes up to the sliver of moon, letting out a slow breath to compose myself. Harper gets under my skin more than trash talk during a game. “I’m not up to something. I just wanted to give you a gesture of peace, or whatever. But fine, freeze.”
Harper doesn’t so much as flinch. “A peace gesture. Come on, spill, Dawson.”
“I know we said we’d keep our distance,” I say, “but our team is screwed this season. I just came from practice, and it was a hot fucking mess.” I pause for emphasis. “Because Red isn’t here, and Dan doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
Harper raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Sounds like a you problem.”
I take a step forward, my breath coming faster. The unspent adrenaline from practice, wasted on the bench, floods my veins. “Unless you were part of getting him fired. Unless youknow something, and you could help us get him back—undo whatever you said to the administration, convince them to rehire him—”
Harper takes a step forward too, tilting her chin up defiantly. Those green eyes flash with unmistakable anger. It stops me in my tracks. “I already told you. And I told you to leave me alone about it. Coach Red may have gotten what was coming to him, but I didn’t have anything to do with it!”
I’m too worked up to let that story lie. “And what about what you said last week, when the arena was unveiled? That you were going to talk to the principal about misuse of funds?”
Her mouth drops open. “I was talking about filing apetition, Dawson! Not that I had some sort of secret information I was going to use against you! What, did you think it was my villain monologue or something?”
I try not to wince. Yeah, pretty much exactly. But the way she says it—so genuine, so shocked at my assumption—makes me feel like an idiot.
“And for the record”—she takes another step forward, jabbing a finger into my chest—“this kind of stalking wouldn’t convince me to tell you anything even if I did know.”
I’m getting an increasingly sinking sense that I’m barking up the wrong tree, but I can’t help trying one more time. “So you admit—”
“I don’t know anything about your stupid sport or your stupid coach, Dawson!” she almost yells. “I know it’s hard to believe the world doesn’t revolve around you and your henchmen. I know your coach tells you every day that the sun shines out of your asshole, that you’re God’s gift to Hamilton Lakes, that you’re some kind of hockey messiah cometo Earth to bless us all with your presence.” She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “But trust me, I had better things to do this summer than spy on Coach Red. All I want to do is spendlesstime thinking about you and your team, not more!”
When she puts it that way… I flush with embarrassment. What am Idoing? Her story makes sense. I’m used to trusting Noah’s judgment on the ice, but suddenly I’m not so sure he’s right about this one. He never had anything other than circumstantial evidence and wild guesswork, but between my trust in my captain and my irritation with Harper, I let him get in my head—and then I let that horrific practice convince me to harass her again.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. I’ve never felt like such an idiot. “I shouldn’t have—”
“I have a shift to finish.” Harper turns on her heel before I can even finish my sentence. “And it sounds like you have to figure out how to play nice with your new coach. Goodbye, Dawson.”
8.HARPER
“Morning,” Mom mumbles around hertoothbrush, rushing through the kitchen to grab a box of granola bars from the pantry. Doing a million things at once, as always, a vital skill for a fifth-grade teacher. “What’s on the agenda for the day?”
I pause at the coffeepot, hoping she doesn’t notice how full I just filled my thermos. Dad turns his back and lets us all pretend I only drink decaf. “The usual.” I slide the thermos silently into my bag. “Chem test this afternoon and an English essay due tomorrow, so I’ll be in the library at lunch. Then I have a shift at the diner after school. But I can manage it all, as long as I—”
“Develop an unhealthy caffeine dependency?” I freeze. Busted. Mom spits her toothpaste out in the sink and raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you stretched a little too thin? Youarea teenager still, honey. You should live a little this year. Make some more friends. Find someone nice to date! Whatever happened to— What was his name? Ethan?”
“Mom.Ethan was just…” A very respectful homecoming date? A perfectly nice guy and dry first kiss? A short-lived relationship so forgettable that we can still swap answers onchem homework without a hint of awkwardness? Ethan wasfine, but he didn’t exactly convince mesomeone nice to dateis the thing I need in my life. And honestly, Mom’s focus on my social life reminds me of all the classmates who don’t take my business plans seriously. I settle on, “Junior year is not the time to live a little,” hoisting my bulging backpack.
The furrow between Mom’s brows deepens. “Well, I’m proud of you for working so hard. You come by that honestly. But be sure to sleep tonight, okay?”
I smile tightly. “You bet.”
She kisses me on the crown of my head, smiling in relief. But I never said how much.
Before the day of hell begins, Marissa and I have a job to do. We meet at the front office and exchange a silent nod before heading inside, where Marissa grabs the “petition the principal” paperwork from the appropriate file by the door. It’s a smooth, well-practiced movement. She doesn’t even have to look around at the beige room, ask for help at the succulent-covered front desk, or search the many labels for what she needs.
