Page 3 of Heart Check
“Excuse me,” I mutter, turning to go to class. But the mob is too thick, and it churns with anticipation just when I think I have an opening to slip through.
The crowd goes wild as the guys emerge, flushed and slightly damp from morning practice. I turn to look over my shoulder despite my better judgment, so I get a front row seat to them loping across the parking lot.
Against my will, I can name every member of the team. There’s Ryan Thompson, grinning and waving at his fans like the British royalty he jokes that he’s descended from, elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist. I half expect someone to faint dramatically; Ryan attracts admirers wherever he goes, his lanky build and easygoing sense of humor a winning package. Right behind him is Alex Harris, who ducks his head bashfully, shiny brown hair falling over his face. He’s on JV, so he gets less attention than the rest, but we were lab partners last year, so we’re friendly. Mostly because he never brought up hockey on his own—even if our classmates did regularly enough that I heard a play-by-play of every game last season. Goalie Sam Hernández is twisting the mal de ojo bracelets on his wrist (from his Guadalajaran grandma, which everyone seems to think is very sweet), the rest of the team giving him a respectful berth. Wouldn’t want to throw off their goalie’s rituals. Brady Kim, a broad-shouldered senior, leads a pack of forwards, raising his hands jokingly to hype up the crowd. Pulling up the rear—probably for dramatic effect—is blond, blue-eyed Noah Green, their captain and the embodiment of white cis male privilege, surveying the scene smugly. Accepting the attention as his natural due.
I crane my neck to search the rest of the faces, but Idon’t see the most annoying player of them all anywhere.
Good. I don’t need Luke Dawson messing up my morning.
“Oh my God, I can’t wait to watch you guys play in there!” a girl in a Hawks hoodie says. “I already have a countdown to the first game!”
A dude fist-bumps Noah with a grin. “It’s going to be an amazing season. You’re up against Washington first, right?”
Classic Hamilton Lakes. If you talk to anyone besides the jocks, you’ll learn there’s also a fall play opening this month (Miguel Aguilar practices their lines in the courtyard every day during lunch) and a robotics tournament next weekend (Sophie Choi from my physics class built an apparently unbeatable bot entirely out of leftover parts, and we should all hope she uses her power for good in the years to come).
But nothing can hold a candle to our sports teams. You’d think that was just a cliché from ’90s movies, but not around here. In our town, jocks part hallways like the Red Sea and receive extensions on homework assignments before they even have to ask. Hockey and football fill everyone’s social calendars in the fall; baseball and lacrosse take over in the spring. Sports are the only reason this town is on anyone’s map, and the athletes know it.
Too bad that means the rest of us are basically invisible.
Noah’s mouth quirks up in that smarmy smirk of his, and he raises a hand like,Calm yourselves, my adoring fans.“It’s the best graduation gift a guy could ask for. We’re going to win some games on that ice this year.”
Like it was created just for him.
“I really wish they wouldn’t,” a dry voice says.
I turn to Marissa, who’s made her way to my side. She rollsher eyes, her new chunky-framed glasses popping against her freckled skin and adding a nice sense of drama to her disdain. Her ink-black, blunt bangs and death glare are both very Wednesday Addams, but her fluffy pink-and-purple sweater is way more Enid Sinclair. She contains multitudes.
“Okay, so, there go half of the people who benefit from… what, tens of thousands?Hundredsof thousands of dollars? How much do hockey rinks cost?” I ask.
Marissa grimaces. “Now we know why they rejected your proposal for a Young Entrepreneurs Program.”
The reminder is a sharp twist in my gut. A sick feeling of longing, of exclusion, ofunfairness. Every time I think I’ve gotten over the way no one in this town takes me and my fellow uncoordinated classmates seriously, something happens to reopen the wound.
I shake my head, fuming. Anger’s easier than hurt. “Obviously there wasn’t enough left in the budget for anyone else! Sorry, kids who’re hoping to forge a path out of this town. You’re on your own!”
“You’re going to be fine.” Marissa rests a reassuring hand on my arm. She pulls a familiar pendant out from her neck, a delicateMmade out of tiny pearlescent seed beads and looping memory wire. “I’ve been getting so many compliments on your latest pieces already. There’s still the grant! You’re the obvious choice!”
I shoot her my best attempt at a smile. The Young Entrepreneurs Grant, given to one enterprising businessperson every year. Just what I need to get my jewelry-making business off the ground and hopefully buy my ticket to college. It’s a long shot, but at least Marissa believes in me. That’s one.
“Yeah, as long as I can keep my head above water this year. I really could’ve used some support from the school.” And just like that, my cheeks are flushed with anger all over again, never far from the surface. “I don’t understand how they don’t see the problem with investing in twenty students out of a thousand. It’s so unfair! I mean, the hockey team is—”
“The hockey team is what?”
I freeze. The voice is low and amused and coming from right behind me. And, unfortunately, I know it all too well.
The universe couldn’t cut me a single break today, could it?
I whirl around to look up at Luke Dawson. And up… and up. His dark hair is damp from the shower, and he’s clearly just thrown on sweats and a hoodie, but that doesn’t stop all the gathered students from throwing him not-so-subtle sideways glances.
If you’re into guys, it’s probably the messy hair and the dark eyes and the breadth of his shoulders and the famous hockey butt that makes itself known even through baggy sweatpants.
If you’re not, it’s the whole “heir to a hockey dynasty” thing, top scorer for two years running. (Hard to ignore even if you’re doing your best not to pay attention.) I’m sure that takes hard work—all those early morning practices are no joke—but I’m not convinced he wouldn’t be fawned over regardless. Everyone’s so enamored with his dad’s legacy that he just goes byDawson, as if to remind them of his bloodline.
And no matter what you’re into, it’s impossible to miss the relaxed, confident way he strides across campus. The way you move when crowds part for you before you even have to sayExcuse me.
Good thing I’m immune to it all.
I cross my arms over my chest. If he really wants to know what the hockey team is, I’m happy to tell him. “A bunch of bullies on skates who have maybe ten good years left before they’re washed up and dreaming of their glory days?”
