Page 11 of Heart Check
Even though I know it’s a fruitless quest, a part of mewants her to know how good we are. See how hard we work. Watch us sweep this season. It’s a tiny part, but an increasingly persistent, loud one.
Alex sighs. “Well, there’s no way to know for sure. And at this point, we need to get on with the season. We still have morning practice, right?”
“With Dan?” Noah scoffs. “Yeah, I guess.”
The idea turns my stomach, and I slide out of the booth. “I’ll put in an order of onion rings.” Since Harper couldn’t care less if our whole team starves. “I should probably help my folks close up, though. I’ll see you on the ice tomorrow.”
Noah’s eyes follow mine across the room to Harper, who’s flying between tables delivering burgers. “Just watch out for rats.”
I don’t get a chance to talk to my parents until we’re at home after closing down the diner. Mom was too busy balancing the books from the day, and Dad was in the kitchen making his famous mac and cheese (the only thing he can cook better than Mom, so we have it whenever it’s his turn). Lindsey left work early to see her girlfriend Sara, who’s got her dipping out of the diner more and more frequently these days. Normally it’s a little annoying, but today I’m grateful. I need to have this conversation before Lindsey makes it back home—she and Harper are too tight.
“How was practice?” Dad asks as he brings a casserole dish to the table. He still moves like a hockey player. A little clumsy on dry land, taking slow, lumbering steps. But just wait until you see him on the ice. The gleaming trophies lined up on top of the otherwise dusty sideboard are a testament to how fast he can move on skates.
Today they’re also a reminder of why I need to talk to him. He understands better than anyone what’s at stake if we don’t get to the bottom of Coach Red’s dismissal.
And he’s the one I’ll be answering to if this season flops.
I pick up my fork and take a deep breath. “Pretty shitty, actually.”
“Luke.” Mom shoots me a look.
“Crappy?” Still looking. “Bad, Mom. It was bad. Coach Red got fired.”
Dad finally glances up from his plate, his gaze sharpening. “What?”
I explain the situation as quickly as I can. “We don’t even know if it’s true!” I finish.
“The school wouldn’t fire a coach that good if it weren’t true,” Mom says with a frown. “He’s led that team for years, and done a damn good job.”
“You boys need him.” Dad leans forward, gaze locking on mine. “Especially you. If you’re going to make it into the USHL, he needs to get you in front of some scouts this year. And if you don’t get picked up by a Juniors team, it’s real unlikely you’ll play for Michigan—”
“I know.” Believe me, I know. My appetite disappears at the vision Dad paints.
Mom sets down her fork and knife, and that’s how I know she’s worried. “How did this all come to the school’s attention?”
I take a deep breath. Am I really going to do this? I don’t have any proof. But Noah’s argument made way too much sense. If he’s right and Harper’s the rat, who knows what else she’ll try to sabotage before the year’s over. I’m not about to take any chances.
“We don’t know for sure, but we have a guess. This is gonna sound bad, Mom, I’m sorry, but I think Harper might be involved.”
Dad’s frown creases deepen, and Mom’s mouth drops open. “What?Harper Braedon?”
“She hates the team. She was just bitching—”
“Luke.”
“—complaining about how much money the new rink cost and how there’s none for her entrepreneurship program. When Noah confronted her about it, she was super shady. I just don’t know if she’s trustworthy, okay?”
“I like Harper.” Dad leans back in his chair, frowning. “She works hard. Never complains.”
“She’s always picking up your shifts,” Mom points out. “Especially now that the season’s started.”
They’re right. I can’t help a brief surge of doubt, wondering if Noah’s off on a witch hunt. But my thoughts are spinning faster than my skates on the ice, everything in an emotional tailspin. I’m freaking out about this season and everything that’s on the line, and I’m not sure I can spend another minute staring at her annoying big green eyes and swishy hair while I think about the treacherous, sabotage-y schemes lurking beneath the surface.
This game means too much to me. Gliding so fast on skates you’re practically flying. Hard work paying off, hours of training on the ice translating into real, tangible gains. Its equalizing effect, where being the biggest or the tallest doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be the best. Guys like Alex making up for any skills they lack through a helluva lot of hustle. The camaraderie in the locker room, on the ice and off.
I can’t let anything jeopardize it. Not this year, and not in the years to come.
“All the evidence points to her.” I spread my hands, do my best to look reasonable. “I’m just saying. Should she really be working at the restaurant?”
