Page 69 of Heart Check
And just like that, I’m back in that dark car, feeling more insignificant than I ever have in my life.
Maybe Dawson did mean everything he said. He’s clearly not hurting the way I am.
My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly to clear them. I willnotcry in front of fucking Noah. My mind races for a moment, wondering if there’s anything more to do—but I’ve just gottenthe very clear message to abort mission. I can’t believe I ran here all full of hope, ready to grand-romantic-gesture Dawson when he’s not losing any sleep over how he hurt me, when he’s back on the top of his game.
Even if we had something real for a while, this is all the proof I need that I messed it up for good. I’ve always known Dawson had an ego, and I bruised it past the point of recovery. Noah’s right—I never belonged in his world, with his friends. I was better off when I didn’t try to fit in somewhere I wasn’t wanted.
So much for your journalistic integrity, Marissa. There’s another side to this story, and in that one, I’m not the heroine.
We’re clearly not right for each other, and it was stupid to think we ever might be.
“Okay, well… thanks,” I say as I back away from the conversation, though I’m not sure what I’m thanking him for. I just want to get out of here.
“Anything you want me to pass on to him?” Noah stands in the middle of the hallway, one eyebrow raised. Gear still slung over his shoulder, hands in his pockets. The immovable guard who’s cleared out the riffraff.
I’m already turning around to head out the doors. Which is good, because then Noah can’t see the way my face crumples as I call over my shoulder, “Just tell him good luck.”
24.DAWSON
The diner echoes with Harper’sabsence, even though business is as bustling as ever. Maybe more, as we approach winter break and midterms. My fellow juniors can keep one booth monopolized for hours, taking advantage of endless Diet Coke refills and picking at a plate of cooling onion rings while they quiz each other with AP Bio flashcards. I have to force laughs and lie about how hard I’m studying in the back. I couldn’t be less focused on midterms.
All I can think about is Harper.
Honestly, it’s a good thing she’s not working this week, because I have no idea what I’d say to her if she were here. I want to apologize, and I want to ask her if she meant what she said, but I don’t know how to say any of it. Even though the idea of talking to her makes me freeze in panic, I still want her to be there. Like I’m going through some sort of weird withdrawal.
With every table I bus and burger I plate, the same questions keep cycling through my mind. Why isn’t she there? Is she avoiding me?
I need to get her out of my system. I’m doing my best tokeep my head totally clear at practice to convince Dan that I deserve to play in Friday’s game. Ineedto play in Friday’s game. If I don’t, I’m going to smell like onion rings forever. Instead of learning how to pass and shoot with the pros, the only skills I’ll be honing are tomato slicing and lettuce draping.
I arrive early for the Northview game so I can center myself, blasting the country music Harper always mocked in the locker room and trying not to think about the podcasts she’s always listening to. “Good luck,” Scott the Zamboni driver says with a twinkle when I pass him his bribery pumpkin pie.
And then I slice onto the ice, one smooth stroke after another, hoping the calm I always feel here will kick in. Long loops of the rink, easy does it. Just getting my skates back under me, getting the rhythm in my bones. Letting all the training and studying over the last few weeks settle into my muscle memory. For a minute, I find the peace I had at the start of the season. When Harper was just a vaguely annoying, pretty coworker, when my whole career was still in front of me, when Coach Red held all the keys to my future—
“Dawson!”
I blink. It takes me a minute to resurface from my trance. Am I still daydreaming? Because the voice shouting my name sounds like Coach Red’s. That even looks like his bushy mustache in the stands, his oversized leather bomber jacket.
“Coach?”
The title falls easily from my lips, even if he hasn’t been my coach in months. Because heishere—when his mustache twitches above his grin, I know for sure. I guess the schoolcan’t keep him away from a public game, and seeing him in the bleachers fills me with an unexpected warmth. My shoulders release an extra inch as worry I didn’t even know I was holding drains from my muscles.
I skate closer, and Red gestures at the guy next to him. “Dawson, meet my friend Leo. Leo, this is that forward I told you about. He’s going places. You’re going to love seeing him play.”
My pulse races. Time slows.
Leo. His friend, the scout.
Is here. Is going to watch me play.
As long as Coach Dan stillletsme play.
A little of the warmth drains from my chest. Because Coach Dan is the one who should be making calls and inviting scouts around here.
Red isn’t acting like someone who’s been fired. What’s going on?
“It’s great to see you, sir,” I say. I do my best to keep my voice level and professional. What’s the etiquette for meeting up with your fired ex-coach? Dad didn’t prepare me for this. “I think you’re going to be proud of what we’ve done this season. We’ve been trying out this new lineup, and Alex has really improved—”
“Sure, I bet,” Red says. His voice is distracted. He turns back to the scout, bending toward him as if he’s saying something confidential, but his voice is still loud enough for me to hear. “It’s a solid team, but most of the players are mediocre. Every year there’s at least one to watch, though. This year it’s Dawson here. One of the highest scorers Hamilton Lakes has ever seen, and a damn hard worker. Any team would be lucky to have him. You know his dad isRandallDawson?”
