Cinderella in Skates

chapter SIXTEEN





I pull into the empty arena parking lot ten minutes late the next morning. I hadn't gotten to bed until almost two after Shane finally dropped me off around one. I'd seen his apartment and met his roommates and it was clear they all knew about me, which only made me happier. He'd mentioned the barbecue they planned to throw tonight and asked me to be there.

I'm sure Shane will be waiting for me with a lecture about the importance of being on time or at least how I should've let him know I'm running late but I've been so frazzled that I haven't even had a chance to look at my phone since my alarm went off.

I can't remember the last time I felt so happy for such a long time. Ever since that first night of our ski trip, though, it's like I've been non-stop smiles. Even my parents have noticed, and I'm pretty sure they're both full of smug satisfaction that I'm this happy while living in Wisconsin after all the crap I gave them about the move and how it would doom me to a life of misery.

I'm surprised when I don't see Shane hanging out on the ice or by the bench when I walk into the rink. I head over to the bench, drop my bag on the floor and pull out my skates. But instead of slipping out of my boots, I reach into the outer pocket of my bag to dig out my cell phone.

I've missed a call from Shane and there's no voicemail but he's sent me a text, too:





Nat - sorry to do this but I can't coach you anymore. Good luck, you'll be great.



I read the text four times, the crease in my forehead deepening with each word, before I come close to realizing what he's saying. It's not just that he's canceling practice today -- he's giving up on me all together.

Bile rises up in my throat and I try to take a few deep breaths and hope they'll steady me but no luck. I sink down onto the bench, legs shaking, knees weak.

Shane's gone.

And it doesn't sound like he's coming back.

I start typing and deleting several different messages to him when it becomes clear to me that I have no idea what I want to say. All I know is that I don't understand why.

So that's what I send back. Just that one simple word.

And as I sit there, skates laying long forgotten beside me, I feel the pit in my stomach grow as I clutch my phone with white knuckles, cursing the invention of text messaging and how simple it makes it for people to avoid real conversations, real emotions.

My phone vibrates in my hand and I'm surprised he's responded so quickly.



It's complicated but I have a lot going on. Just not a good time.



It's a cop-out answer and I know it isn't the truth, but I want so much to believe that he's just too busy to deal with coaching me right now, and that it has nothing to do with us.

I stare down at the screen, the words blurring in front of my face. My phone vibrates again:



We did what we had to do. You're on the team. You'll make it back to AZ like you want.



I don't know what to say. I thought we were both clear that this went beyond just making the team for me now. I thought we were both on board with that. Obviously, I'd been wrong.

The only question left is how wrong.



OK, I type with shaking hands. I'll see you later for the cook out.



I set my phone down on the bench and toss my skates back into my bag. If Shane's not coming, then I really don't feel like getting suited up in all my goalie gear. It's not like there's really anything I can do other than conditioning drills without his help, anyway.

Once I'm packed back up, I pick up my phone, not letting myself admit how nervous I am to read his response. I check the screen but there's no new text message and the lump instantly rises in my throat.

No answer to my question about the barbecue tonight. I know I haven't actually asked him anything, but all I really want to know is that we're okay off the ice even if we're no longer something on it.

With a sinking heart, I pick up my bag and walk out of the empty arena to head home. As I push through the door, I hear someone yelp and suddenly I'm face-to-face with Erica Wunders.

Of course.

Like I really need this right now.

"Done so soon, Natalie?" she asks.

"Just remembered I don't need the practice," I shoot back.

Erica lifts an eyebrow. "Is that what you think?" She shakes her head and smiles, and all I really want to do is ask her if I hit her with the door when I opened it. I kind of hope so.

"No, it's not what I think. It's what I know."

"I guess you're not that far off," she says, adjusting the hockey bag on her shoulder. "You must've figured out that you've got not shot at beating me out so why even waste your time getting better, right?"

I feel the pressure of Shane's texts and Erica's catty comments all pushing down on my shoulders and I try to take a calming breath before I snap.

"See you at practice, Erica," I manage to say before I hurry away from her. It's a lame response and I'm disappointed to leave it at that, but can you blame me? I glance down at my phone screen -- still nothing -- and all I really want is to crawl back into bed and pretend today never happened.





     ***



I flick on my left blinker and turn onto our street. I've been getting angrier and angrier with Shane after every passing mile and when I see his car parked in his parents' driveway a few houses down, my blood almost boils over.

I bring my dad's SUV to a screeching halt along the curb, shut off the engine and stomp my way over to the Stanford's house without even thinking about it.

And suddenly, I'm on their front porch, pressing the doorbell.

Shane's mom meets me at the door.

"Natalie," she says, and I don't miss the note of surprise in her voice. "Can I help you with something?"

"I need to talk to Shane."

She opens her mouth, then closes it again before saying, "I'm not sure where he's run off to, dear. Maybe you should try his phone."

"Isn't that his car in the driveway?"

"It is," she says slowly, and I get the distinct impression Shane's mother is trying to give me the run-around. "But I'm not sure where he went. He might've taken his bike out."

"Can you check to see if he's home, please? I'll wait."

Mrs. Stanford raises her eyebrows but nods and closes the front door behind her before disappearing back into her house.

I stand there, refusing to budge, staring at the door, when I hear it.

"Natalie?"

I spin around. Shane's standing at the end of the driveway next to the mailbox. He's straddling his bicycle and looking at me like he can't quite believe I'm here.

"What is your problem?" I demand.

He looks taken aback. "What?"

"You heard me, Shane. What's going on here?"

"What is this about?"

I stare at him, stunned that he's trying to play so dumb with me. I don't say anything and don't lift my gaze off of his. When he lowers his head, I know I've got him.

"Look, it's just like I told you in the text," he says, kicking at the ground with the toe of his sneaker. "I'm too busy to coach you right now."

"What about the barbecue?"

He lets out a sigh, and I know then that he hadn't planned on answering my message about it. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"You're not having it anymore?"

He pauses for a second too long. "We're thinking about canceling."

"Don't lie to me, Shane."

"Nat, this isn't easy for me, okay?"

"Yeah, giving up that paycheck must be so hard for you."

He snaps his head up and looks at me sharply. "It was never about the money. You know that."

"Yeah, so you said," I shoot back. "But you also said you'd help me take over for Erica Wunders and look how that turned out."

"I need a break!" he yells, and I take a step back. I've never heard him raise his voice around me before. "I have to stop this. It's stupid anyway. Don't you see that there's no point?"

"Because you think I have no shot."

He frowns. "What? No, I'm not even talking about hockey, Natalie. You're great at hockey. I'm talking about all of it."

"All of what?" Part of me had known since I got his text that this was coming, but I still don't want to hear it.

"You and me," he says, his voice going quiet. "I can't."

"Why?"

He shakes his head. "Nat, I can't explain it. It's just too much. And it's pointless. You're leaving. I'm in college. It's not right. Go home."

He sits back on his bike and pedals the short distance into the garage. I'm still standing on his porch when he presses the button and the door closes between us.

I'm still standing there when his mother opens the front door and tells me that her son's in the shower and he won't be able to talk to me right now.

But I'd already known that.

I won't be talking to Shane again.