Cinderella in Skates

chapter TWO





True to his word, Shane pulls up along the curb of our new house at 10:50 the next morning.

I'm tired and there are huge purple bags under both of my eyes. I didn't sleep so great on the floor last night and if not for Shane's blankets, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have gotten any sleep at all.

"Morning," he says as I buckle myself into the passenger seat of his blue Toyota.

"What happened to all the snow?"

It's a beautiful morning. Even I can't find a way to deny that, and I'm all for complaining about Wisconsin and its weather. It's nearly sixty degrees, the sun shines bright and happy and warm, and it's hard to believe that just a few hours ago, I'd be convinced I was going to lose one of my limbs to frostbite. It's almost like the perfect winter day back in Phoenix, and it's weird to experience it here.

I don't want any reason to like this place, and today isn't helping my cause.

Shane grins. "I told you last night it wasn't a big deal."

"Tell that to my poor frozen legs," I mutter back, and he laughs.

"Ready for some hockey?"

"I don't really know anything about it."

"Lucky for you, you've got one college hockey all-star ready and willing to teach you everything you've ever wanted to know about the game."

"That shouldn't take too long."

He glances over at me. "You okay, Natalie?"

I shrug, realizing that maybe my snarky attitude is just a little too much. It isn't his fault I'm stuck here, and he's just trying to be nice.

I mean, I'm in a car with a hot guy who wants to take me to a hockey game. It could be a lot worse for my first full day in town, right?

"Yeah, just not sure what to expect," I say, trying to put some enthusiasm in my voice.

Shane raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything as we drive through the neighborhood.

It's my first look at Madison in daylight, and without snow...well, I don't want to admit that it isn't the most terrible thing I've ever seen. It's not Phoenix, don't get me wrong, but as far as places to live go? Maybe it isn't the worst.

We'll see.

"So, um, this is a high school game you said?" I ask as he makes a left turn out of our development and onto a busier road.

"Not really," he replies without looking over at me. "Just a scrimmage with guys who are trying out for the team. I graduated two years ago, but Coach likes to have me talk to his players. Proof that hard work has its rewards, you know? Something like that, I guess."

I nod. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"It's fun to go back," he continues. "But there are times I just want to leave it behind for good."

I'm not sure how to respond, but there's something in his voice, maybe the way it strains ever so slightly when he says it, that makes me feel like there's a real story itching to be told.

"I guess that's where you and I are different," I finally say because the silence is getting too long and too weird.

"What do you mean?"

"You want to get away from where you grew up. And I'd give anything to go back."

This time he looks over at me. "I didn't say that."

"I--no, I guess you didn't. Sorry. I just assumed."

"Well, don't," he says, and I blink at the bite in his voice. "I love it here. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

"Okay. Okay. Um, sorry."

He drums his fingers along the top of the steering wheel. "No," he says, blowing out a breath. "I'm sorry. Just forget I said anything."

"Okay." I'm afraid to say something else out of fear of upsetting him again without meaning to.

We ride the rest of the way to his high school in silence, and it isn't the comfortable, lazy, easy kind.

When he parks and shuts off the car, I immediately hop out and when I turn around, he's still sitting in the driver's seat, forehead resting between his thumb and index finger, almost like he has a headache and needs to psych himself up for what he's about to do.

I know I haven't known Shane for very long, but I also know enough about trusting my instincts, and right now, they're screaming at me. He isn't happy about this, isn't happy to be here. I don't know why or what caused it, but for all his insistence that everything's just jolly...well, I'm not buying it.

Then again, I did only meet him yesterday. Maybe this is just how he is.

I'm snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of the car door slamming shut.

"Ready?" he asks me, a smile painted on his face.

"Isn't it kind of weird for a high school to have its own ice rink?" I ask as we walk through the cold halls of the building.

"No," he says. "Not in Wisconsin, anyway. Come on, I'll introduce you to Coach Van before the scrimmage."

I follow him down a chilly corridor and through a swinging door, and the next thing I know, I'm standing in a locker room, and my eyes widen as I look around, expecting to see half-naked guys swinging towels around their heads and smacking each other on the butt with them.

Isn't that what happens in the boys' locker room?

But it's empty.

And kind of eerie.

"This way," Shane says, leading me through the maze of lockers toward the back of the room where three dimly lit offices line the wall.

"That who I think it is?" A voice booms, echoing throughout the empty locker room. "Shane Stanford! The Golden Stallion of West High! Good to see you, son."

A tall, tanned man wearing a black suit and a purple tie strolls into view and claps a blushing Shane on the back. Even I have to work to hide my smile at the Golden Stallion thing.

"Hey, Coach," Shane says calmly. "How's it goin'?"

"Oh, fine, fine, I think the team's got a real shot at the state championship this season," he replies. "Even without your sharp shooting." The coach flicks his eyes over to me. "You bringing a girl around these days? Never would've expected that from you, kid."

Shane shakes his head. "This is Natalie," he says. "She just moved onto our street. Actually, she's Phil Melter's daughter."

I don't expect my dad's name to mean anything to Coach Van, but he looks over at me with renewed interest.

"Melter's kid, eh?" he says. "Good for him. He moved back to the area, then?"

"Yeah, to teach at the university."

Coach Van nods thoughtfully. "Well, great. That's lovely. Do you play the beautiful game yourself?"

"Oh, no," I say. "Ice isn't that easy to come by in Phoenix."

"Nonsense. Ice is everywhere," he replies. "You've got professional hockey out there. I'm surprised Joe didn't turn you into a little hockey maven."

I'm not really sure what to say as he stares at me, obviously not pleased that I'm the daughter of a hockey player and still don't know the first thing about the game he loves.

"That's why she's got me, Coach," Shane jumps in, and I'm grateful he's taken the reins on this one. "I'm going to teach her everything she needs to know."

Coach Van gives me one last disapproving look before focusing his attention on Shane. "Good," he says with a curt nod. "Game starts in fifteen. I better get out there, talk to the guys. Catch you later, Stanford."

"See ya, Coach." Shane turns to me. "Let's go grab some seats."





***





Shane and I settle into two seats on the cold metal bleachers and I can't help but wish he'd warned me that I'd want to bring a pair of gloves and maybe even a hat for this scrimmage.

"It's freezing in here," I point out helpfully.

"Yeah, well, there's the whole issue of having to keep the ice in good playing condition." Shane says this kindly, like me being surprised that it's cold isn't stupid at all even though it clearly is.

Players trot out onto the ice, all dressed in white pants and blue jerseys with half of them wearing bright red mesh pinnies over them.

They take a few laps skating around the ice before arranging themselves in position for the start of the scrimmage.

"So this is a face-off," Shane says, glancing over at me.

I smile. "I know that much. I'm not totally clueless."

"I wasn't sure," he replies. "Glad to hear it, being that your dad played college puck and all."

"I've watched him watch enough hockey on television to understand the basics. It's just all the ins-and-outs and stuff that I don't get."

He nods. "We'll work on that."

The smile he shoots me when he says this is so friendly and reassuring and he seems so much less tense now than he did just half an hour ago, and I'm glad.

Plus, he's really freakin' cute when he smiles.

The ref drops the puck and the players begin skating. The red team controls possession first, their passing crisp and fluid, and I know my dad would approve.

"They look good," I say, but I'm not sure he hears me. He's engrossed in the meaningless game, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, chin on his knuckles, eyes following the action.

"Come on, Tommy, you've got Steve," he mutters to no one in particular.

I lean back, watching the game but not really seeing it. I scan the arena: the crowd is sparse, mostly parents and what looks like a few students down in front.

Faded blue banners hang from the rafters, detailing conference titles and state crowns, the most recent one coming two years ago. Each championship lists the game's MVP, and right under the last one reads in small block text SHANE STANFORD, MOST VALUABLE PLAYER.

I look down at him, watching him intently staring at the game, and I realize this shouldn't surprise me as much as it does. He's a college hockey player for one of the best programs in the country. Of course he's good enough to lead his team to a state high school championship.

But still.

I'm a little impressed.

"You something of a celebrity around here?" I ask him.

He breaks out of his trance and glances over at me. "What?"

I nod in the direction of the banner. "MVP?"

He blushes. "Oh, yeah. I hate that dumb award," he says. "I don't believe in MVPs."

"Why?"

Shane shrugs. "It's really simple. In a sport like hockey, you can't win a championship by yourself. If you take me off the team, you've still got a whole lineup of guys that can win. I'm not the reason we won it that year. If I was, we would've won it every year I was in high school, right?"

I stare at him. What he's saying is such a different attitude from everything I'd expect from a sports star. Even my dad loves bragging about his individual accomplishments in high school and college hockey. Anyone who's met him more than once knows he led his team in points all four years he played in Madison.

"But obviously you were important," I finally say. "Or they wouldn't have named you MVP."

"I don't play goalie," he replies. "I didn't stop Rich Land from scoring the tying goal in the final seconds of our semifinal game. I don't play defense. I didn't block six shots on a single penalty kill like Cody Taylor."

"How many goals did you score in that game?"

He glances down at his shoes before mumbling his answer. "Four."

"So without your four goals, it wouldn't have mattered if the goalie stopped that shot, right? You would've been losing, anyway. And maybe the goalie shouldn't have given up all those goals to be in that position at the end of the game in the first place. Maybe the defense should've helped out more. But without your goals, you don't even have a shot to win." I shrug. "I don't know. Just an idea."

He looks at me with a funny expression spreading across his face. "I don't think of it like that."

"Maybe you should."

Shane's about to say something else when the ref's shrill whistle blasts, echoing throughout the almost-empty arena. We both jump and focus our attention on the ice.

The players stand around as two guys, one in red and one in blue, skate around each other in slow circles.

"That didn't take long," Shane says. "But it's kinda weird for a scrimmage."

The player in a blue jersey lunges toward the guy in red, latching onto the cloth of his pinny, trying to spin him around. The refs stand there, watching, waiting for...well, who knows what they're waiting for? I'm not sure why they aren't trying to separate the two guys.

As if reading my mind, Shane turns to me.

"They usually let it go for awhile," he says. "At least until one of the guys hits the ice or a bunch of players get involved. It's just part of the game. Something we love that makes hockey unique."

"You love getting your ass beat?" I ask.

He grins. "Who says I ever let that happen?"

"You seem like you'd be easy to beat up, that's all."

Shane flexes his arm muscles and wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I try to keep my cool and not stare at the ripples in his biceps. "Oh, yeah? You see these guns? Do I look like I'd let someone take me down?"

It's getting harder not to burst out laughing. "I'm not impressed."

"Then you're awfully hard to please, Miss Natalie."

I smile at him and shrug. "I guess I am." I glance back at the ice where the refs are sending the two players into the penalty box. "So, what, they let them fight but then make them sit out?"

Shane nods. "Usually, yeah. Coach probably wouldn't mind in a real game, either. It can give some good momentum."

I want to ask why it's only good momentum for just one team but play starts up again and within thirty seconds, a guy in red has netted the first goal of the game, and Shane's on his feet along with just about everyone else in the arena, clapping and cheering, and I'm surprised there's this much enthusiasm for a scrimmage.

But I guess maybe he's on to something with the whole momentum thing after all.

Shane's all excited now that there's action. He's practically on the edge of the bleachers, eyes rooted to the scene in front of him. I lean back and watch the game, my eyes every now and then flickering over to him, and for a little while at least, it feels like I'm not even in a new place at all.

And that isn't something I ever thought possible.