The Mistake

“You might find it endearing one day,” I say helpfully.

“Don’t worry, I’m on board with the babbling. As long as you promise to be on board with my night terrors. Seriously, it’s brutal. I wake up screaming my lungs out and—kidding, Grace.” Her laughter is out of control now. “God, you should have seen the look on your face. I promise, no night terrors. But I have been told I talk in my sleep sometimes.”

I snicker. “That’s fine. I’ll babble during the waking hours, you’ll babble in the sleeping hours. Match made in heaven.”

Daisy unzips one of the suitcases on her bed and fishes around inside until she pulls out a bright pink iPad case. She tucks it into the khaki-green canvas bag that’s slung over her shoulder and glances at me. “Hey, if you’re serious about the extra-curricular thing, we actually are looking for people to help out at the station. There are a couple of open hosting slots, but I don’t think you’ll want them—it’s the graveyard shift. And if on-air stuff isn’t your style, we also need a producer for one of the talk shows.”

“What would I have to do?”

“It’s a call-in advice show. Monday evenings and Friday afternoons. You’d be screening calls, doing research for the hosts if they plan on talking about a specific topic, that kind of stuff.” She gives me an earnest look. “You know what? Why don’t you come with me right now? I’ll introduce you to Morris, the station manager, and you guys can talk.”

I think it over, but it doesn’t take long to reach a decision. Daisy seems cool, and it wouldn’t hurt to talk to her station manager. Besides, I wanted to make new friends, right?

Might as well start now.

*

Logan

It’s good to be home. Not to rip off Dorothy or anything, but there really is no place like it. The irony doesn’t escape me, though—technically the house I stayed in all summer and just left last night is home. But I was never half as happy in Munsen as I am here in Hastings, in the house I’ve only been renting for two years.

My first morning back, and I’m in such a terrific mood that I start the day off right by blasting Nappy Roots in the kitchen while I scarf down some cereal. The loud strains of “Good Day” draw the others from their bedrooms, and Garrett is the first to appear, clad in boxers and rubbing his eyes.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he mumbles. “Please tell me you made some coffee.”

I point to the counter. “Go nuts.”

He pours himself a cup and plops down on one of the stools. “Did cartoon chipmunks dress you this morning?” he grumbles. “You’re scarily chipper.”

“And you’re scarily grumpy. Smile, dude. It’s our favorite day of the year, remember?”

AKA the first day of open tryouts for freshmen who weren’t recruited out of high school. The upperclassmen crash every year to scope out the prospective talent, because sadly, losing talented players is a fact of life when you play Briar hockey. Guys graduate, drop out, go pro. And since the team roster changes each year, we’re always eager to check out the incoming freshmen.

Hopefully there’ll be some gems on the ice today, because the team’s in a world of trouble. We lost three of our best forwards—Birdie and Niko, who graduated, and Connor, who signed with the Kings. Our defense lost Rogers to Chicago, and two of our senior defensemen to graduation, which means Dean and I will likely be playing longer shifts, at least until some of the younger D-men get their shit together.

But the biggest hit we took?

Losing our goalie.

Kenny Simms was…magic. Pure fucking magic in that crease. He was a freshman when Coach named him a starter, despite the fact that two senior goalies were already on the roster—the guy was that good. Now that he’s graduated, the fate of our team rests in the hands of a senior named Patrick, unless this freshmen crop somehow produces another Kenny Simms.

“We should’ve bribed Simms’ profs to fail him,” Garrett says with a sigh, and I realize I’m not the only one worrying about Simms’ departure.

“We’ll be okay,” I answer, rather unconvincingly.

“No, we won’t,” comes Dean’s voice, and then he enters the kitchen and heads for the coffeemaker. “I doubt we’ll even make it to the post-season. Not without Kenny.”

“Ye of little faith,” Tucker chides, waltzing through the doorway.

“Holy shit,” I blurt out. “You shaved the beard.” I glare at Garrett. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve thrown us a party.”

Dean snickers. “You mean thrown him a party.”

“No, he means us,” Garrett replies for me. “We’re the ones who had to stare at that ghastly thing for half a year.”

I smack Tuck’s ass as he breezes past my stool. “Welcome back, Babyface.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles.

Yup, it’s good to be home.


An hour later, I rest my forearms on my knees, clasp my hands together, and lean forward to analyze the slap shot of a stocky freshman with curly red hair poking out the back of his helmet.