He had a game against Hudson High that afternoon, up at the ice center near the river. Hudson was the only team in their league Ryan actually hated playing, a bunch of dickbags with faces like bulldogs and attitudes to match. They weren’t even that good, but their defensemen were all fucking giants, like the bad guys in an ’80s sports movie about the Cold War. Last time Colson had played them one of their wingers had wound up with a broken collarbone; a couple years ago, one of Hudson’s players hit a ref.
“All right, dudes,” Ryan said to the rest of the guys as they all huddled around the bench before the puck drop. It was his third season on varsity, and he was co-captain now. He’d never thought of himself as much of a leader, but Coach Harkin had the captains take turns talking at the beginning and end of every game, and Ryan always really liked pepping everybody up, telling them all what he thought they were good at and what they needed to focus on to beat a particular team. Sometimes he thought he liked that part more than actually playing. “You ready?”
It was an ugly game from the second the clock started. Colson was behind from the very beginning, their stick handling sloppy, their passes sluggish and slow. Ryan felt like he had lead in his skates. He could hear his dad’s voice in his head, just like he always could when things weren’t going well on the ice, sure as if the guy was sitting in the stands calling his name: The hell kind of hustle is that, kid? Why are you wasting my time?
Ryan shook his head, trying to focus. He knew his plays forward and backward, should have been able to skate through this defensive line in his sleep. But the truth was he was distracted: he kept thinking about that pile of bills next to the fridge in the kitchen, about what might happen if he couldn’t nail down a scholarship come next year. He knew that thinking about it was only going to make things worse for him. But he couldn’t put it out of his mind.
Things got a little better in the second period; Colson managed to tie it up, the puck slipping past Hudson’s goalie and hitting the net with a satisfying whoosh. Ryan was headed back across the center line, stopping briefly to bump his glove against his buddy Remy’s, when one of Hudson’s wingers checked Colson’s center, a scrappy freshman named Jeremy, hard enough to send him sprawling to the ice.
“Shit,” Ryan said, though Remy didn’t even take a moment to swear before he flew at the winger, fists waving, his hockey stick clattering to the ice. Then two Hudson defensemen threw themselves on Remy, and half a second later both teams were piled up in the center of the rink, gloves and sticks and legs and skates in a whirling tangle like a cartoon cyclone. “Shit,” Ryan said again, his own voice echoing inside his helmet, and skated right into the middle of the fray.
RYAN
The house in Katonah was in fact huge, a sprawling Victorian monstrosity with gingerbread scrollwork in the eaves and a wraparound porch and a turret. It smelled like flowers inside, and a little like death. Shay’s recital was being held in the formal living room, which was so big Ryan was fairly sure you could have fit several of his own house inside it. Rows of wooden folding chairs were set up facing a massive stone fireplace. He wondered if he should have worn a tie. His head hurt; he’d caught a skate to the side of the skull during the fight this afternoon, although that didn’t feel like a thing he ought to complain about too much. He’d played it off with Harkin in the locker room; ever since his trip to the hospital last year, he’d felt like the guy was watching him extra closely, and the last thing he needed now was to get benched.
“Hi!” Shay said when she spotted Gabby and him, edging around the clusters of arty-looking parents in their dark overcoats and expensive scarves. She was wearing a white top and a stretchy black skirt, and she looked nerdier than she usually did—she looked, actually, like the kind of person who would take cello lessons for thirteen years—which made Ryan feel less threatened by her than normal. She kissed Gabby hello, nudged Ryan in the elbow. “Thanks for coming, dude.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, trying not to be offended by the blatant surprise in her voice. “Of course.”
The thing he had somehow not anticipated about this recital was that it was, in fact, gigantically dull. The first few performers were little kids screeching their way through vaguely recognizable holiday tunes, but pretty soon they’d moved on to long, tedious classical numbers he’d never heard before. Ryan sighed. He thought about the fight at the ice center this afternoon, how fast the whole thing had unraveled. He thought about Chelsea Rosen’s crooked smile. He glanced over at Gabby, but she was listening raptly, her hands folded primly in her lap like a nun at church.
Ryan shifted his weight, the old wooden floor creaking under his rickety chair. His head was killing him now; it felt like somebody was standing behind him squeezing his temples like an accordion. He felt exhausted, too, and the sleepy-time music combined with how hot and dry it was in here wasn’t helping things any. He stifled a yawn in the sleeve of his coat and Gabby glanced at him out of the corner of her eye; when he did it again a minute later, she scowled. If he passed out she was going to murder him.
Sorry, he mouthed, smiling guiltily. He dug his phone out of his pocket and opened a tic-tac-toe app, then pulled up a new game and nudged Gabby, showing her the screen as a peace offering. She rolled her eyes at him.
“Can you stop?” she whispered. “You’re being an ass.”
That took him by surprise. There was no way he bought for a second that she was actually interested in this stuff—or at least, she hadn’t been back when they were hanging out all the time. Maybe that was different since Shay, too. Still, nobody could even see them. He shoved his phone back into his pocket, rubbing irritably at his aching head.
Gabby frowned at that, looking at him closely. Are you okay? she mouthed.
“Yeah,” Ryan whispered back, “just a headache.”
Gabby’s whole body straightened up, alert. “A headache?”
“It’s nothing,” he whispered; then, before he could think better of it: “There was kind of a dustup at the game today.”
“A dustup?” Gabby’s eyes were wide. The woman in front of them turned around and shot them a dirty look. “Like a fight? Did you get hit?”
“Just a little,” Ryan told her. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Are you serious?” Gabby hissed. “After what happened last year? How can you say it’s not a big deal?”
“Because it’s my head,” he told her, sounding more irritated than he meant to. “So I feel like I’d know, yeah?”