Page 2 of Embrace

It’s not the memory of Victor getting frustrated with my mom and leaving us stranded in the middle of the store, forcing us to take a taxi home. It’s the good ones that hurt the most. The time I sat on his lap while he let me steer his truck around the empty parking lot. The afternoon I got a nosebleed, he spent the rest of the day with his cool hand pressed to my forehead.

That little girl, who saw that version of Victor and believes he’s still capable of being that man, she’s the one who wants to see him again.

“It’s not like you enjoy your first day back to coaching, Dad. I heard you complaining about the team last night.” I shoot him a knowing look.

“That’s because I have to deal with a bunch of boys who have thought only of women and beer all summer.”

I walk over to him, patting his arm. “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. You still manage to get them to the Frozen Four.”

“Except now my star seniors are gone, so I’m left with the rookies and two overgrown pieces of work who are full of surprises.”

I’ve partied with most of his players, and not one of them knows I’m the coach’s daughter. It’s easy to keep that secret when no one can look at me and see him in my face, or when I go by my middlename instead of Kilner. No one asks questions, and I’ve never offered answers.

I’ve built my own world at Dalton, and now I’m desperate to burn it down.

Mom rubs a hand over Dad’s back. “You’re getting all worked up.”

Coach Kilner—because when he’s like this, he’s all Division I NCAA hockey coach and less of my sweet, softhearted dad—takes a deep breath that looks more painful than relaxing. “I’m fine,mahal. Just one more semester,” he mutters, taking his keys from the bowl on the counter. “You want a ride to study group, Rosie?”

My hand tightens around my phone, itching to call the prison back, but it’ll have to wait. I give my dad a stiff nod that makes him study me a moment longer, that familiar Coach Kilner scrutiny written all over his face. He doesn’t ask a single question, not even when I tell him to drop me at Porter’s.

I’ve been coming here since I was sixteen, when my dad would stop by to celebrate with his team. I’d read in the staff room or take pictures in the photo booth. Now it’s become tradition.

Inside Porter’s is the familiar hum of the neon sign flickering overhead and the low murmur of the barback stacking bottles behind the counter. Scott, the owner, waves when he spots me.

“Another memory?” he asks.

“First day of senior year,” I tell him. This photo booth is like my personal memory box—first day of high school, prom, last day of high school, first date, the list goes on.

I slide onto the narrow bench and pull the curtain shut. After popping in a few coins, the three-second countdown blinks across the screen, and four flashes go off. The thing is old as hell, so it takes forever to print the pictures. As I wait, I scroll through my social media, seeing the pictures of move-in day for the new sorority sisters. I have so many memories in the Beta Phi house that I almost miss it. Almost.

The picture falls out of the dispenser, and that’s when I notice the time on my phone.

“Shit!” I shove the strip into my bag and bolt out the front door.

I’m already ten minutes late for my study group. Ihatebeing late. There’s so much that could go wrong when one thing is thrown off, and I really, really don’t like surprises.

Two

Kian

I jump outof the bushes before she’s even had the chance to exit her car.

The door to the gray Altima slams shut, and she steps out with folders upon folders, a laptop bag, and a mug of coffee. She has her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder as she talks.

After our early hockey practice, I only had one goal in mind: to make sure my courses were still confirmed. A five-credit course isn’t handed to someone with my GPA. Getting it approved was a fluke. Athletes aren’t a priority, and those spots usually go to prospective grad students.

“Ms. Lai!” I jump in front of my guidance counselor before I’ve thought this through.

Dorris Lai shrieks so loud I cover my ears.

Her coffee mug goes flying from her grip, the file folders she was juggling flutter to the wet ground, and her laptop bag slips from her shoulder and hits the concrete.

I cringe at the irreparable sound that comes from the bag.

She’s breathing hard, staring at the coffee splatters on her gray pants and fuzzy black sweater. “Mr. Ishida,” she says my name through clenched teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sometimes I wonder why she’s so averse to my presence, but then I recall freshman year. I was covered in shaving foam for a rush week challenge and I bumped into her while I was bolting down the sidewalk.