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“Well-played.” She reaches for the door handle, and I do the same.
She heads for the trunk while I unfasten her bike from the roof rack. I’ve just set it on the ground when headlights appear in the driveway I’m parked across from. I raise my hand to shield my eyes.
“Fuck,” Winter mutters.
Gravel crunches as the car pulls onto the road. The window descends, and a plume of smoke furls into the air. It’s an old car, and based on the rumble of the engine, it’s struggling to do its job. It’s too dark to make out much of the figure behind the wheel until a crack of lightning illuminates him.
He looks tired, like life is wearing him down. And angry, like everything pisses him off.
“Who’s this?” He tips his chin at me but doesn’t look my way. “I thought you said you were playing hockey.”
“I was. This is BJ. His dad coaches at the new arena.”
He looks me over, eyes narrowed and assessing, especially as he takes in my sleeve of tattoos. “Is that right?”
“BJ, this is my dad, Clayton Marks.” Her tight smile wavers.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Marks.” I hold out my hand, but he just looks at it, returning his attention to Winter.
“You get oil and a pack of smokes like I told you?”
She grimaces, and her shoulders tense. “I didn’t have my debit card, and I forgot to bring cash with me.”
It’s the third time I’ve heard her say that. It’s starting to sound like a script.
Her dad scoffs and flicks ash on the ground at her feet. “Of course you didn’t.” He mumbles something I don’t catch that makes her flinch. Then he drives away, leaving us standing in exhaust fumes and dust.
It all clicks into place.
The dull skates, the no-debit-card-and-no-cash mantra, biking to the arena, the hockey bag with a missing wheel and a hole in it, saying no to the diner after, wanting me to drop her off at the end of her driveway, Lovey knowing her from the foodbank, Logan asking for clarification about that, and now meeting this dickbag of a father who treats her like garbage.
Winter doesn’t have it easy.
And I’m over here with my retired-NHL-player dad, driving around in a flashy Jeep, never worrying about money. It seems like maybe she is. Some of the places around here are still the original cabins, not fancy new builds.
She turns to me on a resigned sigh. “I can hear your gears turning, and you’ll find out eventually because this whole town is six degrees of separation.” She shoulders her hockey bag and steps back, preparing for her exit. “My family’s financial situation sucks a bag of dicks. I don’t volunteer with Lovey. I use the foodbank when things get tight between paychecks. I hate when people feel sorry for me or treat me differently when they find out. It fucking sucks. And not for any of the reasons you probably think. Or maybe for all the reasons you probably think.” She tips her chin up as the first drops of rain fall and another bolt of lightning streaks across the sky.
“I thought you were brave and a badass, but maybe I got you wrong,” I say.
Her head drops forward, her expression reflecting confusion. “What?”
“Up until you gave that speech, I thought you were this take-no-shit, hockey-playing hottie with a sharp tongue and mad skills on the ice.” I step forward, into her personal space. “I feel a lot of things, Snowflake, but sorry for you isn’t one of them. And unless I’m reading things wrong, there’s some mutual attraction here.” I motion between us. “I thought we were making headway with the awkward number exchange, but it feels like you just threw up some walls to shut me out before I’ve even had a chance to send you cringey messages asking when I can see you again.”
She bites her plush bottom lip. “Are you always like this?”
“I usually tell it like I see it, if that’s what you mean.” I pluck a dandelion fluff from her hair, holding it out for her to see. “Make a wish.”
“Wishes lead to disappointment.”
“Wishes are hope with wings,” I counter. “Make one.”
She shakes her head and smiles, then closes her eyes and blows on the palm of my hand. When she opens her eyes, they lift to mine. Drops of rain patter the ground around us. “I had a lot of fun tonight,” she says. “It’s probably going down as one of the coolest experiences of my life. Thank you for taking my skate hostage. It was worth it. I should go before I get soaked.” She grabs her bike handles.
I tuck a hand in my pocket. “I’m glad the universe decided our paths should cross.”
“Yeah. Me too. I think.” She steers her bike toward the dark opening between the trees.
“Snowflake,” I call when she reaches the mouth of her driveway.
