Cold Day in the Sun Read online

  I peel back the plastic on a cup of pears and dig in. “We’re so grateful that you had room for all of us. Staying at the arena would have been terrible. Have you heard the forecast? Is it supposed to snow all day?”

  Jilly scoots onto the bench next to me with a plate piled high with steaming toaster pastries that smell like strawberry jam. “Yeah,” she answers for her mom. “We could get another foot of snow!”

  “Really? Another foot?”

  Debbie nods. “Yes, they’re saying ten to twelve inches on top of the ten we’ve already gotten. Twenty-seven is still closed, but it sounds like roads should be drivable by early evening, even with all the snow.”

  “I hope we get a snow day tomorrow,” Jilly says.

  Debbie laughs. “Enjoy this one! Worry about tomorrow tomorrow.”

  “Today’s not a snow day! Today’s Sunday!”

  I take a sip of coffee. Part of me wants to go home to take a long, hot shower and change into my own clothes, but another part of me wants to stay here, watching movies in Wes’s bedroom, dressed in his sweatpants, for days.

  Wes’s stepdad, Tim, a Crow Wing County sheriff’s deputy, comes into the kitchen in jeans and a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. He kisses Debbie, hugs Jilly, and pours himself a cup of coffee.

  “What time did you get home last night, Daddy?” Jilly asks.

  “I rolled in around two. Roads were terrible. Hey, Holland, how’s it going? You kids have everything you need?”

  “Yes.” I don’t know Wes’s stepdad well, and with his work schedule, he’s not often able to make it to games. But when he’s there, he’s loud and proud. “Thanks for letting us stay last night.”

  “Glad you didn’t try to make it out to Story Lake. The evening might have had a much different ending.”

  He sits down next to Jilly and breaks off a corner of her toaster pastry. I like Wes’s family.

  “I did a load of laundry last night and tossed in your and the boys’ wet clothes, Holland,” Debbie says. “Everything’s clean and dry if you want to shower and change back into them.”

  “Oh, that was so nice of you,” I tell her. “I’d love that.”

  When I come back out to the kitchen a half hour later in my familiar, comfortable jeans and Hawks hoodie, Wes sits at the farmhouse table next to Jilly, a game of cards between them.

  He looks up from his cards to me, and his face falls. Why does he look so disappointed to see me?

  “You changed,” he says simply.

  Oh.

  “I kinda liked you in my old sweats.”

  My face heats up.

  “Wes,” Jilly says, “your friends are staying all day, right?”

  “Not safe to drive,” he says, “so I guess they don’t have a choice.”

  “Tonight, too?” Jilly asks.

  “If the plows can’t clear the roads, then yes.” Wes looks at me when he says that last word.

  Yes.

  So much weight in three little letters.

  I try to ignore the little thrill that passes through me.

  “Mom says she thinks the roads will be clear by dinner.”

  “Well, then, we’d better make the most of today,” Wes says and stands up, tossing his cards onto the table. “Dutch, you up for a little fresh air?”

  “Um, I guess?” I’d expected a lazy snow day in front of the Christmas tree and the fireplace, catching up on my English reading. But why not?

  “Can I go?” Jilly asks. “Where are you going? I want to go with. Can I?”

  “Not this time, Rocket,” Wes says and tugs on one of her pigtail braids.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as Wes motions me to follow him to the laundry room, where he finds me snow pants and a parka that are only a bit too big.

  “We’re going to rent Jilly a movie.”

  I laugh. “Rent a movie? What is this, nineteen ninety-six? Can’t she just stream a movie?”

  He shakes his head. “Not since Mom caught her watching The Breakfast Club. Let’s just say she lost some privileges. Now it’s DVDs only, and since we got rid of most of them before the move, we’re regulars at Third Street Rental.”

  I stop. Third Street Rental, the shop that old-timer George runs with his sister.

  “Uh, no, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “No,” he says firmly. “No way. You’re going.”

  “No.” I can be firm, too.

  “Dutch.”

  “Wes.”

  “You’re going.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I will not let you put your life on hold because of what one guy thinks.”

  “Little dramatic, don’t you think? Put my life on hold? So I don’t want to go to the video store. Big deal. Nobody died. And also? It’s more than one guy.”

  “Little dramatic, don’t you think?” he echoes. “That you’d rather miss out on the most amazing popcorn experience on the planet than have to face a guy whose opinion doesn’t matter?”

  “Don’t bring food into this! That’s not fair!”

  The corners of Wes’s delicious-looking lips quirk up. “Fine. You’d rather miss out on a walk in this beautiful snowfall with me than have to face a guy whose opinion doesn’t matter?”

  “Fine,” I snap. “Let’s go. You are impossible.”

  “You are impossible,” he says, but he’s laughing. “I love arguing with you almost as much as I love playing hockey with you.”

  I suck in a breath and pretend that he didn’t let the l word slip. Twice. While talking about me. I mean, not the l word about me, exactly, but close enough.

  The garage is still blocked by drifts of snow, so we suit up in the living room and leave through the front door. We make a path where the sidewalk would be, down the driveway to the street. The plows must have come through at some point, but it’s impossible to keep up with the snowfall.

  At first, we walk in silence, except for the swish swish of our snow pants as we shuffle through the snow and Wes’s occasional chuckle. When we reach the park, I stop, delighted by the line of pine trees, their branches weighted down with heavy, glittering snow.

  “Oh, so pretty,” I say. “I love winter. It’s my favorite season. I can’t imagine living anywhere but Minnesota.”

  “You’re planning to go to college here, right?” he asks. “Hartley?”

  “Yes. Hopefully I’ll get in.”

  “Duluth, huh? You must really love winter.”

  “What about you? Have you figured out college yet?”

  He gives me a look. “You know I’m going to Northern Lakes, right?”

  Wes got a full ride to play hockey for NLU. “Everyone knows that. I mean, what do you want to study?”

  “Oh. People don’t really ask me that.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m a hockey player, Dutch. Nobody cares about anything except how many points I have on the season.”

  Anger flares up inside me. “Well, that’s bullshit. They should. You’re smart, and not just book smart. You’ve got common sense. You’re a problem solver. That’s what makes you such a great captain.”

  I clamp my mouth shut before I say more and start again in the direction of the video store. I’ve already said too much.

  “I want to study exercise science and go to graduate school for physical therapy.”

  “Wow,” I say. “How did I not know this about you?”

  He laughs, and it’s tinged with bitterness. “See? No one ever asks.”

  “I’m glad I did,” I say quietly.

  For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. I breathe in the cold, fresh air, tinged with that dirty, wintry exhaust smell. I listen to the high-pitched whine of snowmobiles, to the scrape of a shovel as someone clears their sidewalk.

  “You think I’m a great captain?” he says finally. There’s no teasing, no arrogance in his words.

  “The best I’ve had,” I say. It’s true. My captain. “Ever.”

  That shuts him up again, and
we’re quiet for the last block to the yellow Victorian that houses the video store. We walk up three wooden steps, recently brushed clear, and stomp the snow from our boots on the front porch before we step inside. Inside my chopper mitts, I cross my fingers that George won’t be working.

  No such luck.

  “Wes!” George calls from behind the counter. He’s wearing a Halcyon Hawks hockey hoodie. How appropriate. “How’s it going, Cap?”

  “Hey, George,” Wes says. “I was worried you’d be closed with this weather.”

  “Nah,” George says. “I live upstairs, so I might as well open. Besides, what else am I going to do on a day like this?”

  I look around. There’s one other person in the store, a kid who looks about twelve, in full-on snowmobile gear, looking at video games. And George’s sister, Rollie (real name unknown, at least to me), is in the popcorn room.

  Third Street Rental’s claim to fame is not its wide selection of DVDs, video games, and even VHS tapes that are a big hit with the summer cabin crowd, but rather, the gourmet popcorn. One whole room houses row after row of canisters with every popcorn flavor imaginable. Buffalo Chicken. Dill Pickle. Pumpkin Pie. Salted Caramel. They make the popcorn fresh every day during the summer tourist season but not quite as often during the winter months, so the selection is smaller.

  I decide I’ll escape to the popcorn room, but as I take a step toward it, Wes catches me by the sleeve.

  “George, you know Holland, right? Holland Delviss?”

  Is it my imagination, or does George stiffen a little behind the counter? His lips pinch together in a slight frown. Not my imagination, not one bit.

  “Well, sure, I know all those Delviss kids.”

  Yep, that tone is definitely frosty compared to the warmth and love that oozes from him when he’s addressing his Cap. My Cap, thank you very much.

  I give George a tight smile. “All those Delviss kids love the popcorn here! Excuse me.” I move into the popcorn room while Wes and George chat about the chances that the roads will be cleared before our game on Tuesday night.

  “Hi, Rollie,” I say. She’s a character, that Rollie. Her long gray hair is twisted up in a bun and tucked into a fluorescent lime hairnet. She’s wearing a black tank top with a giant white screen-printed feather. A tank top! In the middle of a blizzard.

  She nods and dumps a fresh batch of caramel corn into the bin. Then she scurries into the kitchen behind the counter. I don’t know that I’ve heard her say more than five words. Ever.

  I find my favorite flavor, Bacon & Brown Sugar. I stick the tongs in for a sample, even though I already know I love it and will buy a bag to bring home. It doesn’t taste quite as good with the sour taste in my mouth from my exchange with George.

  “Check this out,” Wes says as he comes up behind me.

  Close behind me. My sour feelings melt away with his closeness. Who cares about a grumpy old man who makes popcorn and doesn’t like the girls’ hockey team or the girl on the boys’ hockey team? Not me. Wes was right.

  “New flavor.” He points at a canister and I squint to read the handwritten label.

  Hot Sauce.

  “Are you kidding me? They named a popcorn flavor after you?”

  He beams. “Not only that, I helped develop it!”

  “Shut up.”

  “It’s true. Go on, try it.”

  I do. I grasp a kernel with the tongs and drop it into my hand, inspecting it before popping it into my mouth. It’s Cholula, that’s for sure. It’s smooth, hot, but not too hot.

  Wes watches me with that familiar grin, and his dimple flashes. “You good? No emergency?”

  I beam, too. “I’ve been practicing!”

  He laughs. “I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge.”

  “I want my own popcorn flavor. What do I have to do to get my own popcorn flavor around here? What did you do?”

  “Well, they love me.”

  “I’ve been coming here for years! Why don’t they love me?”

  Wes reaches across me to take a sample of Caramel-Cheddar. “They love you.”

  I point my thumb in George’s direction. “Clearly, George does not love me.”

  “How could they not love you? Everyone does.” His cheeks go a little pink.

  “Not that shithead from LaPierre last night.”

  “Do guys talk to you like that a lot? Opponents?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I mean, not a lot, but every so often. Don’t players say shit to you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s different.”

  “How is it different?”

  “I don’t feel threatened by some dipshit shooting off his mouth.”

  My eyes go wide. “But I should?”

  “Look, Dutch, I’m not saying this because I think you’re helpless or you need protection or anything like that. I’m saying it because it’s reality. Right or wrong, fair or not.”

  “I can handle it, Wes.”

  “I didn’t say that you couldn’t. But I want to know if it happens again. Promise me that you’ll tell me if something else happens.”

  I nod.

  “Say it, Dutch.” His deep brown eyes lock with mine. “Promise me.”

  He’s so serious, and his concern sends a wave of something unrecognizable through me. Something that scares me and something that I want to investigate all at once.

  “I promise.”

  Satisfied, Wes grabs three bags of popcorn—Hot Sauce, Caramel-Cheddar, and Bacon & Brown Sugar, like he can read my mind—and we move into the DVD room. It doesn’t take long to pick out two movies for Jilly—Tangled (my choice) and Go Figure (his), a Disney Channel movie about a figure skater on a hockey scholarship.

  Wes pays for our spoils and I offer to carry the bag. George says good-bye to Wes but acts like I’m not even in the room. Oh, well. I’m going home with popcorn.

  “Jilly hasn’t stopped talking about you since the interview,” Wes says as we make our way across the snowy sidewalk. “She asked Mom to put a blue stripe in her hair, and this morning while we were playing cards, she drilled me with questions about you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Every female hockey player in this town wants to be you, Dutch.”

  I snort. “Every female hockey player under the age of thirteen, maybe.”

  “That’s a lot of girls looking up to you.”

  I grimace. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

  “Nah,” he says. “You’re amazing, and now the rest of the world is finding out, too.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble. I tuck my chin down into the parka as far as it will go.

  We walk in silence again for a few minutes, until we get to the park with its beautiful line of snow-covered evergreens, where Wes stops, almost in the exact spot we stopped before.

  “Hang on a sec,” he says.

  I wait for him to continue, to tell me whatever’s on his mind. I wonder why we’ve stopped here when we’re walking into the wind now and it’s so cold. We could be having this conversation in the kitchen while we divvy up the bags of popcorn.

  “Look, Dutch . . .” He starts, then falters. He sighs. “Last night—well, I had a good time with you. Watching the movie.”

  I nod. “Me too.” Too good.

  “I should have—shoot.” He shakes his head and looks upward for a second before his eyes lock with mine again. “Dutch. Do you remember, uh, when we were at the A-Frame? After we had pie? And then at T.J.’s party when you were drunk and—”

  “I was not drunk.”

  “OK, when you were buzzed, and you told me that you wished that you’d, uh, wished that you’d kissed me?”

  I look away, up to the tops of the trees, heavy with snow. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, not after what I said in the truck.”

  “But did you mean it?”

  I turn to look at him again, his rich brown eyes wide with anticipation, hope.

  “I meant it. Bu
t it would have made things harder.”

  “Why? Why does this have to be hard?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He moves his hand in the air in the space between us. “This. You and me. Being friends or whatever we are. I like you, Dutch. A lot. The time we spend together—it’s the best part of any day. I like being with you as much as I like playing hockey. And playing hockey with you—it doesn’t get any better than that.”

  “Wes—”

  “Hear me out. I want to spend as much time with you as I can, Dutch.” He reaches for my mittened hands, clasps them within his, and brings them to his chest. “We’re good for each other. I know that you see it, too. And I get it. I understand why you don’t want to date a teammate, especially me. But whatever bad stuff you think would happen, I don’t know—it doesn’t have to be like that. I want to give this a shot. Us. We deserve that.” He smiles. I want to carry his smile tucked deep into my pocket.

  I close my eyes and breathe in the cold air.

  Maybe. We are good for each other, even though he irritates the hell out of me most days. Maybe Cora was on to something when she said we could keep this to ourselves for a while. Like Carter and Livvie.

  I think about last night, how we fit together so perfectly, how comfortable I felt in his arms while we watched The Princess Bride.

  Maybe we can make this work.

  “I like spending time with you, too, Wes. On and off the ice. Well, on the ice you’re kind of rude, but . . .”

  He laughs quietly. “It works, doesn’t it? You bust your ass every single day.”

  “I’m scared, Wes. It feels like people are constantly watching my every move, waiting for me to screw up or quit the team or—I don’t know. And you’re my captain. I’m not supposed to . . . to . . .”

  “Who says you’re not supposed to?”

  “Wes, come on. Everyone? Well, everyone except Cora and Morgan.”

  “That so?” He grins. “Don’t be scared.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  His eyes lock with mine, his gaze now serious and intense, sending shivers through me. “Do you want to give this a shot? Can we try?”

  I blow out a long breath. “On one condition.”