Cold Day in the Sun Page 18

  Wow, Wes’s extended vocabulary is quite appealing.

  “That’s—that’s very mature of you, Wes,” Dad says.

  This whole exchange is so awkward.

  “I wanted to discuss that idea with Dutch tonight, so I suggested that I give her a ride home.”

  I run my thumb across my lips, still swollen from our heated “discussion” in the back seat of Wes’s truck. He sees this and one eyebrow lifts in surprise.

  “In any case, Holland,” Mom says, sliding the plate of bars toward Wes, “you should have let us know that you were getting a ride home from Wes instead of letting Carter do your dirty work.”

  “Sorry,” I murmur. “Are we done? I’ve got to work on my article.”

  Dad chuckles but Mom sighs. “Maybe you should have thought of that and come straight home,” she says.

  “Sorry.”

  “I may have overreacted slightly with my text messages,” she says somewhat sheepishly. “Thank you for bringing her home safely, Wes.”

  Wes takes a bite of a blondie and wipes crumbs from the corner of his mouth. I’d like to help him out with that. “Wow. Those are amazing. Holland tells me that you’re catering the Hotdish Feed for the sponsors next Friday night. Do you need more servers? I’d love to help.”

  “That would be fantastic, Wes, thank you.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I really need to get to my homework,” I say and tug Wes toward the front door. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “Good night, Wes,” Mom says.

  The door has barely closed behind us before Wes backs me up against one of the stone columns on the front porch and his hot mouth is on mine. I make good on my intentions and suck on his bottom lip, still tasting of sweet maple-bacon blondie. I’m rewarded with a low growl.

  “That was close,” he says when we come up for air.

  “They like you. Mom offered you treats.”

  “Still,” he says, and his lips land on my neck. I shiver at the touch.

  “I really have to work on my article.”

  “Mm-hmm, me too.”

  “You don’t write for the paper,” I say and gasp when his teeth nip my neck. “No hickeys. We’re keeping this under wraps, remember?”

  His lips land on mine again and I’m pulled out of this bitter cold night and into the warmth of his arms and his kiss.

  Until I hear a rap on the window. I startle, pull my lips from his, and give him a little shove.

  “Time’s up, Holland,” Mom calls from inside.

  “Good night, Wes,” I whisper.

  “Good night, Dutch.”

  I watch as he walks backward down the sidewalk. I watch as he gets into his pickup, as he maneuvers a turnaround in the driveway. I watch until his taillights fade.

  I putz around with my article, wash my face, change into an oversize Foo Fighters T-shirt, and crawl into bed, clutching my phone to my chest, waiting for a text.

  He doesn’t disappoint.

  Wes: I miss you already.

  I click on the link he sends next, a smile playing on my lips. Poison, “Talk Dirty to Me.” I laugh.

  Me: This coming from the polite young man who sat at the kitchen table with my parents tonight? Puh-lease.

  Wes: Whatever it takes.

  Wes: Sweet dreams.

  Me: ♥

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Monday. Date night. With practices and games and homework, tonight is our first chance to drive down to the Chinese Lantern.

  I have to say I’m more than a little excited. And nervous. But mostly excited.

  As promised, Wes picks me up. He comes to the door to say hi to my parents, and luckily, he’s dropped the polite courting act. He’s back to the Hot Sauce that my parents know and, let’s face it, love. Because who, besides me, could ever really dislike that kid? He’s every parent’s hockey-playing, medal-winning dream.

  Turns out he’s mine, too. Guess the old saying is right: You’re never safe from surprise until you’re dead.

  He holds my hand the entire drive to Brainerd, his thumb constantly moving, caressing, sending the most pleasant shivers of electricity through my every cell. We talk about Thursday night’s game against Saint Christopher Lake (the conference goons, tough guys with more penalty minutes every year than the rest of us combined), Mom’s Hotdish Feed (can’t wait to see that boy in a catering apron), and HockeyFest.

  The restaurant is just as I remembered: dim lighting, red walls, gold accents everywhere. Wes rests his hand lightly on my lower back as we stand in the lobby waiting for our table and looking at the photos of the owner with all the celebrities who have passed through town.

  “Here’s my boy, Zach,” I say, and laugh.

  “Oh, that’s right. The big Parise fan. I forgot how much you love that guy. Don’t you have his Team USA jersey from the last Olympics or something?”

  I turn toward him and grin. “You remember that? I can’t even remember the last time I wore it.”

  “I can,” he says. “Dude, here’s one with Chris Hudson from Dig Me Under.”

  “They played Lakes Jam a couple of years ago,” I tell him. “It was awesome.” Dig Me Under is one of those Seattle grunge bands from the ’90s that made a big comeback. Chris Hudson, the lead singer, is from Minnesota.

  “You went?”

  “Yeah, with Hunter.”

  He slides his hand from my back around to my side, his fingers pressing into my waist. “Just one more thing to add to the list.”

  “What list?” I look up at him and his cute, dimply grin.

  “The list of all the awesome things about you. I might even forgive you for that Parise business.”

  The hostess calls Wes’s name and we follow her to a corner booth not far from the front door. “Enjoy,” she says.

  “I’m so hungry,” Wes says.

  I watch as he flips through the menu. I start to think of my own list. Awesome Things About Wes Millard. I’d probably start with his hair and his eyes and his hands and get the superficial stuff out of the way. He’s funny. He likes good music. He fully understands my need for daily Foo Fighters. He motivates the hell out of me on the ice, even if he does it in a rude, profane manner. And not to sound crass or porny, but that boy can handle his stick. I like him.

  “Dutch? Hello?”

  “Mmm, what?”

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  I feel mildly concussed, fuzzy, looking at him across the table from me, those dreamy brown eyes locked on mine.

  “I was thinking about your stick,” I say.

  His eyes go wide, and he lifts his water glass, gulping down several swallows.

  I laugh. “Just kidding. I was thinking that when I break a rule, I smash the hell out of it.”

  “You’re killing me. You know that, right?”

  I laugh again.

  “Do you know what you’re going to have?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Let me guess. You always get the same thing.”

  I laugh. “Yep. Sub gum wonton.”

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  When the server comes to take our order, Wes has a lengthy conversation with him about heat levels and noodles versus rice. It’s ducking adorable. He settles on Hunan spicy beef, extra spicy.

  I’m tearing apart the last cream cheese wonton from our appetizer to split with Wes when I look up and see Lumberjack Lewis at the counter, paying for a large to-go order.

  Shit. What is he doing here? What are the chances that one of our teammates will walk into this restaurant, miles from home, on a weeknight? What are the chances that it’s Lumberjack, the guy I turned down and told I didn’t date hockey players? And here I am, on a date with a hockey player. With the captain, no less. We are so screwed.

  “Shit.” I slide over and tuck myself as far into the corner of the booth as I can.

  “What’s wrong?” Wes asks, popping the wonton into his mouth.

  “Uh, nothing?
”

  “That’s convincing. What?”

  “OK, whatever you do, don’t turn around. And scoot in.” Instead of scooting in, he twists outward to look across the restaurant.

  “Wes! Scoot in!

  He turns back to face me, his jaw tight. “No. I am not going to scoot in.”

  “He’ll see you!”

  He shrugs. “He’s going to find out sooner or later, Dutch. Everyone is. To be honest, I can’t believe that Jesse hasn’t let it slip.”

  “Let what slip?” Lumberjack now stands at the end of our table, his giant to-go bag in his hand.

  “Oh, hey, Jack,” I say weakly. “What—what are you doing here?”

  He lifts one eyebrow, looks from Wes to me and back to Wes again.

  “It’s Moo Shu Monday,” he says. “My folks and my little sister and I take dinner to my grandma at the senior living place. She likes the moo shu pork.”

  I swallow down my nerves. “Oh, that’s nice.”

  He tilts his head. “What are you and Millard doing here?”

  “We’re on a date,” Wes says.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

  “Jack!” I hiss. “There are kids around. Like, right there!”

  “What the fu—What’s the deal? You two are a thing? A couple?”

  “We’re—we’re just having dinner!” I say. I bite my bottom lip and dare a glance at Wes across the booth. His glare at me could melt the porcelain appetizer plate. His jaw tightens.

  “So you’re not dating?” Lumberjack says. “Five minutes ago, when I saw you holding hands across the table? Were you dating then?”

  He saw us holding hands!

  “Jack—” I start, but he cuts me off.

  “What about that load of bullsh—b.s. you gave me about not dating teammates? Were you banging Millard all along?”

  “Hey,” Wes says. “That’s uncalled for, Jack.”

  I throw Wes a look. “I’ll fight my own battles, thank you.”

  “Oh, so this is your battle?” he tosses back. “Not ours? Last I checked, we’re here together.”

  “Well, well,” Lumberjack says. “Trouble in paradise already?”

  “No!” I cry. “I mean—this isn’t what it looks like, Jack.”

  Jack leans in. “I think it’s exactly what it looks like, Dutch. Looks like the two of you are fooling around behind everyone’s backs. I wonder what the rest of the team will think about this. Does Coach know?”

  “This—this really isn’t a thing, OK?” I say, a shaky plea. “I’d never do anything to jeopardize the team. You won’t tell anyone, will you?” I look across the table at Wes for help, my eyes widening, but he says nothing.

  Jack shrugs. “You two enjoy yourselves.”

  That’s not an answer. I scoot back across the booth. “Wait, Jack!” I call after him, but he’s weaving his way through the busy restaurant and doesn’t turn back.

  I drop my head into my hands. “I am so screwed.”

  Wes says nothing, not for a long time. When I look up, he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at some point off in the distance.

  “Really?” he says. He turns back to face me. “ ‘This isn’t a thing?’”

  “Wes, come on, I didn’t know what to do!”

  “Because it’s kind of a thing for me, Dutch. I like you. I like being with you. You’re smart and funny and gorgeous and you kick ass on the ice. I don’t want to keep my feelings for you a secret. I want to shout them from the fucking rooftops.”

  “But—but you agreed that we shouldn’t tell anyone until after HockeyFest. For the team.”

  “For the team, my ass. You didn’t ask me to do that for the team. You’re so worried that someone will think less of you if you’re dating the captain. Like that has anything to do with your talent and hard work. But I kept your secret. I haven’t even told Jilly because she loves you so much, I knew she’d brag to all her friends that her brother’s dating her idol.”

  “Way to make me feel worse, Wes!” I cry.

  “Why is this suddenly my fault?”

  I turn away. I can’t look at him right now. I watch the cashier ring up another takeout customer. “I knew this was a bad idea. I never should have broken my rule!”

  Long seconds pass and Wes says nothing. When I turn back, his eyes narrow.

  “Really?” he says in a low, ominous voice. “You truly believe that? I don’t. I believe that you’re bigger than your stupid rule. Better than some arbitrary edict that you put in place for no reason.”

  Arbitrary edict? “Oh, it’s a stupid rule, is it? No reason? I’ve got plenty of reasons. Drama like this, for instance.”

  “How would you even know, Dutch? What experience did you base this decision on? One date with Sweaty Chevy?”

  “What—how—” I sputter.

  “Showbiz, that’s how.”

  “How dare you!”

  “How dare I what? I didn’t even have to ask. He offered it up after I told him you turned Lumberjack down.”

  “What? Why were you even talking to him about that?”

  “Because I like you, Dutch. A lot. I thought we already established that. I agreed to keep this under wraps, but we weren’t going to be able to keep it a secret forever. You had to know that.”

  “Oh my God. He’s going to tell everyone.”

  “So what if he does? I think you’re worth it.”

  “I can’t afford to lose my place on the team!”

  “Why do you think you would ever lose your place on the team? Dutch, you’ve got more talent and drive on your worst day than half of those guys. Why can’t you see that?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like to worry about this every single day.”

  “I’m telling you, you don’t have to worry!”

  I can’t believe we’re sitting in the middle of the Chinese Lantern, arguing like this. “I should have known we’d never be able to make this work,” I say again.

  There’s a pause before Wes says, “You want to know what else Showbiz said the day he told me about Sweaty Chevy? He said that he wished you’d find a decent guy, because he wanted to see you as happy as he and Morgan are.” He lowers his voice. “I thought I could be that guy for you. But I guess you must not feel the same way.”

  My stomach flips and flips again. He’s looking at me with those gorgeous eyes, those eyes so full of disappointment. He looks away when the server comes with our food.

  “Can we get that to go, please?” he asks. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  The ride back to Halcyon Lake may be the most uncomfortable twenty minutes of my life. My phone buzzes with text messages from my group chat with Cora and Morgan, but I ignore them.

  And then: Twitter and Instagram. Notification after notification. Even something from Facebook.

  What the hell? I open Twitter.

  Five minutes ago, when I saw you holding hands across the table? Were you dating then?

  Jack took a fucking picture. It’s from a distance, so it’s grainy, but anyone with eyes can tell that it’s me and Wes, our hands meeting across the table next to the plate of cream cheese wontons. The bright smile on my face could guide ships at sea.

  @LumberjackLewis: What do we have here? HL Hawks captain giving one of his players some special 1-on-1 training? @Hot_Sauce_17 @HDelviss

  Oh no. That son of a bitch.

  I close the app without looking at the dozens of replies, and I don’t bother to mention it to Wes. He’ll find out soon enough when he checks his own phone.

  My phone buzzes—a video call from Cora. I decline and shove the phone into my coat pocket. I can’t deal with this right now.

  Wes and I don’t speak, not one word. What would I say to him? I thought he understood why I needed to keep this close, at least for now. I thought he understood me.

  Now I’m not even sure that I understand me if I was so wrong about Wes.

  He pulls into my driveway, puts the truck in park. I can
’t get out fast enough. I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for the door handle, but he takes hold of my other wrist before I can get out. That familiar electricity zings through me and something like a sob fills the small space. My sob.

  “Your food?”

  “Give it to Jilly. Tell her I said I think she’ll love it.”

  There’s a beat before he lets go. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore, Dutch,” he says, his eyes boring into mine.

  “As you wish,” I whisper. I open the door and hold my head high as I walk away.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I crawl into bed without bothering to take off my clothes and read through the text messages from Morgan and Cora—basically Cora alternating between angry rants about being left in the dark and smugly stating that she knew I had the hots for Hot Sauce all along, and Morgan saying she’s so sorry that Lumberjack outed us on social media.

  She’s not even mad that I kept this from her.

  Me: I’m a horrible friend and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my date with Wes. There’s more to the story. Can you give me a ride to school tomorrow, Morgan, and I’ll tell you everything?

  Morgan: Of course.

  Cora: Yeah, and pick me up first so I can hear the WHOLE STORY. At that point, I’ll decide if I forgive you.

  She must have already forgiven me, though, because when they arrive the next morning, Cora hands me a travel mug of Peruvian coffee and a paper bag of homemade, deep-fried sweet potato picarones.

  We eat the donut-shaped pastries while I relay the events of the last few weeks.

  “The truth is,” I say from the back seat as I watch the cold, dead winter landscape pass by, “I think I fucked up.”

  “You really like him,” Morgan says softly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” Cora says, “then we gotta find a way to fix it.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur again, but in my heart, I know it’s too late.

  I don’t get much opportunity to worry about how to fix things with Wes, because most of my day is spent deflecting shots about the photo that’s gone as viral as you can get in Halcyon Lake. Like, one hundred and seventy-six likes and forty-two retweets by eight A.M. And a couple hundred likes on Instagram. I don’t bother to read the comments. I’ve got Cora for that, anyway. She’s in her element with all this.