Cold Day in the Sun Page 22

  “No.” I pout.

  “Yes.” He grins.

  He makes small talk, but I hang back, holding his hand, until Pete notices me and offers a gruff hello.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Pete waves his hand around. “Good job.”

  I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

  “Good job. On that interview.”

  George coughs. “Rollie and Wes came up with a new flavor this week. Sold out already but we saved you a bag.”

  Rollie hands me the plastic bag of popcorn, white corn with a light frosted coating. I read the label: NUMBER 19 DUTCH APPLE PIE.

  I look from a smiling Rollie to George and his grimace that might be a smile to Wes, whose grin could light up this rink at night. He squeezes my hand.

  “You’re sneaky,” I tell him.

  “I had some extra time on my hands since I wasn’t glam texting you.”

  “Thanks for sponsoring HockeyFest,” I tell the old-timers. “And always being so supportive of youth hockey. You should really consider sponsoring the girls’ teams, too.”

  Wes bursts out laughing. “Try your popcorn,” he says as he tugs me back into the crowd.

  We run into Rieland in front of the merch tent. She’s wearing a HockeyFest Minnesota hoodie, jeans, duck boots, and a Hawks stocking cap with a pom-pom like mine.

  “Hey, Wes, Holland,” she says. “I was hoping to see you today. How’re the ribs?”

  “Much better. I’m actually excited to see you, too,” I say and then clamp my mouth shut. “Oh, that came out wrong. Sorry.”

  She laughs.

  “I think I’ve got a way to fix my article,” I tell her in a rush. “Well, it’s more of an editorial piece to go along with the article. And the best part is that I’m excited to write it.”

  “Good! I’m glad to hear it. But before you can tackle that challenge, you’ve got to go out there and show everyone what you’ve got.” She waves her hand toward the stone wall surrounding the Hole. “Right?”

  She gets me. “Right,” I say.

  “But we do go to print Wednesday.”

  Ha. “Thanks. For everything.”

  “Anytime, Holland. See ya, Wes. Good luck out there.” She turns and goes into the merch tent.

  “You and Rieland have a lot in common,” I tell him. “This irritating need for perfection. Always so demanding.”

  “You want me to start listing off all the things that are perfect about you?” Wes says.

  “Yes, please.”

  My stomach growls as we walk past a food truck selling deep-fried goodness: mini donuts, cheese curds, fried pickles.

  Wes laughs. “That, for one. You just ate your third breakfast. How can you be hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  “What’s your pleasure?” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.

  “Ooh, pickles,” I say, and my mouth waters in anticipation.

  “You sure you want to eat those before a big game?”

  “Yes. Do they have spicy ones?” I squint to read the menu.

  “Oh, they do, Wes. Deep-fried hotties, right there.”

  “One order of deep-fried hotties,” Wes says to the guy in the food truck, and he doesn’t even seem embarrassed.

  We stand off to the side to wait for our order and take in the chaos and crowds around us.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Coach Giles says as he walks up to us.

  “Coach, hi!” I say, like he caught us doing something we shouldn’t be doing, not standing innocently by a food truck vendor waiting for an order of deep-fried hot pickles. Coach raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Hi,” he says. “So, you two patched things up, then?”

  My cheeks burn, and Wes gives a small nod.

  “Thank you, Saint Sebastian,” Coach says. “Look, I know I told you to be careful and all of that, but you two have been unbearable this week. We need to win this game, so please don’t break up again before the game starts.”

  Wes tucks his arm around my waist. “Not gonna happen.”

  “You know which tent to go to?” Coach asks, and Wes nods again. “OK, see you down there in fifteen. Not one minute later, you got me?”

  “Order up, hotties,” the guy in the truck calls out, and Wes hands them over. They’re hot and greasy and smell amazing.

  “You sure about this?” Wes asks. “These might be a little on the spicy side.”

  “There’s only one thing I’ve ever been more certain about in my life,” I say, smiling.

  “May I have one?”

  “As you wish.” I hand over the cardboard basket.

  “I really want to kiss you right now,” he says. “How can we make that happen?”

  “We could probably go make out behind this food truck,” I say. “We’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  Wes laughs. “Eat your pickles.”

  I take a bite. “Oooh, hot,” I cry.

  “Hot hot or spicy hot?” Wes asks.

  “Both. So good.”

  Wes bites one, too, and his eyes light up in surprise.

  “Would you believe I’ve never had a fried pickle before? This is amazing. It doesn’t even need hot sauce.”

  I can feel my cheeks go warm at the thought that flickers through my mind.

  Wes notices. “What, Dutch? Is it the pickles or something else got you all hot and bothered?”

  I swallow. “I’d like a little Hot Sauce,” I say. “With everything.”

  Wes’s eyes flame, and he glances around. “You wanna step behind this food truck with me for a sec?”

  I nod, and we duck around the corner. “Give me a kiss, pickle breath,” Wes says, and I do.

  Our makeshift locker room is a large heated tent that reminds me of the dragon scene in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire but with rubber flooring. A few of the guys pace and jump up and down, shaking out their nerves, but for the first time in a long time, I’m calm. We got here. We earned this. Now we show the state what we can do.

  Coach steps into the tent and clears his throat. “Well, kids, this is it. You’ve worked hard this season, and now you get to show the entire state, possibly even other parts of the country, what you can do. I’m proud of you. But you already know that. I’m going to turn this one over to your captains.”

  I look up in surprise as Wes and Carter step forward. Carter speaks first.

  “Well, we were all pretty excited when we found out that we were in the running to be one of the HockeyFest cities this year. Shit, when was that? Pardon my language.” That gets a couple of laughs from the guys. I roll my eyes. “And then we found out we got it, and this whole town kicked into high gear. We gotta put on a good show, they said. We gotta show everyone what Halcyon Lake can do. And I gotta tell you, it’s looking good. The Hole looks better than it ever has. It’s like Watermelon Days and Christmas and New Year’s all wrapped up in one. I heard that there’s a new burger at the Full Loon, the HockeyFest burger, half-pounder with all kinds of good stuff on it.”

  My stomach growls at that, and Wes looks at me and laughs.

  “Would you shut up already?” Jesse says to Carter. He got called up to play varsity and is basically shitting himself about being on live TV. “Let Wes talk. You sound like a moron.”

  The team laughs. Wes steps forward.

  “I’ll keep this short and sweet. We’ve got a saying around here, and you all know what it is. Refuse to lose. Whatever it takes. Today’s a big day for Halcyon Lake. For the town, for the high school, for this team. There is no place that I would rather be, and I mean that one-hundred-percent. I am proud to be your captain. I am proud to take the ice at the Hole with all of you. Now let’s get out there and show them what we can do.”

  I love him. I’m in love with Wes Millard.

  My eyes prick with emotion. Damn it.

  “Huddle up!” Coach calls, and we cram together around Wes and Carter. “All in!”

  “On three!” Carter says.

  �
��One, two, three!” Wes says.

  “Refuse to lose! Whatever it takes!”

  Excitement rushes through me as we step through the doorway of the heated tent, out into the cold, down the ramp to our bench in the Hole, and out onto the ice.

  This is it. This is the day we’ve been waiting for.

  Whatever it takes.

  Other than the one practice, I haven’t skated at the Hole this winter, and it’s good to be back. It’s a picturesque setting, that’s for sure, like stepping back in time. The pines on the hill leading to the Hole filter the sunlight, sending trickles of it dancing on the ice. The air is crisp and clean, with the comforting smokiness of a nearby campfire.

  We warm up, get the feel of the ice. The puck connects, solid, with my blade. I’m strong and in control. Confident.

  Hunter, my parents, and my grandparents are in the stands, my mom wrapped up in a blue-and-gold Hawks blanket. Morgan and Cora sit in the student section, and I can hear Cora over everyone as I skate past: “Go, Dutch!”

  I can’t stop smiling.

  The ref blows the whistle and we line up for the national anthem, sung by Showbiz’s sister, Abbie, who graduated last year. Her angelic voice reverberates off the stone walls and into the trees. It’s glorious; there’s no other word for it. She’s going places, that one. When she finishes (to wild applause), the teams retreat to our respective benches.

  One last pep talk. Carter leans on his stick on the ice side of the bench, along with Nik, T.J., Showbiz, and Brooks. Nik does his usual back-and-forth nervous shuffle. But Wes comes to the bench, closes the door behind him, and stands next to Coach Giles. I don’t get it. The starting line always stays on the ice.

  “Listen up,” Coach says. “There’s been a lineup change for the opening face-off. Dutch, get out there.”

  Say what?

  And he called me Dutch? My eyes well up a little, damn it.

  “You got us here, Dutch,” Coach says. “Now get out there.”

  I stand, my legs a little shaky, and Wes takes two steps toward me. He grabs my elbow and leans in close to my ear.

  “When this is over, I’m taking you to the Full Loon for a HockeyFest burger,” he says. “And some hot sauce.” He pauses, his lips so close to my helmet. I shiver at the closeness, his words, the cold afternoon air, the excitement that arrives full-force just before I step out onto the ice.

  “First I want a do-over at the Chinese Lantern.” I pull away and grin. “I need my sub gum wonton.”

  He laughs. “I love you, Dutch.” He says this out loud, in front of everyone.

  Justin whoops. “It’s about time!”

  I swallow hard and nod, my words lodged in my throat. But he knows.

  I skate out to center ice.

  “We’ve had a change in the starting lineup for Halcyon Lake,” the announcer says. It’s Big Mick from the arena. “Millard is out. Starting at center, we’ve got Carter Delviss, at right wing, T.J. MacMillan, and at left wing, Holland ‘Dutch’ Delviss.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

  The crowd goes nutso. Carter nods at me, the ref signals for the crowd to settle down, and I move into position, my stick on the ice.

  The puck drops.

  Acknowledgments

  So many people deserve my heartfelt thanks for their support and assistance in bringing this book to life.

  To my agent, Steven Chudney—I don’t know what I would do without you. Thanks for your insight, your guidance, your patience, your humor.

  To my editor, Erica Finkel—thank you for your enthusiasm and love for this book, your careful attention and dedication. Holland’s story is so much richer and more alive because of you. Thanks to everyone at Amulet who worked on this beauty of a book.

  To my Beez: Rebekah Faubion, Tracey Neithercott, and Liz Parker. Friends, I don’t know that I would have survived this one without you. Thanks for your unfailing belief in me and these characters and your quick responses to urgent requests over text. I love you.

  Kari Marie White, thank you for your friendship, your keen understanding, and your encouragement to dig deep. Dawn Klehr, thanks for your constant support and friendship, right from the very start and through every high and low. I’m so grateful to have you both along for this wild ride.

  To Andrew DeYoung, the best debut partner a writer could ask for. Let’s keep writing books and hitting milestones and going for epic.

  Linda Diaz, Sara Naegle, Maris Ehlers, and Kris Jar-land, words of thanks are not enough for your excitement and encouragement. Your early-morning Facebook messages, late-night texts urging me on, and tough love to get my shit done were just what I needed. Michelle Grandia and Kate Bronstad Boyle—you both came back into my life at exactly the right time. Your friendship and support mean so much. Susan Arkell, your inspirational Instagram shares are everything, especially the one about the embroidery on back pockets.

  To the UMD Gang: Jacqueline Bonneville, LeeAnn Evans, Heather Green, Katie O’Dell, Jana Oman, Jody Rittmiller, and Teresa Robinson, thank you for your steadfast friendship over the years. You are the strongest, most compassionate, most caring women I know, and I’m so grateful to call you friends.

  To my family, friends, and neighbors who helped with meals and carpooling and entertaining my kids when deadlines loomed—thanks for your generosity and love for us.

  I’m one of those lucky writers who can work just about anywhere, anytime, including while on weekend camping trips with the Boy Scouts. To the Scouts of Troop 563—thanks for letting me hang out at the picnic table and write. Rankila and Ryan, I’m honored that you used me as a subject of your charades skit at the campfire.

  Luke Scheid and Molly Scheid, thanks for answering my questions about your hockey experience, some of which probably seemed pretty weird.

  Here’s to the Elk River Elks boys’ hockey team, 1988–1990. My days as the JV manager were some of the best of my high school years. Those guys hold a special place in my heart, especially Matt Sullivan, Ryan Bronson, Rob Hyrkas, Nathan Cairns, and Brian Jacobson. Thanks for the memories. And to the 2017–2018 St. Michael-Albertville Knights boys’ hockey team—your perfectly-timed run to the state tournament inspired and motivated me. Congrats on an amazing season.

  Thanks to every musician who inspired a piece of this book, especially my constant companions Dave Grohl and Chris Cornell. Chris, not one day has gone by since you left us that I haven’t heard you sing.

  And always, to my big, loud, amazing family. Mom, thanks for your endless support and not caring too much about all the swears in my books. Dad, I wrote a hockey book. Thanks for all those times you drove to ER to pick me up at the arena and stood at the glass to watch the game. I miss you every day.

  To my most favorite people in the world—Troy, Jude, and Halen. You believe in me, you cheer me on, you inspire me every single day. I couldn’t do this without you. I love you.

  Finally, to all the incredible girls out there with big dreams—you got this. Keep moving forward.

  SARA BIREN is the author of The Last Thing You Said. She earned an MFA in creative writing from Minnesota State University, Mankato, and has had several short stories published in literary journals. She lives outside of Minneapolis with her husband and two children.

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