The Year We Hid Away: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 2)

-SCARLET-

ON A BUSY OCTOBER MORNING, the phone rang at a most inconvenient time. And — stupid me — I answered it.

“Shannon,” my mother’s voice hissed into my ear.

My old name already sounded foreign to me. “What is it, mom? I’m so late for class.” I had overslept, and already statistics was beginning without me. Pinning my phone under my ear, I raked my hair with the brush.

“Whatever you’re late for, Shannon, it isn’t nearly as important as the things I need to say.”

With a sigh, I sat down on my bed. “Then say them.”

“There’s no need to be rude. Your father’s lawyers need to interview you.”

“No,” I said immediately. “I won’t do it.”

My mother’s anger was audible. “Honey, you will. We’re not even asking you to drive up here for the meeting. They’ll come down to meet you in a conference room somewhere. It will take only a couple of hours. You’ll answer their questions, and that will be the end of it.”

“I’m not answering anyone’s questions,” I insisted. “The trial has nothing to do with me.”

“Shannon! This is a small thing you can do for the father who raised you! There is no reason on God’s green earth for you not to help him.” My mother’s voice reached its familiar shrill pitch.

“Mom, if it’s so important, why doesn’t Dad ask me himself?”

Her sigh could have burned the paint off of walls. “He shouldn’t have to ask his only child for help. We are family and this is what families do. You should be sitting here in the kitchen, volunteering your time. Instead, you changed your name and left the state. How do you think that looks?”

It looked like something a person would do when she was desperate. But I couldn’t say that to my mother, because she really didn’t give a damn. She didn’t care that my teammates had turned their backs on me. She didn’t care that my textbooks had been defaced, that my gym locker had been filled with… with things that were supposed to be flushed down toilets. Just at the memory of it, I tasted bile in my throat.

But that was my mother — always concerned with the way things looked. She didn’t care if my life was intolerable, as long as we held up the facade.

“You will answer their questions,” my mother repeated.

“My answers won’t be useful.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

“Mom,” I said, and my voice shook. There was nobody on earth who had the capacity to make me angry quite like she could. “I can’t be part of this process. I need to study, and get good grades, and move on.”

“That’s just selfish, Shannon. None of us moves on until your father can walk away from this bullshit with his head held high.”

Later, I would remember to be shocked that my mother used a curse word. But at the moment, I was just too stunned by the threat she made next.

“If your father loses the cases against him, do you really think there will be tuition money for you next year? You think you’ve run away from it all. But you can’t. Do the interview, or I will not be responsible for your tuition check going astray next year.”

The truth of my situation settled like a weight on my chest. I was never getting out from under the things that my father did.

Allegedly did.

Probably did.

God.

I didn’t run out the door right after that phone call, even though I probably should have. Instead, I began Googling “compelling a testimony” and “children of the defendant.” I didn’t have a clue whether the law required me to talk to my father’s lawyers, or whether I could be put on the witness stand. And there was nobody I could ask who would tell me the truth.

My phone rang again, and I picked it up the way you handle a poisonous snake. But the incoming call wasn’t from my mom or a lawyer. It was from Bridger.

“Hello,” I said, my voice husky.

“Stalker! Where are you? Sick?”

I cleared my throat. “I’m okay. There was some… family drama today. I wasted a lot of time on the phone with my mom. But it’s no big deal.”

“Huh,” Bridger said. “I wonder how you’re going to get the notes for today’s classes?”

“Bridger,” I smiled for the first time that day. “Maybe there’s someone who will be nice enough to help me out with that?”

“Are you missing lunch, too?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s no good. I’m bringing you a sandwich. What kind should I get?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I stumbled on the words. But of course, I wanted Bridger to bring me a sandwich. What a swoon-worthy idea.

“What do you like? I’m not in line yet, so just give me a genre. Turkey? Italian?”

“Get whichever sandwich special looks good,” I said quickly. “And a cookie wouldn’t go amiss.”

“I’ll be there in ten,” he said. “The Turner first years live in… Vanderberg, right? You can show me the guitar thing you were talking about last week.” He ended the call.

For the next twenty minutes, I ran around tidying up my room. The common room was in decent shape, but I had to make my bed and kick a bunch of Blond Katie’s clothes under hers.

My phone buzzed with a text from Bridger. KNOCK KNOCK.

I ran down the stairs and opened the entryway door. “Hi!”

He walked in, a take-out box in his hands. “Hi, stalker.” His green eyes studied me. “Are you okay?”

Damn. I should have tidied myself up as well as the room. The way he stared, my eyes were probably red.

“Sure,” I said, my voice as bright as possible. “Come on up. Thanks for bringing lunch.”

And then he was actually walking into my room, something that had figured prominently into several of my recent fantasies. I very nearly sat down in the common room, but it occurred to me that one or both Katies might show up at any moment. And I didn’t want to compete with them for Bridger’s attention, because surely I’d lose. So I walked right through the common room and into the bedroom, just as casually as if guys followed me in there all the time.

Bridger didn’t seem to find that strange. He tossed his coat down and sat on the foot of my bed, setting the take-out box down on Blond Katie’s trunk. “Let’s eat.” I sat on Katie’s bed, to make things a little less weird. He popped open the box. “It was chicken and avocado day,” he said.

“Score.”

“Exactly.” He spread a napkin on his lap. Then he took two sandwich halves and passed me the box.

“Ooh, stick-tap for remembering to bring chips!” I said.

He looked up quickly, a smile on his face. “You’re welcome.”

That’s when I realized that I’d used a hockey reference. A stick-tap was the sort of thank-you that only another player would understand. Crap! My mother had put me off my game today. And I’d almost blown my cover the first day we’d met, too, when I’d recognized Bridger’s name from the team roster. “It was nice of you to bring lunch,” I said.

“It’s nothing,” he said, his voice gruff. “Are you going to be okay? Is it anything you want to talk about?”

I shook my head. “Nobody’s dying, if that’s what you mean. It’s just… drama. Makes me happy to be many miles away.”

“Well,” he leaned down to steal a few chips out of the box. “I know drama. Everybody’s got some.”

We chewed in silence for a minute, and I thought Bridger was going to let the subject drop. But he didn’t. His voice was wistful as he spoke again. “This year I seem to be punching above my weight in drama. Last week, I really let it get to me.”

“But not anymore?” I asked. Our voices were hushed, by some mutual agreement that this was not a typical conversation for us. “Because if you know any tricks for sliding out from underneath it, I’m all ears.”

He cleared his throat. “My trick is understanding that there aren’t any tricks. You just have to wade through each moment as it comes.”

“Well I’m definitely doing it wrong, then.”

He barked out a laugh. “Why?”

“Well…” I nibbled a chip. “I’ve always liked to plan things out, so that I know what to expect. But last year, that was impossible, and I never really got over it.”

“There’s a saying. If you want God to laugh, tell him your plans.”

“I should have it tattooed on my person.”

“Which part of your person?” His green eyes lifted to mine with a sparkle that I sincerely hoped was intentionally flirtatious.

A girl can dream.

“So,” he said when the lunch was eaten. “Where’s this guitar I’ve been hearing about?”

“Move your big feet and I’ll show you.” I pulled Jordan out from under the bed, and snapped open the case. It occurred to me that I could not tell Bridger my guitar’s name, because I’d named Jordan after the hottest player in the NHL. And the real-life Jordan was a ginger, just like Bridger.

Biting back a smile, I sat down right next to Bridger on the bed, holding the guitar across my lap, and turning to face him.

He reached across to brush his fingers against the strings, each one making a watery sound as he plucked them.

I grinned. “Man up, Bridger. Like this.” I strummed, and the sound filled the room.

“Did you just call me a wuss?” Those jade eyes challenged me as he reached over again, this time plucking one string hard.

“Atta boy.” This was the most fun I’d had in a long time. “Okay, so I promised to teach you about intervals. So, that’s the D string you just plucked. Sing it with me.” I sang a la on the note of D.

“Christ, Stalker. You didn’t mention anything about singing.”

“It’s one note. Come on, give me a D.”

His ears turned pink. But then he sang the note with me. “Yes! See, that was easy. Now we’re going to raise it an octave.” I sang a higher D, but Bridger faltered.

“A real man can’t sing that note,” he complained.

“Nonsense. Eric Clapton can sing it. And he has his Man Card. But never mind — can you hear that it’s one octave higher? Still a D?”

“Sure. I hear it.”

“Good. Now see this dot?” I pointed at the inlay on the fingerboard. “That divides the string exactly in half, from the bridge to where it’s wound around the pin. So first listen…” I played the open D string. “Now put your finger there.”

Bridger pressed down the string onto the fret at the half way marker, and then I strummed again. The sound was an octave higher.

“Deeee…” I sang and then knocked his finger off the fret. “Deeee,” I sang the lower one. “Half the string, twice the rate of oscillation. Music theory is just a bit of simple math.”

He regarded me, the room quiet around us. “That’s very cool, Stalker. And so much more lucid than our shitty textbook. But now I need to hear you play.”

“Play… what?”

“A song. I want to hear one.”

“Um… maybe. If you can do me a little favor.”

He crossed his arms, and I became momentarily distracted by the curved shape of his forearm muscles. “Favor? What’s this going to cost me?”

“Well… could you stop calling me Stalker?” I knew my objection to his nickname was a little silly. But the past year had made me sensitive to anything even remotely creepy.

His eyebrows went up. “Sure. That’s it?”

I nodded.

“No problem, Miss Scarlet. Now play me a song.”

My hands felt a little sweaty, and I had to wipe them on my jeans. I shouldn’t have been nervous, because I spent a lot of restless hours last year playing the living crap out of my guitar. When nobody at school will speak to you, and there’s a full drama playing inside your house, there is really no better way to spend time than practicing music. But still, I was anxious to impress.

I cleared my throat. “Okay. What do you like? Give me a basic genre.”

His smile lit up the whole room. “Classic rock?”

I put the guitar strap over my head, checked my tuning, and then launched in to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama. With its distinctive opening riff, I knew it would sound impressive. And I’d played it a hundred times before.

I kept my eyes on the fret board, not because I needed to look, but because I felt shy. After the first few bars I began to relax, the music pulling me in.

When the song was done, I waited until the last note died away. And then I couldn’t avoid his face any longer. Bridger was looking down at me with big eyes, dark green, the color of the sea before a storm. “Damn, Scarlet,” he whispered. “You amaze me.”

My cheeks did their thing, becoming hot. I busied myself with removing the guitar strap from around my neck. But I fumbled it, twisting my hair in the strap. “Ouch,” I swore.

Bridger reached up to untangle me, and I felt my status tumble quickly from “possibly cool” right down to “dork.” But just as I was beating myself up about it, I noticed something peculiar. After Bridger pushed my tangled hair off my shoulder, his hand stayed there, warming my skin. Then, his fingers cupped my cheek. My gaze flew to his, and I found him studying me.

Ever so slowly, he leaned in. Then his lips barely whispered across mine, and I felt myself break out in goosebumps. But he didn’t kiss me properly. Instead, his lips came to hover over the corner of my mouth, a spot on my body which I’d never guessed was so sensitive. “Is this okay?” he whispered, his lips so close that I could feel the words vibrate on my skin. “I find you a little hard to read.”

Hell yes. But I didn’t trust my voice to answer him. Instead, I turned my face the tiniest distance towards his, hoping he’d understand. My heart slammed against my ribs as his mouth found mine. Bridger’s lips were gentle and soft. As he pressed his mouth onto mine, a happy warmth bloomed in my chest.

One of his arms slipped around to encircle me, but then his mouth withdrew. “I’ve wanted to do this,” he whispered, “since the first day you sat down to lunch.” When he kissed me again, I slumped into him. His lips parted, and then his tongue slid slowly over mine. A little mewl of pleasure escaped from the back of my throat. I decided to be embarrassed about it later.

In my happy haze, I barely noticed when Bridger moved the guitar from my lap onto Katie’s bed. We were still sitting side by side on my bed, but Bridger scooped a hand under my knees, lifting them over his, so that we could almost face each other. His broad hands warmed my lower back as he kissed me again and again. I let my fingers explore the hard muscles of his shoulders, the velvety skin on the back of his neck, and then wander into his thick hair.

And then his alarm went off.

Bridger broke off our kiss with a groan. He pressed a button on his watch to silence the beeping. Then he wrapped his arms around me, his chin on my shoulder. “And then real life intrudes,” he said in a low voice.

I said nothing, just threaded my fingers together behind his broad back, holding on tightly.

“I have to go,” he said.

I swiveled to slide my legs off of his. “I know.”

“Not that I want to…” He stood up. “Can I call you later?”

I nodded up at him.

He bent down, gave me a tiny kiss on the lips, and then turned and left my room.

Alone, I flopped back on the bed, a quivering, grinning mess of a girl. My lips were swollen from his kisses, my palms damp.

At least something went right that day.

He called at nine thirty. I made myself wait until the second ring to answer. “Hi,” I said, suddenly shy.

“Hi Scarlet.” His voice was hushed. “Are we still cool?”

“Yes,” I said. “In fact, we’d be even cooler if you came back over here.” And after I said it, my heart took off galloping like a pony. Because there was always a chance Bridger was about to say something that started with “about this afternoon… I didn’t mean to do that.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he gave a warm chuckle into the phone. “I wish I could.”

“You’re at work?” I asked. “At the warehouse?”

“Always. You know…” There was a pause, as if he was deciding whether or not to say something. “Scarlet, I really like you. But I’m not around very much.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “You’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“This year… I’ve been told that being friends with me is kind of a drag.”

“I never thought so,” I said.

“Not yet anyway,” he sighed. “I’ll see you Thursday?” he asked.

“I’ll be there.”

Thursday’s statistics lecture was about ten years long. Bridger ran into the room at the last minute, sitting somewhere behind me. It was a torturous ninety minutes spent squinting at the professor’s hastily drawn examples and wondering whether things would be awkward with Bridger now.

When the infernal class finally drew to a close, I leaned down to put my notebook back in my bag. Just be cool, I coached myself. If only I knew what that meant. I had very little experience with boys. I was a bit of a late bloomer, with hockey dominating a lot of my early high school years. It’s difficult to figure out the boy/girl scene when you’re driving to Concord or Bedford every weekend for a game.

And then came senior year. And while other girls were planning romantic prom night festivities, I was alone in my room, hiding from satellite TV trucks three deep in front of my house. I spent those months honing my guitar skills and ticking off the days until I could escape to college. The result was that I knew the chord progressions for a great many songs, and almost nothing about how to act casual around a boy I liked. A lot.

But when I stood up after class, he was right there waiting, a slightly lopsided smile on his rugged face. He held out his hand, palm up. “Shall we?”

I took his hand. And when the warm fingers closed around mine, I wanted to do a happy dance.

After music theory, where we sat next to one another, he held my hand on the way to lunch, too.

“So, where’d you learn to play the guitar, Scarlet? Are your parents musical?”

This made me laugh. “God, no. I’m self taught. There’s nothing a girl can’t learn at the University of YouTube.”

“Did you play in a band?” he asked. His thumb stroked my palm. I’d never thought of my hand as a sexual organ before, but the sweep of his skin across mine felt positively electric.

“A band?” I tried to keep it together. “No. I guess I’m a solo act.”

“You are a very interesting girl, Scarlet,” he said. Then he let go of my hand so that he could pull out his wallet at the lunch counter, and I missed our connection immediately.

“You never say very much about Miami Beach,” Bridger said as we lingered over our coffee. “Or your family.”

I didn’t bother to hide my flinch. “Miami Beach is the best. My family… not so much. I don’t really talk about them. It isn’t a nice story.” The truth was, I didn’t want to lie any more than necessary to those deep green eyes.

Bridger’s face flashed with sympathy. “Okay. It’s exactly the same for me, but I didn’t expect that. Because you look like someone from a family with a nice story.”

“And you don’t?” I countered.

He put one hand on his own cheek and covered mine with his other. “You make a good point. Maybe there’s no look. I should probably stop thinking that everyone else in this room has it easier than me.”

I turned my head, and together we both scanned the laughing, eating, bustle that was the student center at noon. It sure looked happy out there. For just a moment, I was a goalie again, analyzing the play, scouting for trouble.

“Nah,” I said finally, turning back to Bridger. “I still think most of them have it pretty good.”

Bridger grinned. “This is the cynical table,” he said, tapping his fingertip on the wood grain.

“Party of two,” I agreed.