Page 69 of The Kiss Class

The dayafter we resume the regular practice schedule, I expect Coach Badaszek to call me into his office, to chew me out for spending Christmas with his daughter, and to call out the house of cards we built out of lies, then kick it over. But Vohn doesn’t come at me looking stone-faced. Neither does Helen with a dim expression of disappointment.

That means Badaszek doesn’t know.

This means I have to tell him.

Mustering up more courage needed than when facing down the most brutal goons in the league, I march up to the office. Badaszek is on a call and, over his shoulder, gives me the one-minute finger to wait.

I plant myself in the leather seat as I’ve done so many times.

Badaszek has his back to me and says, “I understand. Of course. This is a big deal.” He pauses.

I wonder about the uncharacteristic softness in his voice, praying it works in my favor and that he’s in a good mood.

“We’ll make it work. We always do. I’ll be waiting. I love you too.”

Even though I’m stationary, I somehow freeze. There are only three people in the world he’d say those four words to: Bannanna, McMann, and Badaszek, er, Cara.

He gets off the phone and looks up at me, opens his mouth, and then closes it. His brow crimps. “Did I call you in for a meeting, Arsenault?”

“No, sir, I want to?—”

“Then what are you doing here?”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I want to talk to you about Cara.”

“Just got off the phone with her. She’s headed to LA.”

I jerk back, my body and brain wrapped around the axle. “What?”

He lets out a long breath. “She wants to quit school. Come home.”

I almost slouch with relief, but then I remember I’m in the coach’s office. “That might have something to do with me.”

“I was afraid of that.”

Straightening, I tell him everything. Well, almost. I leave out all the kissing parts, clarify that I really do love his daughter and am pining over her, and that we spent Christmas together.

He makes a grunting, growling sound that sends my hair on end. “I thought so.”

“Sir, I would never do anything to hurt her. I respect Cara.” I love her.

“But she doesn’t feel the same,” he says, nodding.

This time, I do slouch. Is that what she told him on the phone? Does she still want to keep this secret?

“Thank you for coming clean. I respect that.”

“Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”

I leave the office feeling better and worsethan when I went in. Better because I’m no longer living a lie and worse because Cara doesn’t feel the same? But instead of spiraling into a vortex ofwhatsandifs, I lean into my New Year’s resolution—Pierre 2.0, all grown up and better than ever—and text the girl of my dreams.

Me: Dadaszek said you left for LA. Where does that leave us?

But she doesn’t answer. Instead of leaving the arena, I return to the rink and pound through drills and an ice workout that would make even the likes of Vohn wonder if I lost my mind. When I’ve thoroughly saturated my clothing with sweat, I hit the locker room. But first, I check my phone.

Girl of My Dreams: I was up in the air when you messaged. Now, I’m back on campus.

Me: And . . .

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