Page 4 of Hockey Heart

That damn voice again. Who even started that? I brieflyimagined a world where John O’Connor had to go back in time to stop the first person who did it from existing, saving us all from this hell. Across from us, Randall and Georgie had broken off their eye-fucking and had started to get up.

“Hayden,” Randall yelled over the thumping music from hell, “I think we’re gonna head out.”

The smile on his face told me what that meant.Thank God for that.

“Cool man, I gotta be heading too.”

I looked down atKermit? Krispy?But she was lost in her phone, contorting another faux innocent smile at the camera. Was she happy being like this? Were any of us happy being like this?

I considered my options, then with minimal grace, rolled over onto the floor like a seal in order to escape the bean bag of embarrassment.

3

EVERYTHING MUST GO

Sarah

Waking up that Wednesday morning, I found myself fizzing with a wild energy. Even a quick steamy fantasy shower session with Hayden hadn’t taken the edge off. I couldn’t think straight. My head was scrambled only with rich half-fantasies of the evening that lay ahead.

Wednesday was my half-day at Parkford and I spent that whole morning distracted and on edge. There was an insistent nagging going on inside me that I couldn’t seem to dampen, making me feel manic, jumpy, and unpredictable.

When those ridiculous ideas had first flooded into my head, I should have stopped them right there and then, but in my ever-building frenzy, I already knew I was about to do something stupid and out of character, and I was helpless to resist.

I found myself driving back to my apartment after lunch, filling a large cardboard box, then heading over to the East side, unable to stop myself hurtling toward what I already knew was certain disaster.

What the hell are you doing, Sarah?This was not me. Maybe I was tired of beingme, though. Safe Sarah, with her quiet job and her lonely apartment. Well, for once, to hell with all that. I turned off my rational brain, despite its screeching protests, and in a daze, I pulled my car into the dealership and walked up to the sleek glass doors.

“Hi there! What can we do for you today? Looking to buy, sell, trade up?”

I hated salesman-ship and wanted to get this over as quickly as possible. Before I had a chance to reclaim my thoughts and change my mind.

“How much would I get for that?” I said, pointing out of the glass windows to my red Chevy Trax. A pang of instant regret rose up at how flippantly I was offering up my beloved car for this madness. It had been named Toto on its first girls' road trip down to New Orleans years ago and I truly loved that car. It was a dear old friend, and we’d had some real scrapes and adventures over the years.

“Well, let’s go take a look!” said the annoyingly beaming man in his suit.

Half an hour later, I walked out of the dealership with the cardboard box of belongings from the trunk, a cheque for $5,000, and tried my best not to think about Toto watching me leave her behind.

Having made one ridiculous leap, I now had an even more powerful resolve to see this through. I’d already started, so there was no going back now, or else what was the point? Walking across the street to the dusty-looking pawn shop, I entered with the box of the most precious items I’d gathered throughout my life.

“Hey there!” The pawn shop owner yelped, seeming surprised at encountering another person as I stepped out of the sun and into the musty and gloomy shop. Each wall ofthe store was stacked with a jumble of cabinets that held a mismatch of people’s property that they had chosen—or more likely been forced to by circumstance—to turn into money instead.

As it turned out, the pawnbroker wasn’t all that interested in the most valuable things in my life. A lamp from Paris, a signed copy of Kitchen Confidential, an old laptop that only worked if it stayed plugged in, a few not-so-rare records.

“I can give you $100 for the lot.”

“Really? I was hoping for more.”

He looked at me ruefully, lifting his hands to say,it’s all I can do. As he saw the disappointment written across my face, he glanced down.

“If you really need the money, how about this?”

I looked down to where his eyes were fixed with a sinking feeling. I already knew what he had spied. That ring on my finger had been my grandma’s, the only thing I had left of her after she died six years back. I hadn’t taken it off, even once, since.

“Nice diamond, probably worth $2,000.”

“$3,000,” I said, surprising myself with the words from my mouth.

“Hmm, $2,200, okay?”

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