Page 8 of College Hockey Bully

“Either that or get stuck at Hempton,” I reply with a shrug, moving forward.

“Sweetie, I just vacuumed the carpet.”

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to get inside—” She stops me as I attempt to take my shirt off.

“Your father’s home,” she whispers, glancing at the door to her right. “Go on to your room. I’ll clean up afterward.”

“What do you mean he’s home?” I whisper back, concerned. Dad is never here until six most evenings. I didn’t even see his old truck out front.

Her expression draws sadly. “Terrible day, my dear. The cops impounded the truck because he parked illegally in town.”

“Oh, no…” That truck has been around since I was a kid. Dad loved his old machine.

“It happened after Mr. Lewis let him go,” she goes on.

“He lost his job?”

She sighs. “Yup. Apparently, the company bought a landscaping machine that can do the work faster than any man. Your dad and a few others got their last check today.”

I hug myself, not knowing what else to say. This isn’t our first tangle with disappointment. All my life, we’ve endured having the rug pulled out from under us so often that I’ve lost count. One thing’s for sure, it has toughened me.

But God, I’m tired of being tough. I’m sick of being resilient through all the hardship life has made us face. When will it be our time to shine? To be happy. To bask in success. Not having to worry about the bills and groceries. Moving from this poverty-stricken home into someplace where I’d be proud to take a friend or two—well, if I had one. I’d probably make friends if I wasn’t ashamed of where I lived.

“Dad’s going to bounce back. He always does, you know that,” Mom says, rising with a positive smile. “He’s going to put some money together, get that truck back and find a new job.”

For once, her optimism doesn’t light a fire in me. A disheartening feeling lodges in my gut. What if this is our destiny? To live poor and desolate, always scraping to make ends meet? That curveball regarding the internship might be a sign.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” she admonishes, smoothing away my frown with the tips of her thumbs across my forehead. “We’re going to get through this.”

“Mom—”

“No,” she says sternly, knowing exactly what I’m about to say. “You’re this close to making it. There’s going to be no talk about quitting and finding a job.”

“I could work part-time,” I suggest.

“With your crazy schedule? Scarlett, you’re doing a double science major, or have you forgotten?”

“I could push stuff back, go an extra year—”

“Don’t you dare. You did your part by getting a full scholarship. Your dad and I are handling the rest.” She gently pushes at my shoulder. “Go, get out of those wet clothes.”

With Milo following me, I hurry into my small bedroom, then I close the door and lean against it. He comes up and nuzzles me, the action triggering a sob that soon erupts into a silent cry. Forgetting about my wet clothes, I wrap my arm around him and let it all out until I feel empty.

Getting to my feet, I take my clothes off, then rub Milo dry. Tabitha’s earlier words come back at me and I realize how right she was. Sometimes, I hate being strong. I want to be that vulnerable, damsel in distress waiting for a hero to rescue me.

Who am I kidding? There’ll never be a hero. No one wants the nerd with the resting bitch face who wears clothes two sizes too big, the so-called snitch who got the hockey team disqualified from the semis last year. The trailer park trash. If there’s going to be any rescuing, I’ll have to do it myself.

Which means taking the internship, getting those credits and graduating with my first-class degree.

I change into an oversized T-shirt that once belonged to my sister, Theresa, then with Milo lounging on the carpet, I curl up in my twin bed, listening to a Ted Talk from a world-famous orthopedic surgeon, while trying to erase Aiden’s furious expression from my mind. The dynamics of treating muscle-related injuries might be difficult, but in this moment, I’d rather perform a dozen surgeries than face that ice god’s wrath again.

Wishful thinking. I have no other choice.

***

“Trust me, it’s quite simple. You come in for an hour or two, pick up some dirty uniforms, clean a couple skates and hang a few helmets—bam! You’re done,” Melissa, my supervisor says while walking ahead of me. “Although, the more time you spend, the quicker I can sign your internship card.” She stops at a door and pauses with her hand on the knob. “Then again, you probably want to drag it out and I don’t blame you. Those boys are mighty fine!”

I’d probably laugh at her exaggeration if we weren’t about to enter the last place I’d want to be. A restless night has emphasized my nervousness. I might seem poised and ready on the outside, but my insides feel liquified by fear. I don’t know what to expect. I’m not sure how they will receive me. One thing’s for sure; it won’t be good.

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