Page 28 of The Fine Line
But first, one last summer in Lake Placid.
I thought about skipping camp this year—finally giving myself one normal summer. But that idea died quickly.
One: my dad wasn’t hearing it. At all.
Two: my best friend’s coming to U of T anyway. Whether it’s to play hockey with me again or to be closer to Julia—who he’s been absolutely whipped for since my party last fall—, I’ll beseeing Bennett for a few more years to come. A couple months apart won’t kill us.
So here I am. Finishing what I started.
At a place that feels more like home than home ever did.
And with how this summer’s already going... I can say that for more reasons than one.
It’s been a hell of a day, but I’m not ready to head back to my room. Even after eight straight hours of hockey, I still need to blow off steam.
I jog down the Olympic Center steps and across to Lake Placid High. I reach the gate, let myself in, and keep running until I hit the outdoor skating loop—one of the perks of training in a town built for winter sports.
I drop my bag, dig out my rollerblades, and I’m barely lacing the first one when I spot the back of a familiar head. Brown curls spilling from under a cap I’d recognize from a hundred meters away.
He’s locked in, taking this lap fast. I finish lacing in record time, dash behind a pole, and jump out right as he passes.
“Jesus!” he gasps, clutching his chest as he tries to shove me. I dodge him, smirking.
“What the hell, Rhett?”
“On your left, Di Fazio.” I spin around, skating backward in front of him.
He scowls. “Is summer over yet?”
“Not quite,” I say, mouth curling. “But it’s my last one here. After this, you’ll never have to see my face again.”
Blake tilts his head, mock-frowning. “But it’s such a pretty face.”
“I know. Tragic,” I sigh. “You’ll get over it.”
Blake Di Fazio is probably one of the only real friends I have—wild, considering I only see him in the summer.
He’s from here. Small town. Only child. Another athlete. Heplays baseball, and we both use outdoor workouts to clear our heads.
We crossed paths as kids and just… kept crossing. Somewhere along the way, it turned into real conversations. The kind that stick.
He rolls his eyes, trying not to smile. “So. You wanna talk about it?”
“About what?”
“Your bad day?”
I slow down. “What makes you think I had a bad day?”
“Camp let out,” he checks his watch, “nine minutes ago. And you’re already here.”
“Maybe I just missed you.”
“Maybe you’re full of shit.”
I laugh under my breath, spin around, and slow until we’re skating side by side.
“Wanna race a lap?” I ask.
