Page 43 of Icing Hearts

Discomfort worms its way through my guts. True friendship shouldn’t be so daunting. I’m fairly certain I grimace externally, and Jack lets out a soft giggle. “Okay,” I grit out. “But on a trial basis and only because you already figured out my wiles.”

“You have such nice wiles. Have a good class, friend.” He gives my chin a gentle pinch, and I scurry into history.

Tory ignores me throughout class. At one point, he excuses himself and is gone for a long time. As soon as the bell rings, he bolts with nary a glance. It’s not until I notice a flower stuck to my locker that I feel my heart sink.

There’s a note:

Uncommon and beautiful. Just as I suspected. -T

Tory doesn’t show up to our tutoring session before practice. I sit in the stands for two hours, doing homework and watching the team run drills and scrimmage. Several times, I hear Coach Anderson scream his whistle, and lay into Tory.

Tory’s behavior is becoming erratic. One minute he seems fine with Vince and I, the next, he’s scowling. Sometimes he seems like he’s into me, and others, like I’m the bane of his existence. Saturday is the perfect example. In the morning, we’re laughing on the bench together and at night, he’s acting tortured by my presence in some masochistic way after knocking out Henry Mavis on my behalf. And now I’m left with emotional whiplash. That’s the danger of not telling someone how you truly feel.

Chapter 26

Clara

Vince gives me a ride to the station after practice. He asks me to hang out, but I’m really not in the mood so we make a date for tomorrow instead. So I sit with Marcia, my favorite receptionist and get the latest update on her grandkids. She shows me pictures of them from the lake this summer, and I realize I haven’t spent much time at the station since school ended last year. My father has gotten worse, and I’ve been avoiding him at all costs. It’s just easier to stay out of his way most of the time.

Marcia brought homemade split pea soup and fresh sourdough. She heated it up in her slow cooker for everyone in the breakroom, and we wolf it down at her desk. My homework is done, and I’ve outlined an essay that’s due next week. I studied for a test that won’t happen for two days. There are a few extra laptops that the detectives use to take people’s statements in private rooms, and I use one to look at colleges. After reading about various academic programs at in-state schools, I find my focus drifting toward hockey team rankings.

Boston University is ranked number one. Minnesota a close second. I wonder where Tory will go. He always wants the best, gets the best. My heart trips over an uneven beat when I realize he’ll probably go out of state.

“Watcha doing?” Marcia asks, peering over my shoulder.

“Just looking at colleges.” I give her a small smile. Small because my grades will gain me entrance at most institutions, but I’ll be limited to where I can gain a full scholarship.

“Have your sights set on any?”

I shrug. “Somewhere in state.”

Marcia rattles off half a dozen follow-up questions. She has six children and fifteen grandchildren, a few of whom have already gone through the college application process. I imagine she’s gained a lot of knowledge on the topic, perhaps at her family’s weekly Sunday night dinners. She said she makes three pounds of ziti and thirty meatballs every week. She lost her husband to cancer a few months before my mom died.

That’s likely why she’s become so loyal to my father. She thinks they’ve been through the same thing. Sometimes I wonder if she’d even believe me, were I to blurt out the truth.

“Do you have much interest in college hockey?” she asks, gesturing to the pictures still displayed on the screen.

I exit from the windows and lean back in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest protectively. “Well, I like hockey, and I’m managing the team now.”

“That Victor Amato sure is a looker, isn’t he?” She eyes me warily over her third mug of soup. The metal spoon clinks against the chipped ceramic rim as she stirs and blows steam from the surface.

“He is.” There’s no denying it, and if I tried, Marcia would certainly grow suspicious.

“You’ve been wearing his jersey.”

Oh. So she’s digging. “I have.”

“I hope your father doesn’t find out.”

“He doesn’t go to the games. I don’t see how he would.”

Marcia sighs and abruptly rises from the chair across from the table I’ve been sitting at, leaving her soup mug and a couple wayward green plops behind. She returns moments later with a folded-up newspaper and drops it on the desk beside my hand.

I unfold the paper, my eyes immediate zeroing in on the large, color photo on the front page of the sports section. Two figures wearing AMATO jerseys sit close together on the bench. One wears their blonde curls in a ponytail with a ribbon. She’s looking at the boy beside her. Smiling broadly, like she’s…in love. The boy’s head is tossed back—mid-laugh, but you can’t see his face. It’s grainy, but it’s very obviously me and very obviously him.

“Did the chief see this?” I ask casually. It may seem weird that I call him “the chief” but I started doing it after my mom died, and no one said anything about it. I don’t even call him “dad” to his face. He doesn’t deserve the title.

Marcia shakes her head. “No, I pulled that page from all the copies before he could see it. He usually only reads the police reports and the breaking news, anyway.” She folds and re-folds a soiled paper towel on the table, her knobby fingers deft.

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