11
Brenna
On Sunday, before Smith arrives, I hop in the shower. Last night's game went late. I was too tired to shower when I got home, and I reek of hockey equipment. It's a smell that reminds me of sweat and dirty socks. My shower is quick, as I have limited time before Smith arrives. When I'm finished, I tie my hair up in a wet bun and apply a thin layer of makeup. Enough makeup to cover the bags under my eyes. This past week has been rough. Every morning, I've been getting up at five A.M. for hockey practice or a morning spin class. After the gym or practice, I usually head to school, where I sit in class for almost eight hours (minus lunch break). Then, depending on the day, I either have to work or help my team win a hockey game. Or there's another hockey practice. It all depends on the day.
Water drips down my back as I pull on a Nike sweater and a pair of pale skinny jeans. My bedroom is a disaster, so I take fifteen minutes to locate my French textbook, notes, pens and pencils, and the final outline I've printed for Smith. Last night, before I crashed, I highlighted the portions we could do. I think he's going to be okay with it. I've divided the work up evenly, and the workload isn't too much. But Smith and I will discuss before anything is completed.
With my arms full of our French project, I head downstairs to the kitchen and lay the items out on the island. It's a quarter after one, meaning Smith is fifteen minutes late. I'm worried he knocked while I was showering. He would've texted me though.
However...
I haven't checked my phone recently.
Sorting through the papers and pencils, I find it beneath Smith's copy of the outline. When I tap the home button, the lock screen pops up and shows me three unread text messages. The first one says he's here. Hey, I'm here. He directs the second at me, asking me where I am. Harrison, where are you? His third text messages confuses me. I'll shoot some pucks, then.
As I'm heading to the front door, to make sure he hasn't left, I rub my chin. How are pucks related to French homework? Slipping my phone in my pocket, I step outside in my socks and walk down the pathway. When I come to the driveway, I hear a puck ring off of the post. My frown deepens when I see Smith taking shots. His bag is leaning against the tire of his car and his sling is draped over the hood. My first instinct is to tell him he's being stupid. If he continues to do this, he's going to worsen his injuries. Upon closer inspection, I see he's not overextending his injured shoulder. Smith is being careful with his actions.
He takes a shot, trying to hit the old water bottle I left behind.
It misses. There's not enough strength in his shot, but the aim is also off.
He loosens a muffled curse. When he turns around and makes eye contact with me, that same curse is expelled clear as day. The stick falls from his grip, clattering against the asphalt. He rests a hand against his chest. "Are you trying to kill me? he demands.
I snort, leaning against the pillar. "Trust me, Smith, if that were the case, my tactics would be direct. No beating around the bush here."
A lopsided grin appears on his face. He removes his ball cap and runs a hand through his hair, setting the cap on backwards. It looks good on him, but not nearly as good as the tan-coloured varsity jacket. It hugs him in all the right places. "Glad to know I'm worth the trouble."
The last thing I want is for his sarcasm to bring a smile to my face. But it does. "How long have you been out here?" I ask.
"Five minutes, give or take," he shrugs with one shoulder. "No big deal."
We lapse into silence for a few seconds. I'm not sure where I'm supposed to direct this conversation. Smith pulls his mouth to one side and leans down to pick up the hockey stick.
"Were you trying to hit the water bottle?" I ask. Hockey is a common topic between us. I know he hates me being on the team, but he can't disrespect the sport.
"Yeah," he sighs, eyeing the Gatorade water bottle. He rotates his injured shoulder with a concise motion. "I want to blame the lack of accuracy on my shoulder, but I've never been good at hitting the water bottle."
I push off of the pillar and head down the remaining steps. "Hard to believe. You have a wicked wrist shot." Leaning down, I scoop up the puck and drop it in front of him. "Let me see your stance."
When Smith doesn't move, my gaze flicks up to his. It isn't hard to tell he's not pleased. The last thing he wants is a girl giving him advice on how to shoot. "Come on," I press. "A little help won't harm your ego." I gesture to the space surrounding us. Although KJ lives around the corner, I rarely see him. He exits the neighbourhood in the opposite direction. "None of your buddies will see you."
He's far from concerned about what his buddies will think. I know if KJ or Jayden were to see him receiving lessons from me, they'd be over here begging for some tips, too. Every once in a while, when Smith isn't around, Jayden will talk to me. He's good kid compared to the other members of Smith's team.
"Fine," he mutters, shifting into his stance. It's a little off because of his injury, but it's basic and correct. However, when I check where his hands are placed, I realize what his problem is.
"Your left hand should be down a little lower," I say, guiding his hand down the hockey stick until it's a forearm length down the shaft from his top hand. I ignore the warmth of his hands and the roughness of his knuckles. "And applying downward pressure into the playing surface. It'll engage the flex of your stick, providing better accuracy."
He's hesitant, but he follows through. His shot is feeble, skimming asphalt, but it hits the back post below the water bottle. A small ring radiates across the driveway. Once his healing process is complete, he should be able to hit the water bottle, no problem.
"Huh," he says, leaning against the stick. "That wasn't too bad."
His genuine surprise surprises me. Maybe I was wrong to judge our truce so harshly. There seems to be some stability building between us. It feels alien to flash him a smile, but that's what I do. "Try it after your shoulder has healed. That way, you'll have a better chance of gauging the strength of your shot and combining it with accuracy." I pause, deciding to push this a little further. "To be honest, I wish your shoulder wouldn't heal. I cringe every time I think about blocking your shot."
Smith chuckles. "You've always been a defensive forward. It takes guts, Harrison. I leave that job to my defence."
Once again, I'm surprised. Did Shea Smith just... Did he just compliment me?
I tuck a strand of curled hair behind my ear, surprised. Spending some time out here taking shots might be a good way to ease the tension. Ironically, hockey appears to be working. Without another word, I jog to the side of the house and grab an extra hockey stick. When I return, Smith is wrapping his arm back in the sling. I'm impressed. After several failed attempts, I'd toss that sling to the ground and leave it behind.
"We should head inside," Smith says. "Our French project needs some TLC." When he glances up at me, I'm still staring at the sling. Aside from the velcro being slightly out of place, he's done a perfect job. His arm is secure. "The doc taught me how." He nods at the front door. "So?"
"Why?" I ask, flexing my hockey stick. "We could stay out here for a few hours." I pause. Smith's injured shoulder isn't something to take lightly. We can't stay out here and shoot pucks. He could go for a light jog, though. With the sling keeping his arm secure, there wouldn't be too much jarring. "Or we could go for a jog. I have a fantastic route."
Smith leans on his hockey stick, grinning at me. "Loosen up, Harrison. French isn't relaxing, but your body could use a break."
A rush of panic goes through me. What's wrong with my body? "Excuse me?" My voice shakes as I ask, but he doesn't detect my nerves. Instead, he curses and retracts his sentence.
"I—that's—" He stumbles over his words, but recovers. "Exhaustion. I'm talking about exhaustion. Too much physical activity causes burnout. Being an outstanding hockey player is about regulation; a balance between working and relaxing. You had practice last night, and you went to the gym. Take a break for once."
My lips press into a firm line as my defensive side awakens. What is it with people telling me to relax? I'm living a healthy lifestyle and pursuing my dreams. I don't see any unhealthiness there. My determination is stronger that most people's. "You're one to talk," I scoff. "I saw you at the gym yesterday. Why do you even come to the Westside when you live in the Kettle Valley? And what about your shoulder, huh? Why workout when it's injured?"
I already know the answer. Smith comes to this side to work out with KJ—and because the Westside has the best gym. He also avoided any upper body strength training or anything that would jar his shoulder. I recall the moment we made eye contact last night while I was on the treadmill. He didn't sneer at me or expel a rude comment. He looked away. It was... strange. Smith will take a jab at me whenever he can. Last night, I couldn't help but feel appreciative. He let me work out with no conflict.
I'm still pissed about his comment about my body, though.
Before I can continue the conversation, Smith speaks again. "Your body is fine, trust me."
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his cheeks turn pink. "We should just get inside," he mutters, shoving past me. He leans the hockey stick against the side of the house and stoops down to collect his backpack.
I stare after him, wondering where he got such a high audacity level. He thinks he can just walk into my house? After he's stepped inside and discarded his shoes, he disappears around the corner, heading for the kitchen. I question it for a brief moment before a pang of memory goes through my heart. Of course he knows where the kitchen is. I've lived in this house all my life. Once upon a time, Smith and I were friends. Carpool buddies. Teammates.
Am I foolish to feel sympathy for our relationship after all the turmoil we've faced?
Probably.
Memories are terrible in that sense; they can ambush you and remind you of what was. Of what you lost. I'll never understand why our friendship crumbled to dust. Why the foundation cracked and left us treading dangerous waters.
Sighing, I follow suit, resting my hockey stick beside his.
* * *
Today's session has gone well. We've had a few disagreements, but none have led to a shoving or yelling match. I call that progress. Now that we're finished with our target goal, Shea's packing up his belongings. He has a hockey game he needs to attend tonight. They're playing Salmon Arm, and he wants to be there to support his team.
"Next Saturday afternoon won't work for me," I reply. "I have to work." After work is over, I'm hosting a small party.
"Where do you work?" Smith frowns. He pauses amid stuffing a binder into his backpack. I've offered several times to help, but he's denied my offer each time. In a polite manner. His politeness is off-putting. He's never polite around me.
"Buckerfields," I reply. "Whenever there's a shipment, I unload the truck and help place products on the shelf. It's spontaneous, but there's a guaranteed shipment every Saturday. One time, I was called in at two A.M., but I enjoy the work."
Smith's mouth pulls to one side, as if he's stuck in deep thought. "No wonder your slap shot hurts so much. Heaving bags of dog food all day must exhaust your muscles."
I have to admit, I'm surprised. Smith's the only one who understands why I took this job. When I told my friends, they thought it was too much on top of hockey and attending the gym. "It does," I reply. "It's like free strength training."
He shakes his head. "No. It's like you're being paid to do strength training."
A small smile encompasses my lips. "I never thought about it that way."
After Smith has loaded his backpack, he holds up the wet cloth. Halfway through our session, he had to take some painkillers and ice his shoulder. I had to find him an icepack and cloth to wrap it in. Now that the icepack has unthawed, the cloth is wet. "Where can I put this?" he asks.
"There's a laundry bin in the closet upstairs," I reply, rinsing the last of the hummus from the bowl. When that's drying in the sink, I put the remaining carrot and celery sticks in a plastic container. That goes in the fridge. I turn back to the sink, soaking a clean dish cloth. "But I can take it up later. Leave it in the sink."
"Nah," he shrugs. "I've got this. You're busy."
I glance down at the sudsy cloth in my hand. Now that I have put the food away, I need to wipe down the island. It's covered in pencil shavings and energy bar wrappers, and smudges from our fingerprints. We were too invested in our work to worry about the garbage can. "Okay," I reply. "That'd be great. Thanks."
Smith heads upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen. Mom's supposed to be home within the next hour. I was planning on making a stir fry for dinner. It would be a great way to use up the veggies Smith and I didn't eat. But putting together our project and setting dates has exhausted me. I might just grab a pizza from the freezer and stick it in the oven.
Five minutes have passed by the time the kitchen is clean. Aside from the pile of papers and school supplies on the island's corner, the cleanliness levels up to Mom's standards. I hang the wet cloth across the barrier that separates our dual kitchen sink, leaning against the counter when I'm done. Smith isn't back yet, which makes me wonder what's taking him so long.
I draw my bottom lip between my teeth. Why do I suddenly feel awkward in my own house? God, I hope I closed my bedroom door. Clothes are strewn everywhere and piles of books are on the floor. I'd been rearranging my bookshelves before I realized I needed to shower.
Gathering my books and school supplies in my arms, I head upstairs to my bedroom. The closet door at the top of the stairs is partially open. I shrug to myself. He must've gone to the bathroom. At least, I'm hoping he has. As a hostess, it would be rude to leave him alone. After letting himself in without an invitation through the door, I'm assuming he's comfortable enough to make himself feel at home in the kitchen. If I'm not down there, maybe he'll leave.
Before heading to my room, I adjust the closet door. If we don't close it properly, the noise of the dryer will echo down the hallway. It's rather annoying. When I enter my bedroom, I set the papers, binder, textbook, and pens and pencils on the bottom shelf of my bookshelf. Seeing it there, acting as nothing but clutter, aggravates me, but I vow to organize it later. Just like the rest of my room. After I've cooked dinner and watched Vancouver's exhibition game, though. My eye catches one of the many books I haven't yet read. Although I'm a compulsive reader, I'm also a compulsive book buyer. I buy books despite having several I haven't read. I grab one and slide it under my arm. It's fun to read while doing sit-ups with the game on in the background.
When I turn around, I see something I never would've expected in a million years.
Smith is standing in my bedroom. His side profile is visible as his eyes inspect the pictures on my wall. No—wait. He has one in his hand.
The book slips from beneath my arm. A small scream escapes from my lips. "Goddamn it, Shea! What the hell are you doing in my room?"
He turns to me, frowning. "Did you just call me Shea?"
"That's your name, isn't it?" I snarl. I'm embarrassed. That's why I'm using my attitude to conceal it. How did I not see him when I walked in?
The crease between his brows becomes more defined. "You never call me by my first name."
Swiping the book from the floor, I toss it on my bed and walk over to Smith. I plant myself in front of him, my arms crossed and brow cocked. "Why are you in my room, Shea?"
I use his first name to shake him, which it does. He clears his throat and averts his gaze. "Why do you have a picture of me?" he mutters. "Brenna... we haven't hung out since middle school."
Okay, I can see what he means about using our first names. It is strange. He's called me Harrison for the past five years.
"So?" I ask, plucking the picture from his hand. I pinch the clothespin and position the frame of the Polaroid photo beneath it, making sure the photo is secure before I release it completely. The photo of Smith and I is from when we were nine. We're at the pond next to Rose Valley Elementary in mid-January, when ice has frozen over the surface. Save for our skates, gloves, and helmets, our hockey equipment has been replaced with winter gear; coats, snow pants, and scarves. My gaze lingers on it for a few seconds before I turn back to Smith. "We were friends. This rivalry stems from you, Smith. I've been in the dark since the moment you stated hating me."
He flicks his gaze to the photo. Sadness fills Shea's hazel eyes. It's a faint flicker of emotion, giving him a sense of humanity, but it fades quickly, replaced by the firm set of his jaw and a cold stare. "The past is the past, Harrison. Let it go." He turns his back to me, heading for the door.
I turn, following him. "Seeing people from your past makes it hard to let go. Why can't you tell me what I did? If I did anything to hurt you..." It doesn't give Smith the right to treat me like shit, but I want to be held accountable for my actions. If I offended him, I want the ability to apologize.
Shea stops at the doorway. "Because you wouldn't understand. Some things are better left unsaid, Harrison; matters need to be passed over in silence."
"You have no right to make that judgement."
He spins on his heel, tufts of his sandy hair sticking up from beneath his backwards ball cap. "Just like you have no right to play with the boys?"
My mouth drops open, and I feel my fists clench at my sides. His comment shouldn't surprise me. But it does. It does because I've been stupid. I tricked myself into believing our truce could hold up. "Get the hell out of my house, Smith. Now."
Muttering a curse, Smith trudges in the opposite direction, putting distance between us. He stops at the doorway. "Hey."
"What?" I snap, grabbing my book.
"I'm sorry, okay? You're... you're an excellent hockey player and your skills make me jealous. Sometimes, I can't control my reactions." He pauses, contemplating his next words. "Do you... KSS is having a bush party next weekend, up by my place. Friday night. Would you, uh, want to come?"
"No," I reply. In what world does an invitation make up for what just happened? He disrespected me. Agreeing to go to a party would make him think I forgive him, which I don't. I deserve to be on the ice just as much as he does. And if I have to drive it through his thick skull with my skates and hockey stick, I will.
"What?" He doesn't look offended that I've rejected his invitation, but he is surprised. Almost as if he thought reuniting as friends for a party would cure the damage between us. Unless he comes forward and tells me what made him hate me, nothing will be able to sedate the damage.
"No," I repeat, my voice firmer. He's not allowed to get away with all the shit he's put me through. "I don't want to put up with your hypocritical behaviour. If Chelsea wanted to play hockey with the boys, would you crush her dreams and say she's not allowed?"
Smith casts his gaze downward. His bottom lip is drawn between his teeth, silencing any response.
Of course he wouldn't.
"Exactly what I thought. You're a hypocrite. You are sexist to other women and girls. I've seen good qualities in you, Shea. But positive qualities account for nothing when they're only displayed in private. I don't know what's going on in your life, but even if things are difficult, you don't get to act like an ass without facing consequences."
With his lips pressed in a flat line, Smith exits my room and disappears down the hallway. As his footsteps echo down to the main floor, I glance at my photo wall. The picture of us sticks out like a sore thumb. Sadness envelopes my heart. Why is it painful to lose a friend? To be constantly reminded of it?
If I could go back to when things were simpler, I would.
But I can't.
Instead, I have to continue forward, wondering what the hell drove a wedge between us.
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