Out of Play Page 2

  Out. As in out of the band. It’s like the crowd is inside my chest again. I struggle to slow my breathing. This is my life. Drumming is my life. “You’re going to take music away from me?”

  I look at Mom, but she lets her eyes drift closed.

  “No, kid. You’re going to take music away from you.” Don’s stern face doesn’t change.

  “I don’t have a problem,” I blurt out.

  “Then it won’t bother you to take a vacation.”

  I throw my arms in the air. “Fine, but I don’t call Alaska in February a vacation spot. I get to pick the place.”

  Don actually laughs. “You lost your chance to negotiate. It’s Seldon, Alaska, or nothing. Troy grew up around there, and he and Gary go back every once in a while. You can’t get into much trouble there and unlike L.A., it’s the kind of place you can hide out, because I swear to God, if I see your face plastered on a tabloid cover like you’re Lindsay fucking Lohan, you’re out. I’m not dealing with that shit anymore.”

  Mom shifts, her serious matching Don’s. “It’ll be an adventure, Bishop. We’ve never been to Alaska. It’ll be like when you were younger—just the two of us.”

  Those words shock my system. I feel like I really am trying to swallow my tongue like Don said. I can’t do this with Mom. Can’t handle the way she looks at me. Can’t handle her chewing her pink-painted nails, scared I’m going to lose it at any second. Push her graying brown hair behind her ear and know I’m probably giving her more of it.

  I shake my head. “Not her. I…I can’t go with her. If it’s her, I walk.” I look at Mom, hoping she’ll get it. Hoping she sees I’m not trying to hurt her, but instead she gasps, her chin starting to tremble.

  She looks over at Don, and I know he’ll save her, but he surprises me by saying, “No. Gary’s been through this before. He’s got this.”

  Mom looks as surprised as I am that he’s sending me with his brother.

  …

  We decided it would be better if no one knows who I am. And by we, I mean Don, but whatever. I get it. It’s not like I want people to know I’m stuck in some shithole town with people who probably marry their cousins.

  We dyed my bleached hair back to its original dark brown. Don wanted my lip ring gone, but there’s no way I’m losing it. They’re already shipping me off like some degenerate drug addict. I think I’m being pretty damn accommodating.

  Frustrated, I put my feet up on the dashboard.

  “How are you feeling? Any withdrawal symptoms or anything?”

  What? I look at my bodyguard, Gary. “First of all, it’s been over a week since the party. If I were going to withdraw, wouldn’t it have already happened? Second, I’m not a pill-head! I don’t take that shit every day. That’s what you guys don’t get.”

  “You don’t have to take something every day for it to be a problem.” There’s a tenseness in Gary’s voice I don’t often hear from him, but I ignore it.

  After what feels like a year, Gary pulls off the snow-covered road and into a snow-covered driveway in the middle of too many snow-covered trees to count. “It’ll serve you guys right if I get attacked by a bear or something.” As soon as I say it, I realize how stupid it sounds, but I don’t care.

  “Bears are asleep this time of year,” is all Gary says.

  Ignoring him, I look at the microscopic cabins in front of us. They’re the size of the hotel rooms from when we first started. Now, we always stay in suites.

  “They don’t usually rent them out this time of year, so we paid for the whole thing. They don’t know who you are, so now’s the time to tell me if you’re going to create an alias.”

  I drop my head to the side and look at him. He’s Don’s brother, but their last name is where the resemblance ends. Don’s huge. Gary’s small and thin. Don’s all business. Gary thinks he’s a comedian. Don is straight as they come. Gary is gay. There’s something about Gary that makes you not want to screw with him, though. Maybe it’s his big-ass, bodybuilding boyfriend.

  “This isn’t a game, man. It’s my life.”

  Gary shrugs. “Your call. You need to at least lose the last name, though. You can be like Madonna. All the really cool rock stars go by one name.” He winks.

  I curse under my breath. We just got here, and I’m already over it. “Funny.”

  I move to get out of the car, but he stops me. “You can do this, Bishop. I know it’s tough, but you can do it. Troy was a whole hell of a lot worse than you before he got clean. He went to rehab, and when he finished, we came here to recoup. Not the cabins, but his parents’ house. Did Don tell you Troy grew up here?”

  I’m still trying to sort through what he said. I never knew his boyfriend used to be an addict. And I hate that they’re comparing me to that. After pulling my arm away, I get out of the car. He’s right behind me. “Since we have the whole place, I want my own cabin.” Really, I’m still thinking about Troy and how they think I need the same treatment as someone who went to rehab.

  He walks to the trunk and opens it. “We’re next door to each other and you get random check-ins. I’ll also be searching your cabin often, and before we separate, I’m looking through your bag and your clothes. You go anywhere, you have to ask first. I want to see you before you go and when you come home. You also can’t be gone for longer than a couple hours at a time.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not done. We also have sit-down talks at least once a week. We’re also getting you on some kind of schedule. When Troy got clean, he started working out. I’m starting you with an hour walk daily. Sometimes we’ll go together, others you can go alone. It’ll be good for you to have some time being at one with nature.” Gary’s eyebrows go up. He’s obviously enjoying this.

  I groan, but it’s really just a cover. My heart’s beating a million miles an hour. There’s no time to think about the walk or any of the other shit he said. Gary’s going to search my bag. My mind flashes to the pills I have tucked in a little slit in the back. I think it’s hidden, but there’s a chance he’ll find it. “I’m in a town the size of a shoebox. I have no car and definitely no friends. It’s not like there’s anywhere I’m going to go…well, except on your walks, I guess.” I’m hoping this diverts him so he doesn’t realize I’m freaking the hell out.

  Gary laughs, and I suddenly want to punch him in the face. I used to like him better than Don. “Such a grouch. Now get over here and help me with the bags.”

  I take a step forward, somehow slip in the snow, and fall on my ass. Gary laughs harder.

  I fucking hate Alaska.

  Chapter Two

  PENNY

  Adrenaline rushes through me as I fly behind the enemy’s goal with the puck in my possession. The screaming crowd barely registers over the sound of my breathing and skates against ice. This game could get us into the semifinals, and we’re so close to the end.

  Ten seconds left.

  I know where each player is—most of us have been on the same teams for years—and I can pick out any of the guys by the way they move on the ice.

  I barely dodge the opposing center, and Mitch is weaving up the middle. He’s about to veer to the left and will be in front of the goal in perfect time. He just has to get around the defense. I’m watching out the corner of my eye as I keep the puck close. Mitch and I have more assists and goals than anyone else in the state, and that’s really saying something. There’s a lot of talent up here.

  Okay. Focus.

  Time slows as it always does when I’m moving this fast. Each push of my skate, each hit of my stick against the puck registers in my brain so I don’t screw up.

  Five seconds left.

  Just before number eight tries for a steal, I snap my stick and shoot the puck straight to Mitch who slams it toward the goal. Number eight rams me into the wall, forcing the air from my lungs, but I don’t tear my eyes from the net. The goalie reaches up and makes contact with the puck on the tip of his glove. I hold my breath until it fa
lls just to the inside of the red line.

  Despite my protesting ribs, I throw my hands in the air and scream as the buzzer rings. Number eight wasn’t fooling around. My side’s killing me. Mitch crashes into me for a hug, and the rest of the team mauls us.

  All the shit I get from outsiders for being the only girl on the team is totally worth it for this.

  …

  “Pen-ny! Pen-ny!” the guys chant as I step out of the girl’s locker room. I love this—the high from the game, from the crowd, from my guys. My white-blond hair is still soaked from the shower, and my whole body aches. They were a rough team, and I wonder how many bruises I’ll have tomorrow. I shift my huge hockey duffel higher on my shoulder, sending another wave of pain through my left side.

  “Party’s at Matt’s place!” Mitch tosses an arm over my shoulder, making me shift my bag again as we head for the door. He’d never insult me by asking to carry it. “You coming?”

  “I’ll be there.” There’s a part of me that wishes the guys were online gamers or D&D nerds or something so I didn’t have to deal with the partying, but at least they’re serious enough about hockey to not get into anything major. They also don’t say a word when I take their keys.

  “Heard back from Michigan yet?” His smile is wide, and his dark hair flops over his forehead. “Their women’s team is pretty hardcore.”

  My chest sinks because even Mitch doesn’t understand that I really want to keep playing with the guys. I don’t want to go to Michigan. I don’t want to go to Illinois or Washington or Wisconsin. I’ve given up explaining that I actually do want to stay in Alaska and go to UAA or UAF, so I usually give the most non-committal answers possible. To Mom, to Gramps, to everyone because apparently they all have a plan for Penny Jones that doesn’t include my input. “Not yet.”

  “Do you have to check in at home first?” Mitch asks quietly.

  “Yeah. Mom’s working tonight, so I definitely need to stop by.” I love Gramps, and it scares me to leave him at home for too long. So far, his confusion hasn’t gotten dangerous, but I still worry. He was too tired to come to my game, and that doesn’t happen often.

  “When’s your mom going to hire someone to stick around him?”

  I can’t think about that yet. It’s too drastic. “Not until we have to. He’s had a lot of good days lately.” Even as I say the words, I know he’ll go downhill no matter what we do.

  Mitch gives me a squeeze because he’s known me long enough to understand what I need. “Want me to do your check-in with you?”

  “No.” I know Mitch would, but I also know he’d probably rather not. I’d rather him not because he’ll bring his girlfriend with him and watching them might kill my buzz from the game. I want to head straight to the party, even though I’m not a drinker. Someone has to be there to make sure the guys don’t accidentally kill one another playing some daredevil game while wasted.

  “I’ll be keymaster until you get there, cool?” He gives me another squeeze.

  “Thanks.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Mitch gets my need to keep our friends safe—even when they’re too shit-faced to give a crap either way.

  I glance at the door where Mitch’s girlfriend, Rebecca, is scowling at me. Like she always does when I stand close to Mitch. She’s perfectly dressed and perfectly made-up with her tiny, curved body and perfectly smooth brown hair. The exact opposite of the kind of girl who could understand Mitch. Whatever.

  He gives me a peck on the side of his head before dropping his arm and his bag and running to pick her up. This always appeases her, and generally makes me realize that I might not be as okay with him and Rebecca as I’d like to be. He’s dated before, but Rebecca’s different. She’s been around longer, and he shows no sign of wanting to move on to someone else. It sounds crazy, but Mitch has always been a given with me. He’s my best friend, and I’ve never had a doubt that someday there would be a Mitch and Penny.

  The little pang of longing or loss or jealousy is brief, but only because I’m good at pushing it away.

  “Good game, Jones.” Freddie and Chomps—well, David, but we all call him Chomps—slap me on the back as I step around Mitch and Rebecca who have just become a twisted-up mess of hormones in the doorway. Chomps is defense and about as big as you’d expect a guy with a nickname like Chomps to be. He and his girlfriend aren’t this obnoxious. It might have something to do with the fact that they’ve been dating since, like, eighth grade and are likely to get married within two months of graduation, but still.

  “See ya, Lucky Penny!” Mitch manages a short wave before he’s again sucked in by the vacuum that is Rebecca’s lips. Or maybe it has more to do with her boobs.

  “Shove it, asshole.” I grin as I push open the second set of doors even though I’m not feeling it. The thought of losing Mitch makes it hard to breathe. I just need to get home and do my check-in so I can meet up with everyone, then I’ll be fine again. I’m sure.

  The snow’s coming down hard, and there’s probably already a foot of the heavy, wet stuff in the parking lot. Good thing Matt lives close to me, because if he didn’t, there’s no way I’d drive in this mess just to watch the guys get trashed.

  Bitty, my red truck, spins sideways out of the parking lot, and I give her a bit of extra gas just to kick up some snow and keep her sideways a bit longer. Once she gets traction again, I shove her in four-wheel drive for the trip home.

  I flick on the radio to my favorite rock station and crank it up—anything to keep my high from the game for a while.

  When I glance behind me, Chomps’s truck is on my tail, filled with guys, also skidding sideways and spraying snow. It sucks to have to check-in at home instead of riding with them. It’s bad enough I miss the locker room talk. Then again, they probably talk about girls whenever I’m not around, so maybe I should be glad I’m not there.

  What matters is they take care of me on the ice, and I take care of them. A team. At least for a few more games. And then comes the part I don’t want to think about because I’m not ready for anything to change.

  …

  I live in the crazy house off the corner near the river.

  This is Alaskan direction speak. My Gramps and Gramma lived in a trailer, and then they built around that. And then they added on to that, and then they added on again. Gramps lives in the trailer part that’s now shielded by our house, but it still looks like a trailer parked in the basement when you’re inside.

  At last count, we had five different kinds of siding on our three and a half story house, in five different colors of brown and blue, and a half junkyard’s worth of cars off the left side for Gramps’s hobby. To the right are the perfect, tidy little log cabins and manicured yard (now buried under several feet of snow) that Mom and I rent out in the summer. Two of our small cabins have lights on, and I remember we have guys up from California.

  Hopefully, the renters won’t stick around for long. It’s annoying having to worry about guests during hockey season—especially rich ones who expect special treatment just because they’ve rented out the whole place during winter. It’s our off-season. Who else is going to be here?

  I put my truck in park and see Gramps line-dancing in the second story kitchen. Gramps in the kitchen usually means he’s not all present, but he’s happy. It’s his normal. Mild dementia, and what the doctor says might turn to Alzheimer’s, hit two years ago when Gramma died. In his lucid moments, he tells me it’s better this way. He doesn’t miss her as much as he would if he always knew what was going on. It both breaks my heart and relieves me.

  In his spots of drastic confusion—anything goes. Fortunately, those don’t happen often. It’s another reason I wish Dad was still around because maybe if Gramps hadn’t lost both his son and his wife, his mind would still work.

  I kick off my winter boots in our large entry and jog up the wooden stairs to the second story where we live. Other than the hole I call my room, downstairs houses a bunch of freezers, Gramps’s food storage, and a
big rack for all my hockey, snow-machining, and motocross gear. Gramps is big into “preparedness” even though it’s borderline paranoid. I’d blame the dementia, but he’s had this little quirk for as long as I can remember.

  “Hey, Gramps.”

  He stops mid-dance step with a fresh pie in his hand. His long beard touches the top of Gramma’s old white and red checked apron with frilled lace on the edges. He says the apron brings him luck in the kitchen. I’m not about to argue since I don’t know how to cook, and most of what he makes is delicious.

  “Lucky Penny! How are ya, my girl!” He grins wide, wrinkling the skin around his eyes.

  “I’m good.” He sets the pie on the counter with a flourish, and I wrap my arms around him for a quick hug.

  “What’cha got there?” I ask as my stomach starts to grumble. I have no idea how many calories I burn in a game because I’ve never been a calorie-counting kind of girl, but I do know I’m always starving when we finish.

  “Steak and strawberry pie.” He smiles proudly.

  My stomach turns—first because no one should put a piece of steak in their mouth at the same time as a strawberry, and second, it means he’s not doing as well as I want him to—at least not tonight. Definitely not good enough for me to feel okay about ditching him for a party.

  He picks up the faded, red hot-pads and does a few dancing steps to the god-awful country music he’s listened to since I can remember. His gray ponytail hangs halfway down his back and swings a bit as he two-steps to the other side of the plywood-floored kitchen.

  “You want a slice?” he asks.

  “Nah. I ate after the game.” I swallow the lump that formed in my throat, and tears spring to my eyes. I know Gramps says he doesn’t care he’s like this, but I know better. I’m wondering if it’ll hit him before or after he takes a bite of the stupid pie.