Top Ten(54)
“I can’t,” Gabby said. “Shay’s got a cello thing. Her teacher is this super-fancy old guy who lives in a big mansion in Katonah, and every December he has all his best students come for a recital and then a reception.”
Well, that sounded horrible. Still: “You want company?” Ryan heard himself ask. He’d go to some nerdy concert, if that’s what she was doing. After all, it wasn’t exactly like he’d started hanging out with her because of the super-fun activities she was always getting up to. Their entire friendship was built around playing Monopoly. “I’ll tag along.”
“You want to come?” Gabby looked like he’d suggested accompanying her to the gynecologist. “I mean, sure, if you want, but it’s not really your bag.”
That annoyed him a little. “Why?” Ryan asked, popping the top on his Mountain Dew. “Because I’m a moron and you’re erudite?”
“What?” Gabby said quickly, shaking her head. “No, stop. That’s not what I meant. Of course you’re not a moron.”
“I know I’m not,” Ryan said. “I just used erudite in a sentence.” It had been the word of the day on the app he’d downloaded, which sent a push notification to his phone every morning. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d pronounced it correctly. Still, it bugged him, the idea that Gabby thought there were certain things he automatically wouldn’t like or appreciate. He felt like she thought it more now that she was with Shay.
“You did, it’s true.” Gabby was smiling now. “Okay,” she said after a moment, reaching across the table and breaking off half of his chocolate chip cookie. “Yeah, come along. It’ll be fun.”
RYAN
He had a game against Hudson High that afternoon, up at the ice center near the river. Hudson was the only team in their league Ryan actually hated playing, a bunch of dickbags with faces like bulldogs and attitudes to match. They weren’t even that good, but their defensemen were all fucking giants, like the bad guys in an ’80s sports movie about the Cold War. Last time Colson had played them one of their wingers had wound up with a broken collarbone; a couple years ago, one of Hudson’s players hit a ref.
“All right, dudes,” Ryan said to the rest of the guys as they all huddled around the bench before the puck drop. It was his third season on varsity, and he was co-captain now. He’d never thought of himself as much of a leader, but Coach Harkin had the captains take turns talking at the beginning and end of every game, and Ryan always really liked pepping everybody up, telling them all what he thought they were good at and what they needed to focus on to beat a particular team. Sometimes he thought he liked that part more than actually playing. “You ready?”
It was an ugly game from the second the clock started. Colson was behind from the very beginning, their stick handling sloppy, their passes sluggish and slow. Ryan felt like he had lead in his skates. He could hear his dad’s voice in his head, just like he always could when things weren’t going well on the ice, sure as if the guy was sitting in the stands calling his name: The hell kind of hustle is that, kid? Why are you wasting my time?
Ryan shook his head, trying to focus. He knew his plays forward and backward, should have been able to skate through this defensive line in his sleep. But the truth was he was distracted: he kept thinking about that pile of bills next to the fridge in the kitchen, about what might happen if he couldn’t nail down a scholarship come next year. He knew that thinking about it was only going to make things worse for him. But he couldn’t put it out of his mind.
Things got a little better in the second period; Colson managed to tie it up, the puck slipping past Hudson’s goalie and hitting the net with a satisfying whoosh. Ryan was headed back across the center line, stopping briefly to bump his glove against his buddy Remy’s, when one of Hudson’s wingers checked Colson’s center, a scrappy freshman named Jeremy, hard enough to send him sprawling to the ice.
“Shit,” Ryan said, though Remy didn’t even take a moment to swear before he flew at the winger, fists waving, his hockey stick clattering to the ice. Then two Hudson defensemen threw themselves on Remy, and half a second later both teams were piled up in the center of the rink, gloves and sticks and legs and skates in a whirling tangle like a cartoon cyclone. “Shit,” Ryan said again, his own voice echoing inside his helmet, and skated right into the middle of the fray.
RYAN
The house in Katonah was in fact huge, a sprawling Victorian monstrosity with gingerbread scrollwork in the eaves and a wraparound porch and a turret. It smelled like flowers inside, and a little like death. Shay’s recital was being held in the formal living room, which was so big Ryan was fairly sure you could have fit several of his own house inside it. Rows of wooden folding chairs were set up facing a massive stone fireplace. He wondered if he should have worn a tie. His head hurt; he’d caught a skate to the side of the skull during the fight this afternoon, although that didn’t feel like a thing he ought to complain about too much. He’d played it off with Harkin in the locker room; ever since his trip to the hospital last year, he’d felt like the guy was watching him extra closely, and the last thing he needed now was to get benched.