My phone buzzes in my pocket, and just when I’m assuming that maybe she’s changing her mind, I’m proven wrong when I spot a text from Shane filling my screen.
* * *
Shane: TOTALLY UNDERSTAND IF YOU DON’T WANT TO COME TONIGHT, BUT COACH STILL THINKS YOU ARE. AND YOU SHOULD. STARTS IN AN HOUR. DO IT FOR THE KIDS.
Fourteen
Ayla
* * *
I found myself short of breath by the time I was halfway here, and it wasn’t because of my brisk pace. The pressure in my chest is almost unbearable, and there’s nothing I can do to relieve the tightness.
If Rhett comes tonight—if he sees me, it’s over.
I should have waited for him to finish his phone call the other day so I could have come clean.
I’m not good with coming clean, because I’ve never really had to do it before. I’ve always been straightforward and honest from the get go, with everyone. I’m not a seasoned liar. A good liar could lie their way out of a lie, but not me.
Maybe lie is too strong of a word? Omission of information sounds better. Does that make it more forgivable? I have no idea.
Guess I’ll find out soon enough.
I head through the automatic doors at the Spartans’ rink and make a beeline for the arena where kids in green t-shirts with Bryce’s face on them line up along the edge, decked out in hockey gear.
The stands are already filling with parents and spectators and this thing doesn’t even start for another hour. The skate-a-thon was Coach Harris’ idea. I’d never heard of such a thing. I guess people pledge money on some kind of tiered system, and the more minutes the guys skate, the more money they make for the charity.
Which is weird to me because the charity will already have a good amount of money behind it once I receive my inheritance, but that attorney guy Coach hooked me up with said it’s better to fund it with donations than money out of my own pocket.
I insisted we do both if that was the case.
“Hey, hey.” Shane spots me almost immediately, skating over to the side. He and some of the guys were gliding around the ice, showing off shots and moves as the kids watched. “Glad you made it.”
“Everyone here?” I ask. And by everyone, I mean everyone.
His brow furrows as he scans the room. “Wignowsky and Zagami aren’t here yet.”
My heart pounds faster, harder. Rhett’s going to come around the corner any second now, I just know it.
“So everybody’s participating then? From the team?” I’ll rephrase my question as many times as it takes to get a definitive answer. I’m set to give a quick speech soon, and I need to know before I get out there if he’s going to be watching.
Shane’s lips bunch at the side. “Um, I don’t think Carson’s coming. I texted him earlier. He read it but didn’t reply. I wouldn’t put my money on it.”
Shit.
So much for getting a definitive answer.
“You ready to give your speech?”
“Yep.” Not really. I hate public speaking. Hate it.
“Cool, cool.” He lingers, like he wants to talk to me some more but has run out of things to talk about.
“Shane, come on,” one of the other players yells at him.
“I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?” he says, flashing a sweet smile.
“Sure.” I stick my hand in my pocket, pulling out my typed speech and reading it for the four hundred thirty-seventh time today. Occasionally I glance up, scanning the perimeter for that one familiar face, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Ayla.” Coach Harris chucks his arm around my shoulder and infiltrates my personal space with his old man cologne. “Good to see you. Guys are all on their way here. Let’s get this started, shall we?”
All ... the guys?
My knees weaken and my stomach churns. A quick check of the time on my phone tells me I won’t be able to get a drink of water, use the restroom, or bolt out of here like a crazy person.
“You ready?” he asks, guiding me toward the ice. There’s a carpet laid out for me to walk on since I don’t have skates. It goes to a makeshift temporary riser. Some young girl in headphones hands me a microphone, whispering that it’s on.
This is all happening so fast.
The lights go dark. There’s a spotlight on me. The crowd is hushed, and while I can’t see them, I know their eyes are on me.
Smiling, I take my place.
“Welcome, everyone, my name is Ayla Caldwell, and Bryce Renner was my brother,” I say. “Thank you so much for coming tonight to celebrate the life of Bryce Renner and to kick off the foundation we have established in his name. We hope to utilize Bryce’s charity as a way to reach inner city youth who may be interested in playing hockey. We also hope to provide scholarships and mentoring, special training opportunities with the players, one-on-one workshops, and camps. If there’s one thing I knew about my brother, more than anything else, it’s that he was passionate about hockey. He lived for this sport. And now, with your support, his legacy and love of the game will live on through so many others. Thank you.”
The crowd applauds, and Coach takes the mic. My vision is temporarily blinded from the spotlight and everything is still pitch black, so I have to feel my way through the crowd gathered on the sidelines.
As soon as I reach the hall, I can see again.
I can also breathe again.
With my back against a cool brick wall, I peer down the hallway, half expecting to see Rhett. Half expecting him to come barreling toward me in full gear with angry eyes and an unforgiving sneer.
But there’s no one.
They’re all inside, watching the skate-a-thon begin.
The sound of cheesy sports music pumps from speakers by the rink, wafting down the corridors and echoing off the walls.
Coach said this could last for hours. The last one they did went until one o’clock in the morning. It all depends on the guys, and since this is the off-season, their individual stamina will vary.
Drawing in a lungful of refrigerated air, I head back in.
If Rhett’s in there, and if he heard my speech, there’s no going back now.
What’s been done is done.
It’s a quarter past midnight by the time the ice arena empties. With heavy lids and tired eyes, I tell the guys to take care, and Coach Harris tells me he’ll be in touch with me with the final numbers soon.
Standing outside the rink, I order an Uber because it’s much too late to be walking through the city by myself, and I stand beneath the neon sign, waiting.
The little green icon on my phone tells me I have several unread texts from tonight. Most of them are from my mom, two are from Bostyn, one is from my roommate back in LA, and the other is from Rhett.
My heart stops.
And then I tap his name.
Relief washes over me in tidal waves. It’s an image of his bed, empty, and captioned with, “IT’S NOT TOO LATE FOR ME IF IT’S NOT TOO LATE FOR YOU.”
I check the timestamp. He sent it twenty minutes ago.
So he wasn’t here tonight.
Which means he still doesn’t know.
My shoulders feel a hundred times lighter, but I still think I should end this.