The Score

“No, he told me, dum-dum. Robbie tells me everything. Her name is Lacey and she’s in eighth grade.” Dakota shakes her head in amazement. “That’s a whole grade higher than him.”

I stifle the laughter threatening to spill over. “Landed himself an older woman, huh? Good for Robbie.”

Dakota lowers her voice to a whisper and proceeds to tell me every single detail about her brother’s eighth-grade girlfriend. I listen obligingly, all the while trying to pinpoint exactly when it was that hanging out with middle-schoolers became the highlight of my days.

Don’t get me wrong, the time I’ve spent at Briar has been awesome. My hockey team won three national championships, and academically I’ve always been at the top of my class. The only course I had trouble with was an incomprehensible politics class in sophomore year, which I finished with a B+. But I don’t like to think about that grade, because it’s tangled up with a lot of other bullshit I’d rather forget. Despite that, I can’t deny I’ve had a successful academic career. I knocked the LSATS out of the park. I got into Harvard Law on my own merit instead of relying on my family name.

But I don’t remember ever being excited about my courses. I didn’t jump for joy when my LSAT scores came back. And I’m certainly not doing cartwheels at the thought of going to Harvard.

It was always assumed that I’d go the law school route. It’s not something my folks pushed me into, but I can’t pretend it’s something I’m passionate about. Not like my brother, who lives and breathes the law. He loves his job at the firm, says that every time he steps into a courtroom, he feels alive. It’s the same way Garrett and Logan feel about playing hockey.

Me? I’ve never had that feeling before. Loving something so hard that it buzzes through my blood and makes my entire body come to life.

Or at least I hadn’t felt that way before Friday night, when I witnessed the Hurricanes utterly dominate the division leader. And then again today, when I set up a passing horseshoe drill and watched every boy on the ice absolutely kill it.

“Dean, you’re not listening!”

Dakota’s aggravated voice jerks me from my thoughts. “Sorry, kid. I spaced out. What were you saying?”

“Nothing,” she mutters.

She’s obviously upset about being ignored, which tells me she must have said something important. I drag a metal chair toward her, twist it around, and straddle it, resting my forearms on the backrest. “Talk to me.”

Her bottom lip sticks out in a pout. “I was asking you a question.”

“Okay, then ask it again. I promise to listen this time.”

“Will you…” The rest flies out in a hurried rush. “Teachmehowtoskate?”

“Can you slow that down?” I ask with a smile.

“Teach me how to skate,” she repeats.

I furrow my brow. “You don’t know how to skate?”

Dakota slowly shakes her head.

“Why the he—heck not?” I’m aghast. Who lives in New England and doesn’t know how to skate? That’s just blasphemy.

“My mom only had enough money to send one of us to skating lessons, and Robbie’s older so he got to go. And he’s gonna be a famous hockey player one day so he needs to know how to skate.”

Although Dakota’s tone is defensive, I don’t miss the note of hurt beneath the surface. My heart does a painful little somersault. My siblings and I never had these kinds of problems growing up. Our family had plenty of money, which means we didn’t have to make any sacrifices. Summer got her ballet lessons and swimming certificates. Nick and I got our skating lessons and hockey camps and all the equipment we ever needed.

I hadn’t lied to Allie the other week—the Life of Dean is pretty fucking sweet. I’ve always gotten whatever I wanted.

Now, seeing Dakota’s upset face, I feel like a spoiled, ungrateful brat.

“I guess that means you don’t own skates?” I say slowly.

She gives another shake of the head.

“What size are your feet?”

“I dunno. Small?”

I chuckle. “Let me see one of your shoes.”

She quickly pulls off a neon-pink sneaker and holds it out for me.

After I check the size tag, I hand the shoe back and wander over to the large metal cabinet that holds the boys’ skates. Most of them are far too big for her, but after some rifling and digging around, I find a pair of Bauers on the bottom shelf that might fit her.

I hold up the scuffed black skates. “Try these on?”

Horror fills her big blue eyes. “But those are boy skates! I want girl skates.”

Another laugh tickles my throat. When her expression collapses, I sigh instead. “Okay. Don’t worry, kid. I’ll see what I can do, okay?” I tuck the evil boy Bauers back in the cabinet and firmly shut the door before she bursts into tears.

Coach Ellis chooses that moment to poke his head in the room. “Your mother’s here,” he tells Dakota.

I’m afraid he’ll notice her stricken face and have me arrested for upsetting a minor or something, but when I glance back at Dakota, she’s all smiles.

“Bye, Dean!” She hops off the crate and darts out the door.

Ellis grins at me. “Sweet kid, huh?”

I follow him out of the equipment room and we spend a couple minutes discussing what we want the boys to work on next practice. Once we wrap up, I leave the arena and check my phone on the way to my car. There’s a text from Garrett saying he’s crashing at Bristol House with Hannah tonight, but that he left his Jeep at home, so he’ll need a ride back from practice tomorrow.

When I stride into our kitchen ten minutes later, I find a note from Tucker on the fridge, informing us he’s spending the night at a friend’s. His mysterious non-girlfriend, I suppose.

And then? The trifecta. Logan wanders in to grab a bottle of water and says he won’t be home til late.

“Where’re you going?” I ask as I rummage around in the fridge.

“Boston. Grace’s dad got us tickets for this orchestra thing. Neither of us really want to go, but she says he’ll be hurt if we don’t.”

I grin over my shoulder. “So you’re spending your evening listening to classical music?”

“Yup,” he says glumly. “But there’s an intermission, so Grace promised we could fool around in the coat closet during it.”