Across the Line (In The Zone) by Kate Willoughby Read Free Book Online Page B

wasn’t a good idea, but damn it, he missed hockey. He missed the slick ice, the excitement, the mental challenge of anticipating the plays and the physical challenge of reacting to and executing them. Working out and physical therapy just didn’t cut it.
    “I’ll be careful,” he said. “I have a sturdier brace upstairs. If I wear that, I should be fine.”
    “All right. I suppose you know better than I do about that. Your old stuff is in the attic. There should be a couple of boxes on the right that say Calder Hockey. Everything should be in those boxes.”
    “Thanks.”
    The attic was dusty but orderly. He intended to find what he needed and leave, but ended up staying a few minutes. The stuff in the boxes brought him back. He found himself recalling people he hadn’t thought about in years, triumphs, trials, times that seemed so long ago, but weren’t. He looked at old jerseys and one small pair of skates and marveled that he ever fit into them.
    Twenty minutes later, he came back downstairs with an armful of old pads, breezers and other crap, some of it only just big enough for him to wear. After dumping it in the front entry, he called Oliver and told him what he’d found. “But I need skates.”
    “What size?”
    Calder told him as he dug in the front closet for a duffel bag.
    “I’ll find you something. I have a key to the equipment room at the college. See you at 7:45.”
    As Calder was stuffing the gear into the bag he’d found, his mother padded down the hall barefoot. She had a can of air freshener in her hands and used it liberally.
    “I cannot believe that stuff still smells after years in the attic. I do not miss hell-stink. At all.” She sprayed the pile of equipment like it was a bug she was trying to kill with Raid.
    He chuckled as he stuffed the bag full and zipped it. “The whole team calls it hell-stink now, by the way.”
    Years ago, his mom had picked up him and his brother from a hockey game. For some reason he couldn’t remember, her trunk had been full of heavy boxes. Hart managed to fit his bag in, but Calder had to put his in the backseat. As a result, the smell crept out and invaded the car like an olfactory bioweapon.
    Hart, sixteen at the time to Calder’s thirteen, had lost the “shotgun” battle, so he was sitting in the back. “Something died in your bag, CS,” he said.
    “Whatever, DB.”
    Their mom thought that CS stood for Calder’s first two initials and DB meant “dumb brother.” But it was actually shorthand for cocksucker and douche bag.
    “Mom,” Hart said, “we’re studying about the human body in science class, and I think Calder is constipated and when he sweats, crap comes out of his pores.”
    “Hart Connelly Griffin, that’s disgusting,” their mom said as Calder snickered. Although the insult had been directed at him, it was still clever. Even as a kid, Hart had a talent for chirping.
    “I agree,” Hart said. “Let’s open the windows.”
    His mom shook her head. “It’s eight degrees outside.”
    “I don’t care. I swear I’m gonna puke.”
    “Here, I’ll turn the fan on.”
    It didn’t help. Even Calder had to admit it. At times, he envied other athletes like basketball players whose protective equipment consisted of one item—a jock and maybe goggles. Hockey players, on the other hand, had that and much more, all of it soaked in sweat from each wearing. The odors seemed to build even after washing because sometimes the stuff never dried out between the morning skate and a same-day game.
    The noise from the fan provided cover for what Hart said in Calder’s ear. “I swear to God, Satan’s shit smells like fucking flowers compared to your bag.”
    Laughing in spite of himself, Calder turned around to sock his brother.
    Their mom twisted her head to nail them both with a glare. “What did you say?”
    Shit wasn’t a word she approved of but would sometimes let go. Fuck or any of its permutations constituted a loss of