“Oh, what up!” It’s Luke, our generous host, clomping up from the basement with a full bottle of something the color of honey, pumping it over his head in time with the beats. A few other guys squeeze in closer, and on the table next to us, Luke lines up a row of plastic cups, sloshing some liquid into each.

“To the Wolves!” Will shouts, followed quickly by Amir’s signature how-oooo.

“And to our secret weapon,” Will adds. “Hudson Avery.”

“The most ass-kicking princess I ever met.” Luke clinks his cup to mine and downs his shot as the other boys whistle and catcall.

“That’s my girl!” Dani emerges from a crowd in the front hall, but Frankie Torres grabs her hand and pulls her into the living room for a dance. She giggles and falls in step against his chest, cheering when he spins her around. Amir howls again and calls for Ellie and someone turns up Redman, bass rattling the foundation, all the framed pictures of Luke’s childhood threatening to jump off the walls.

Get down with the irrelevant funk to make ya jump …

Will kills another shot and slips his arms around me, pulling me into the mix, a tangle of players and fans and hockey wives clapping and moving en masse. I look back to Josh, but his eyes are already on his phone, fingers texting away as if the entire party is happening on that little screen. Before I can get his attention and wave him over, Will drags me deeper into the crowd. He presses closer, throwing his hands up with the beat, and Josh is still texting Abby and what difference does it make because Will’s so loose and fun and he smells so amazing and this warm rush comes over me, like we’re all in this giant snow globe together, a perfect moment captured under the glass, all histories and futures forgotten. It doesn’t matter that Josh has a girlfriend or that Will doesn’t remember our kiss in the closet all those summers ago. It doesn’t matter that I screwed up at Luby Arena or that I’m working crazy hours at Mom’s diner or that this whole town sucks. Because maybe Watonka was only ever supposed to be a temporary stopover, and maybe I will chase that train over the hill, and maybe we’re all destined to leave this place, for sure, for real, together or alone. But for right now, we’re here. I’m back on the ice and the boys are back in the game and all of us are laughing and bouncing and rockin’ out, and for a little while, everything is just fine.

… until Kara walks into the room.

And sees me enveloped by her ex.

And drops her drink.

Again.

Press rewind. Press rewind. Press rewind if I haven’t blown your mind …

Chapter Eleven

Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda Cakes

Miniature banana cupcakes smeared with a thin layer of honey vanilla icing

The halls of Watonka High are buzzing with the news of this weekend’s win. No one’s volunteering to don a giant wolf head as team mascot, but by Monday morning, everyone at least knows we have a varsity hockey team. Baby steps, right?

“Bienvenue, étudiants,” Madame Fromme trills as we settle into our seats for another excruciating conversation about nothing. “Mademoiselle Avery, comment s’est passé votre week-end? Avez-vous cuit beaucoup de petits gâteaux?”

“Non, Madame. Je …” and then, because I forget the French words for “hockey” and “party” and “ex–best friend awkwardness,” I revise. “Oui, Madame. Lots—I mean, beaucoup de petits gâteaux.”

I try to smile en français, but then I remember the stack of cupcake flyers in my locker—another of Mom’s brilliant advertising plans—and I’m not sure the smile translates. She moves on to her next victim and, after a bit of forced banter, hands out the test.

Sacrebleu! Verb conjugations and future tense! I totally forgot. I chance a sidelong look at Dani, desperately seeking confirmation that we’re in this big yellow failboat together, BFFs unite hoo-rah, but she’s already got her head down, pen scribbling frantically across the page.

So much for solidarity.

“The only way I’ll pass French is if I keep bringing cupcakes,” I say to Dani as we head to lunch later. “I totally forgot about the test today.”

“Cupcakes?” Dani laughs. “Not to sound all après l’école spéciale, but you could … I don’t know … study?”

“I could … I don’t know … punch you right now?”

“Don’t hate on me for being prepared. I tried to quiz you at work yesterday, remember?”

“By translating your pirate fantasy? Not helpful.” I grab a tray from the stack in the lunch line and slide it along the metal rails. “Sorry. I’m just distracted with skating stuff.”

I don’t want to fail French or any other class, but with just over six weeks before the Capriani Cup, I have to focus on training, and right now, parlez-vous-français-ing can’t do jacques for my on-ice game.

“Speaking of distractions,” she says, “hockey hottie, twelve o’clock.”

Will sneaks into line behind me, smiling at a shy freshman girl who gladly lets him cut.

“Hey,” I say, trying to appear cool and calm in the wake of Saturday’s touchy-feely fest and ensuing Kara weirdness. “Great game this weekend.”

“That was, like, off the hook crazy, right?” He loads up his tray with a double order of fries and something that looks like cheese sticks and/or human fingers. Desperate to avoid anything French, I skip the fries and go for a turkey sandwich and carrot sticks.

“You guys should sit with us,” he says after we pay. Dani and I follow him to a table by the window. A handful of the guys are there, and they shuffle around to accommodate us. Dani ends up between Will and Frankie Torres, with me and Josh side by side across from them. All the boys are still glowing from Friday’s win, and when Josh inches his chair closer to mine and smiles, my stomach fizzes again.

Brain to stomach: We talked about this! Knock it off!

“Carrots?” Josh inspects my tray. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet,” Frankie says. “Because that’s some messed-up stuff right there.”

“I’m not on a diet,” I say. “Just boycotting France. Besides, carrots are good for your eyes.”

“So get glasses, Pink,” Rowan says. “Baumler’s a four-eyed freak and we keep him around.”

“Look who’s talking, carrot top.” Will bounces a fry off of Rowan’s forehead and the rest of the guys crack up.

“I totally need glasses,” Dani says. “I can barely read that crap Mr. Rooney writes on the board. I’m all, cosine what?”

“I have Rooney eighth period. I’m failin’ that class,” Frankie says. “I’ll probably be in summer school. Math blows.”

“At least you can see what you’re failing,” Dani says.

I point to my food. “Have some carrots. They’re good for your eyes.”

“Then you have some fries.” Josh nudges his tray toward me. “They’re good for your … I don’t know. They’re just good.”

“Do any of you guys have Keller?” Will flips through a black-and-yellow CliffsNotes booklet. “I flunked his Scarlet Letter quiz and now he’s making me do an essay on themes. Man, I hate that book. Man, I hate themes.”

“I have Keller sixth period,” I say. “I like the book. Hester’s a tough broad.”

“You would say something like that, Pink,” Amir says.

I hold up a carrot and point it at his chest. “Don’t make me bust a carrot in your ass, Jordan. Hester’s my girl.”

Will looks at me as everyone laughs. “Good. Since you’re so in love with her, you can help. You around Friday night?”

“I think so. I should totally charge you, though.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Will says. The boys roar, fries flying everywhere.