As Adam headed out of the locker room and into the hallway that led to the ice rink, Coach Orion stopped him by gently grabbing onto his shoulder.
"The game's looking good, Banks. The short-side wraparound against Pine Hurst was the best I've seen in years."
Adam was taken surprise by the compliment because Orion didn't give them out freely. His theory was that if you were good, you knew it and didn't need people telling you so.
Adam glanced at him with questioning eyes and Coach Orion got directly to his point. "Adam, there is a pair of gentlemen from the All-America committee attending the game today. The word around the PLHCA (Prep Level Hockey Coaches Association) is that Player of the Year Honors is a tight race between you and Kent Smith over at Boston Prep. Now, I want you to play relaxed and naturally today. Don't be afraid to look for your own shot and showcase some of your skills. Today is your day, Banks. You're the best player in the nation when you take care of business."
Coach Orion looked for any semblance of an expression on Adam's face and found none. "Anyway, just remember that I'm proud of you—whether or not you end up winning Player of the Year."
Coach patted Adam's arm with his clipboard and briskly started walking down the hallway. Adam stared after his back and tried to sort out his feelings. Player of the Year was a step closer to what Adam wanted to achieve in his hockey game—which was perfection. And now that it was so close, he didn't know what to think. Adam knew he was good—he often coached his teammates and players from other teams sought out his advice. The first-team All- America honors last year cemented his position as one of the top players in the game. But Adam felt strangely apathetic, like these events were happening to someone else.
As he walked closer to the ice, he spotted his teammates skating warm-ups. There was Dwayne Robertson from Austin, a grin on his face as he "corralled" the puck with several complicated and fancy motions involving his skates and stick. Dean Portman had his earphones on, rocking out to some grunge metal band, lost in his own world. Fulton Reed blasted some shots in the direction of the goal, some hitting the target right on while others careened off in unexpected and life-threatening directions. Charlie was laughing and talking animatedly to his girlfriend Linda over the transparent wall separating the ice from the stands. Everyone was enjoying themselves and Adam felt like he was outside, looking in.
Adam looked up at the stands and immediately found Thomasin sitting with her best friend, Pilar Osario. He caught her eye and Thomasin gave him an incredible smile. God, he was lucky to have her, Adam acknowledged. Adam remembered the first time his mother met Thomasin. She described Thomasin as "interesting- looking," which unfortunately was his mother's tactful way of calling someone ugly. People expected Adam to date some perfect-looking, brainless fluff of a girl, but personally, he liked Thomasin's brand of 'interesting.' Thomasin had a mass of long, slick-straight hair that fell down her back. If Adam had been more articulate in the way of describing physical features, instead of 'brown,' he might have used the term 'chestnut' for her hair. For someone who was half-Spanish, Thomasin's nose was strangely and unusually aquiline. Her lips were perpetually pursed, as if a smile lurked, hidden, and Thomasin walked unconsciously with the utmost confidence. But it was her eyes that pulled it all together. Adam never really knew what exactly the color was until his junior year when he took an art class—not his first choice, but all the other electives were filled up. Anyway, when working an oil painting, Adam came across a tube of paint labeled 'sorrel'—and since that day, that was the word he used to describe Thomasin's eyes. It wasn't so much the eyes themselves but the expression in them—a certain honestly and clarity that made mere prettiness seem cheap and unimportant.
Charlie was right, too. Thomasin was way cool, too. She understood whenever Adam felt like hanging out with his friends on a Friday night instead of her. Thomasin hated the long, awkward telephone conversations other girls inflicted onto their boyfriends every night. She knew how to laugh, eat like a normal person, how to be ready for a date on time and how to cheer Adam up. Thomasin always seemed content, which was a quality Adam envied. Adam knew that he owed it to her to talk about Friday night.
Adam skated up to the glass and she walked over to face him through the wall. "Hey, babe. How was the psych test today?"
Thomasin glanced upward as if looking for divine intervention and chuckled in her sexy, husky laugh. "Can I get back to you on that one? Try 'how was the homemade salad you brought for lunch today?' because that might yield a better answer."
She sounded so normal that Adam searched her face for an expression that would betray how she really felt. He didn't believe Charlie when he said that Thomasin wasn't upset. Hell, if someone had left Adam stranded until midnight in an unfamiliar place, he'd rearrange faces—if that was in his nature.
There was a silence between the two for a moment. "Pilar says that Pete Sampras called today and wants his persona back. Any idea what that means?"
"Tam—I'm sorry for what happened Friday." Adam registered a look of surprise on Thomasin's face.
"Did Charlie tell you? I told him not to because I'm fine. I needed the time to balance my check book." Thomasin gave him a somewhat forced smile.
"Jeez, Tamsin, just let me be the bastard for once and let me apologize. It was totally my fault."
Thomasin studied his face and sighed. "Alright, fine, you're the bastard." Thomasin made her tone impossibly light. "Well... Then what happened?"
Adam stood there, at a loss for an answer, because the truth was, his real excuse was lame. Should he just make something up? Thomasin looked at him expectedly. Damnit, Adam would just tell the truth. "I don't know."
Thomasin gave him a strange look, studied his face for a clue—any clue—nodded and walked backed to her seat in the stands. As Adam started to skate away from the wall he turned suddenly to look over his shoulder. Thomasin was staring at him as if still trying to figure him out. Adam wished that he could help her, but he was having trouble with that, too.