6. Dylan

Chapter 6

Dylan

One bed, one bath studio apartment located in the heart of Winterhaven. Situated between the stunning waterline of the Pacific and the expansive trail systems in the center of the island, this apartment is the perfect getaway haven for a long-term vacationer. Comes lightly furnished. Serious inquiries only. Must love cats.

—Winterhaven Times, Classifieds

Winterhaven tasted like salt and eagle scat.

And, yes, I’d tasted bald eagle scat before, thanks to a dare Shiloh challenged me to in eighth grade. I’d never been one to back away from a dare, especially from Shiloh. He’d been fearless in a way I could only dream of being … and I did dream of being exactly like him. Though we were in the same grade at school, he was nearly a year older than me, and I wanted to be just like him.

I dare you to text your dad and tell him you’re here.

I ignored the thought and instead pulled up my phone to check the address. It was only a mile walk to the apartment. Or I could call a ride share and hope I didn’t know whoever picked me up. How many miracles could I reasonably expect to experience on this trip?

Walking it was.

I tugged my baseball cap low and tucked my chin down as I crossed the street and headed toward one of the paths winding between forestland and the main road around town. This path circled me around to Main Street with as much tree coverage as possible.

How long could I go without anyone knowing I was here?

A constant mist covered the island, and a light drizzle fell from the gray sky. My clothes were damp and chilled in minutes.

I walked beside the mountains I was familiar with, having explored them endlessly with Shiloh. Unbidden, the memory of watching Shiloh collapse on the ice, too far away to stop it, too slow to reach him in time, like skating across tar as I rushed to his side, flashed into my mind. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

I had to get out of Winterhaven and back on the ice.

The walk went quickly, only a few cars and trucks passing me with the squelch of water rolling under their tires. A few went slower as if trying to make out who I was, but I looked away, toward the trees, and eventually they sped off.

The Peaks were playing in thirty minutes, and I hoped to be settled into my new apartment in time to watch it. My body felt too light; being without my pads and skates on a game night was like missing a limb.

I approached the main part of town, where the forest trail dove-tailed into Main Street. A weather-worn wooden sign declared: Welcome to Historic Winterhaven. It was surrounded by purple cones of lupine and glossy green leaves. That sign had been there for as long as I could remember.

It’d been over ten years since I’d been home, and while that amounted to nearly a third of my life, in many ways it felt like no time had passed at all.

I pulled up my text messages. I wanted to double-check the address my landlord had sent, but first I tapped open a message from Bret in our roommate chat.

Bret: I see step one is complete. We’ll make sure Coach knows you’re there and doing great.

Location sharing had struck again.

Gage: Report back on the cat situation.

Dylan: Focus on the game. Remember the Sabertooths’ goalie is weak on the left side.

Dylan: And don’t let Marcus give the puck away.

Gage: We got this. Keep your head in *your* game.

I swiped their messages away, frustrated that I wasn’t there. But I could do this. I could lie low for a few weeks, survive Winterhaven unscathed, and convince Coach I bought into all that peace, love, and la di da crap he’d sent me here to find, so I could get back to playing with the team.

Back to normal.

If that even existed anymore.

I pulled up Rosie Forrester’s text for the apartment address. When I’d searched online for listings, this one had been perfect. Short-term. It came furnished. And I didn’t recognize the landlord’s name. Plus it was one of three listings for Winterhaven, and the other two were located in the same neighborhood as my parents.

The only pause I had was over the cats. I didn’t dislike cats. But was there a cat infestation? Were the furnishings cat themed? Was my landlord the kind of cat lady who knit her tenants sweaters from cat hair?

Rosie: The apartment is above Alaska Chic. I’ll keep the back door unlocked, so just come on up when you get here.

I walked around the back of the shop, relieved to be away from the street. I stepped into an art studio filled with half-completed paintings in shades of blue, green, and brown. I felt almost as if I was peeking in someone’s closet as I walked past the art and toward the stairs on the left.

At the top landing were two doors. The one labeled with a crooked metal 2 was half-open, and I could hear a woman talking from inside.

“Here’s the deal,” she said, sounding out of breath. I moved closer.

“First, you’re going to go out that door.” Hesitant shuffling noises. “Second, you’ll go down the stairs. Do not mess with anything in my studio. Last, you’ll leave my shop, and I never want to see you again. Oh crap!” Something large clattered to the floor, and the woman let out a shriek.

I didn’t want to get involved in any drama, but I also was not going to stand by while she tried to kick someone out of her apartment who clearly wasn’t respecting her wishes. I was big and intimidating, and I definitely wasn’t afraid to use that to my advantage when necessary.

I pushed the door all the way open to see a young woman holding a broom like it was a baseball bat. In fuzzy-socked feet, she slid across the floor toward the kitchen table as two animals ran across the surface. “Stop, Lizzy! Don’t eat it! Go, mouse! Be free!”

She let the broom arc in front of her, like she was hitting a homer in the ninth, and as a squeaking mouse flew by me like a deflating balloon, the broom smacked my face with a crack.