Cold Saves

MIA

"I'm not doing it."

My best friend Chloe doesn't even look up from her phone. "You say that like you have a choice."

"I always have a choice." I shove another protein bar into my bag. "It's called no."

"Your mom's chemo is fifteen thousand dollars."

"I'll find another way."

"Like what?" Chloe finally looks at me. "Mia, you work three jobs. You sleep four hours a night. Your brother's hockey gear is held together with duct tape and prayers."

I hate when she's right.

The rink is cold. It's always cold. I've been the team manager for the U18 Hamilton Wolves for two years now, and I still haven't gotten used to the way the ice smell sticks to my hair. The cold seeps into my bones every time I walk through those doors. But the money is good. And I need good.

"Just hear him out," Chloe says.

"Caleb Kessler wants me to pretend to be his girlfriend." I say the words out loud and they sound even dumber than they did in my head. "The same Caleb Kessler who laughed at me in front of the entire team freshman year."

"He didn't laugh."

"He said, and I quote, 'Maybe if you could afford the team dinner, you'd know what a real burger tastes like.'"

Chloe winces. "Okay, that's bad."

"Then he forgot my name sophomore year. Called me 'manager girl' for three months."

"Worse."

"Then junior year, he shot a puck into the bench and shattered my laptop." I hold up my hand. "Didn't apologize. Didn't offer to pay. Just said, and I quote again, 'Shouldn't have been in the way.'"

Chloe is quiet for a second. Then: "How much is he paying?"

"Thirty thousand."

Her eyes go wide. "Fifteen for my mom. Fifteen for me."

"Girl." She grabs my shoulders. "You let that boy fake-date you into the ground. You let him propose at center ice if he wants to."

"I hate him."

"I know."

"I really, really hate him."

Chloe grins. "That's what makes it fun."

I take a breath. The cold air burns my lungs. I think about my mom. About the hospital bills stacked on the kitchen counter. About my little brother who still believes everything will be okay. I am the only one who knows the truth.

"Fine," I whisper. "I'll talk to him."

Caleb Kessler is already in the equipment room when I get there.

He's sitting on the bench, shirt off, because of course he is. His shoulders take up half the room. There's a bruise spreading across his ribs — purple and yellow, fresh from last night's game. Sweat still clings to his forehead. He looks like he hasn't slept.

He doesn't look up when I walk in.

"Took you long enough."

"I'm not here because of you." I grab the tape rolls from the shelf. "I'm here because my mom is sick and I need money."

Now he looks at me.

His eyes are stupid. That's the first thing I noticed freshman year. Stupid blue eyes that make girls forget he's a walking red flag. But up close, I see something else. Redness around the edges. He has been crying. Or not sleeping. Or both.

"Good," he says. "Then we understand each other."

"We understand nothing." I toss the tape at his chest. He catches it one-handed. "I'm going to show up, wear your jersey, and smile for the cameras. That's it. No touching. No feelings. No 'accidentally' holding my hand."

"What if the cameras want hand-holding?"

"Then you get creative."

He smirks. "You're really something, you know that?"

"I'm really something you can't afford." I turn to leave. "Send the contract to my email. I'll sign it when I'm done hating myself."

"Mia."

I stop.

Caleb stands up. He's tall. I forgot how tall. He walks toward me slow, like he's got all the time in the world. The bruises on his ribs shift with each step.

"I'm not doing this because I want to," he says.

"Then why?"

He looks away first. Just for a second. But I catch it. His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

"Because my dad will disown me if I don't fix my image. And I need his money to get drafted."

For the first time, he sounds like a kid. Not a hockey star. Not a cocky jerk. Just a scared eighteen-year-old boy who is about to lose everything.

I should feel bad. A part of me almost does.

I don't let it show.

"That sounds like a you problem," I say. "I'll see you at the press conference tomorrow. Don't touch me."

I walk out before he can answer. My heart is pounding. My hands are steady.

My mom is asleep when I get home.

The apartment is dark. The only light comes from the streetlamp outside her bedroom window. She looks smaller than she did last month. The chemo is stealing her piece by piece. Her hair is almost gone now. She wears a pink beanie that my little brother bought her at the hospital gift shop.

I sit on the edge of her bed and watch her breathe. Each rise of her chest is a small victory. Each fall is a reminder of how close we are to losing her.

"Thirty thousand dollars," I whisper.

She doesn't wake up.

I pull out my phone and open Caleb's email. The contract is twelve pages long. Legal terms. Conditions. A non-disclosure agreement. I don't read it. I scroll to the bottom and sign.

Then I close my eyes and try not to throw up.

I'm going to pretend to love the boy I hate most in the world. For thirty thousand dollars.

My mom is worth more than that.

But right now, it's all I've got.