Page 40 of On Ice
It’s been nice to sit with my dad and understand thirty—okay, twenty—percent of what is going on. Dad has never liked to chat during play. He always assumed I understood what was going on and I never asked for explanations because… well, I’m stubborn. The more someone recommends a book, a show, a movie, the less likely I am to read or watch it. In this town? With my father? Hockey was always a firm no-go. Not anymore. That’s another thing to thank Erik for.
So I texted him.
Of course I did.
I’d told myself I was going to back off, give us both some space until my galaxy-sized crush has time to die out. Or at least until it’s more manageable. Every time I see his name on my phone, I feel the warmth rush through my body as I remember our one night together. Our one night and the best kisses of my life. I just need my brain to forget that I will never get a repeat because he lives in the goddamn Windy City and I live here. In Quarry Creek.
Except space would mean missing out on talking to the man. I feel like a high schooler again, staying up too late to message the boy I like, hoping I’m coming off calm, cool, and collected. Failing miserably. Analyzing each word, the time between messages. Grinning, tongue between my teeth, as I send flirty little texts back precisely because I’m not going to see him again. I might not have the time—or the headspace—to actually date, but the flirting is fun. Nice even. Good build up for some self-care later.
“Do you mind if we stay until the end?” Dad asks, his gaze riveted on the two men battling it out at the blue line. We aren’t in a rush. It’s Saturday, next week is school vacation, Dad’s been feeling good.
“You’ve never once left early, have you?” I nudge him with my elbow, and he nudges me right back.
“Only once. You were sick, so I left during the second period and came back to let the babysitter off the hook. Only fair that if someone was getting puked on, it was me.”
“That seems fair.” I don’t remember the game he’s referring to, but I remember him pushing my sweaty hair back from my face whenever I got sick. Humming Beatles songs in my ear as he rubbed my back.
The Arctic regains control of the puck and streaks down the ice towards the empty Tampa net. I have the texts from Erik explaining why teams might pull a goalie to give themselves an extra shot at scoring. I asked him if it ever worked, and he pointed out that teams have nothing to lose. They’re facing the L without an extra goal. Overtime is another chance to win or at least pick up another point. The downside is the morale killer of having your empty net scored on. On the ice, the puck hits the back of Tampa’s net and the lights and sirens blare.
Despite all the hockey tips, I can’t tell if Erik is watching. Vic is on fire tonight, getting another assist—he’s had a hand in each of the Arctic’s goals—and the teams circle up for another face-off. The game’s over, the clock running down as the linesman drops the puck. The buzzer sounds and both teams straighten up. The aggression bleeds out of them almost instantaneously.
“All these silly folks more concerned with traffic than with watching the game,” Dad shakes his head. “They’d have missed that last goal. Varg is a force to be reckoned with, Quinnie. I told you he was when they signed him. Some people think he’s too old, but I think he’ll play another decade yet.”
Erik had said much the same thing.
“Thank you,” says a woman to our right. She startles me enough that I have to catch the back of the seat in front of me to keep my balance. “I know I can’t take credit for all of my baby’s strengths, but I do like to try. Hi. I’m Maria.”
Maria has the same dark blonde hair as her sons, and the same tall build. She does not look old enough to be the mother of the lead goal scorer, and her fitted blue jersey and jeans make her look even younger.
“I don’t blame you. I do the same.” Dad extends his hand past my chest, and Maria shakes it with a genuine smile. “Sean Cooper.”
I know this is Erik’s mom, but I’m not sure what she’s doing here. Obviously, she knows where we’re sitting, but did Erik send her to us? Did she come on her own? I want to check my phone. I inhale messages from Erik like they’re oxygen—something I’ll never admit out loud—but I don’t remember him mentioning his mother. Do I need to tell him she’s here? Would it be rude to get my phone out now?
“I was a little worried I wouldn’t get to you in time, I’ve never understood why so many people try to cut out early.” Maria shook her head, “But then I saw you on the screen and figured I’d make it. Even if fighting the mass exodus is a little like swimming upstream.”
She’s sweet, coming to check in. Erik warned me that his mom is nosy, but it’s a good nosy. Dad’s the same way. The proof is in the matching texts they sent us during the Chicago game.
The Jumbotron isn’t the same as the broadcast feed and I can’t help but wonder if Erik saw us, saw me, too. I can’t help but wonder if he likes my sweatshirt, or if he thinks I look nice. I put zero effort into my appearance for the last game and he liked me just fine. Tonight, I took a little more care, although if pressed, I’ll say it’s because my dad needed his jersey back and I now know I won’t freeze to death in my seat. It definitely had nothing to do with a hope that Erik might be watching. That he might see me on the screen and smile. Definitely not.
I’d asked him and he said he hadn’t, but that was a while ago. This can change.
“No need to rush. They take a while before we can get in to see them.” Maria slides into the seat in front of me and turns to face me and Dad. “I usually wait at least thirty minutes after they leave the ice. Gives the boys a chance to shower, change, talk to the reporters. If they aren’t ready, we can wait in the hall.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I try to smooth my face into a neutral expression because I need clarification, but I’m pretty sure that Erik’s mom just insinuated she’s taking us down to meet the players. And you don’t frown at a woman about to give your dad that kind of gift.
“Let me get this straight,” Dad says. “You’re Mama Varg.” Maria nods. “And you came down here to introduce yourself to us because you’re going down to see the players?” Maria nods again. “In the locker room?” A third nod. “And you’re taking us with you.” A wink from Erik’s mom and Dad turns to me with an awestruck expression. “Marry Erik. Marry Erik and tell him his mama is a saint.”
“Dad!” My face is on fire, burning, melting right off my bones. “We’re… friends.” Sort of.
“I’m on board with this plan,” Maria grins and I don’t think it’s possible, but somehow I blush even hotter.
“The part where they get married? Or the part where you’re a saint?” Dad asks and Maria laughs. It’s a big, bold sound. It reminds me of Erik, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh. Not like that.
I want to.
“Both.”
Dad joins in and I get an uneasy, twisty feeling in my gut. There’s no match to be made, no matter what these two might think. They know that. Right? Erik and I have made it clear. Even if we wanted to try, a thousand miles separate us. Work separates us. Neither of us can uproot our lives. No matter how romantic it might be, and while I’m a sucker for grand gestures in novels, I have to be more practical in real life.