Page 5 of On Ice
“No, it isn’t. When I read, the letters get all jumbled up, but that doesn’t happen with numbers.”
“Graham,” the woman sitting on the other side of the kid—clearly his mother with the same dark skin and honey-colored eyes—says. “I’m so sorry he’s bothering you. Graham, you can’t just talk to strangers.”
Next to her, one of the smaller kids upends a box of popcorn and starts crying.
“I’m not bothering them.” Graham rolls his eyes again. So at least that’s something he dishes out to everyone. “They’re my friends.”
“Do you even know their names?” His mother asks and if this leads to me learning Red’s real name, then I will offer babysitting services free-of-charge. Or I will hire someone to babysit for her. I’ve been waiting for an opening to ask.
“I’m Quinn.” She holds her hand out to Graham’s frazzled mom. “It’s nice to meet you, and I definitely consider Graham a friend.”
Quinn. I test her name in my head, and I like it. Quinn. A good Gaelic name. It suits her with her copper hair and Kelly-green eyes.
“Erik,” I say, and Graham’s mom glances past Quinn to look at me. I mostly offer to be polite, but I really want Quinn to know it. Erik and Quinn. Quinn and Erik. When Quinn looks at me with a small smile, I can’t help but feel warm inside.
“See?” Graham says to his mother. “Quinn and Rick say we’re friends.”
“Erik,” the two women correct, and I try not to laugh as the kid rolls his eyes yet again.
“Look, if he bothers you, just let me know,” Graham’s mom says as a juice box hits the floor, too. “I’m sorry.”
“So we’re friends now?” I’m just happy to be in this conversation with her, even if it involves an elementary schooler.
“No, I’m friends with Quinn, not a traitor.”
I look down at my jersey. Fair enough, I’d have felt the same way at seven or eight. Anyone cheering for another team was public enemynumero uno.
“Maybe Erik’s not friends with people who can’t say his name right, or who call him traitor.” Quinn says and Graham shrugs.
“I’m not his friend then. I’m your friend.”
Again, fair enough. The kid’s fine, but I also want to be friends with Quinn. Just for the game. Just to pass the next, I glance at my watch, two-ish hours. Then I’ll finish my business in town, fly home, and now and then, when I’m feeling mopey about my lack of an NHL contract, I’ll remember that I had fun atthisgame. This once.
“Maybe I’m only friends with kids who like to read,” Quinn says, and I can tell she’s proud of circling back around to this.
Graham sighs long and loud, as if every single injustice in the world is being committed against him right at this very moment.
“Fine,” Graham concedes. “But I’m not thrilled about this.” He turns his attention back to the ice before I can ask him to clarify if he’s agreeing to be our friend, or cutting us off. Us. I shouldn’t be thinking of me and Quinn as an “us.” Although maybe I’m so drawn to her because I’m desperate to avoid thinking about why I’m here at The Stand.
The game cuts to commercial and players migrate toward their benches. The ice scrapers skate out with their shovels as the music changes. There’s the Arctic’s mascot, a big white wolf named Howl. He’s up on the Jumbotron, dancing with a bunch of kids. Next to Quinn, Graham jumps to his feet and starts imitating the mascot’s moves. It’s like watching an overcooked noodle do the limbo, but the kid’s having a blast and Quinn is clapping her hands, cheering him on. One of Graham’s siblings hops up to dance too, and at their prompting Quinn shakes her shoulders to the beat.
“You’re really good with them,” I say, dipping my head a little to talk directly into her ear. Her hair tickles my nose and lips and she smells amazing. A bit like the rose soap my mom always stocks in her guest bathroom, but with something spicy underneath. I don’t have to duck much, which is a rare relief.
“I should be,” she turns until our gazes collide.
“Kids of your own? Siblings? Cousins?” Not that it matters. We’re just chatting. I’m being friendly because she’s fun to talk to, and she smells nice and it doesn’t hurt my neck to meet her eyes. Her stunning gemstone eyes.
She laughs, full on guffaws—head thrown back with teeth and gums on display, a real smile—as she shakes her head.
“No. No, no, no. No kids of my own. No siblings or young cousins.”
I try to hide my confusion. There are tons of reasons someone doesn’t want children. I don’t want kids. Not with my genetics to fuck things up, no matter what the doctors have promised. She doesn’t owe me any kind of explanation. I’m just curious. Inappropriately so.
“I’m sorry,” she wheezes out the words between extra bites of laughter. “I forgot we don’t know each other that well. I’m a teacher, elementary art, and as much as I love my job and love my kids at school, I never see myself having my own. I’m too tired by three o’clock.”
“That’s fair,” I say. “For the record, it’s the laughter that threw me, not the answer. I don’t want kids either.”
I’m not sure why I share that last part, other than to make her feel better about the piece of herself I’d practically forced her to share. Quinn smiles at me again. I hadn’t noticed before, but her bottom teeth overlap just the tiniest bit in the front. It’s just another little thing I like. Something that makes her different, unique. Another little detail that pulls all my focus until I can’t see beyond red hair, and green eyes, and white overlapping teeth.