Page 60 of Slap Shot

“It’s part of the creative process, huh?”

“Exactly. It also makes the food taste better.”

“What are you making?” he asks, joining me at my side.

“Right now? A salad. After this? I’m tackling the vegetables for the week. Broccoli for your pregame meal of chicken and rice. Brussel sprouts for your postgame meal. Some tomatoes, too.”

“I’m going to throw a wrench in your plans and ask if you’re busy tonight.”

“I live with my six-year-old daughter and I’m in a city where I barely know anyone. I am, shockingly, not busy tonight.”

“Good. The team does this thing every year called Friends and Family night. It’s an event where players bring—guess what—their friends and family to the arena for a night of skating and hanging out. I thought you and Lucy could come.”

“Sounds fun.” I brush the hair out of my eyes with my arm. “Lucy’s never skated before. I haven’t either. It might be a recipe for disaster.”

“Skating isn’t required, and it’s a pretty low-pressure event. I even bring the dogs. Gus and Millie love the ice.”

“Is it safe? Do the players move around like they do in games and slam each other into the wall? Lucy might get trampled.”

“I won’t let her get trampled. And the guys are all really chill. Half of them are trying to get the attention of someone’s friend or cousin. They won’t be skating like lunatics. What do you think?”

I weigh the invitation even though I know what I’m going to say.

Lucy’s been begging me for skating lessons since Emmy entered the league. She keeps telling me she’s going to be the second woman in the NHL, and I’ve held off on signing her up for any classes.

I’m not sure I can do that any longer. She sees Hudson’s gear and lights up, asking me a dozen questions about sticks and pads and helmets that I don’t have the answers to.

It’s not because I don’t think she’s capable. Lucy is the most coordinated kid I’ve ever met. Determined, too. I’m sure if she laced up a pair of skates, she’d be unstoppable on the ice.

I’m just… afraid. Terrified of something bad happening to her, because she’s myeverything. I can’t imagine a world without her in it, and a contact sport with sharp blades sounds like a parent’s worst nightmare.

But it’s her life.

She’s going to do a hundred things I’m not onboard with over the next fifty years, and I’d never want her to think she doesn’t have my full support when she wants to chase her dreams.

“Okay.” I exhale, and there’s a heavy weight sitting on my chest when I give him a tentative smile. “Let’s do it. Would you mind showing Lucy the ropes? If I knew how to balance, I’d be out there with her.”

“I’d love to.” His grin stretches wider, and he lifts a shoulder. “But when she sees Emmy, she’ll probably want a lesson from her instead.”

“Lucy wouldfreak. Is that something Emmy would do?”

“Without a doubt.” He checks his phone and groans. “I need to run. I scheduled a stretching session with Lexi, and if I’m late, she’s going to torture me. I’ll text you directions to the arena. Come by whenever you want.”

“Okay.” My smile matches his. “We’ll see you tonight.”

The arena is buzzingwith energy. There are dozens of people skating around the Stars logo in the center of the ice and more mingling in the front row of seats. The glass that’s usually up during games has been put away, letting the skaters stop and chat with folks on the side of the rink.

Wow!Lucy grins.Look at how close we are!

Guess what? Hudson told me he’s going to teach you how to skate, I tell her, and her eyes get wide.And Emerson Hartwell is going to be here.

She is?Lucy scans the building, tugging on my sweater.I don’t see her.

We’ll see if we can find her.Let’s get you some skates first.

We head around the curve of the rink to the opposite tunnel. Lucy makes me stop every five feet or so to point out things she’s seen on TV this year: the large screen above the ice. The bench where the players sit and the penalty box. I nod when she tells me how this arena is different from the one back in Las Vegas, how it’s newer and nicer.

I love that she pays attention to details.

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