Page 23 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

I earn myself a middle finger and an aggressive honk when I brake suddenly and turn onto the street before her realty office. Molly’s on the corner, oversized bag over her shoulder, arms crossed over her chest, and her toe tapping out an irritated rhythm.

Before I can hop out and help her up into the truck, she climbs up and slams the door shut. She looks beautiful in anemerald green blouse, straight-legged black trousers, and a pair of kitten heels that capture my attention more than they should when I need to be easing back into the flow of traffic.

“Good morning?” It comes out as a question because Molly is not even close to smiling. I swear I can almost see dark cartoon rain clouds hovering over her head. Or maybe it’s an illusion from the steam coming out her ears.

“Good morning.” Her tone is icier than the sheet I skate across every day. “Turn here.”

I take the left she indicates with a flick of her hand. I keep darting glances at her, trying to determine whether she’s in a bad mood in general, or if she’s mad at me in particular. Thinking maybe being quiet right now might be better than telling her the blouse she’s wearing makes her hazel eyes look like exquisite emeralds, I pull up to the first house we decided to tour since they were already having an open house. There’s a flag outside the house that says, “Come on in!”

Leaving her bag behind, Molly hops out and climbs the walkway to the front door. I scramble after her. There’s a man in a double-breasted suit waiting for us just inside the open door, his slicked back hair practically shouting that he’s a realtor and drives an entry-level BMW. Molly shakes his hand, and I have to grind my molars together when he gives her a full body once over.

“I’m Molly Sparks and this is my client, Robert Rhodes.” Molly gestures in my direction but doesn’t bother to look at me.

Ah, back to Robert. Okay. She’s mad atme, then. I shake the man’s hand, giving him a death grip that hopefully says to stop eye fucking my realtor. If anyone’s going to eye fuck her, it’s me. And based on her temper today, no eye fucking of any kind is going to happen. Maybe some eyegougingif she ever stops clenching her fists until her knuckles turn white.

We enter the house and thankfully, the realtor lets us roam on our own after handing over a sheet with the house specs printed on heavy cardstock. Molly’s giving me clipped, one-word descriptions of each room, and I don’t even have a sexy pencil skirt to occupy my brain space. This isn’t entertaining. If I have to adult, I want to be having fun doing it or what’s the point?

When Molly turns to leave the spacious primary bathroom with heated tiles and a shower with four spray nozzles and space for a party of ten, I step in her way, pretending I didn’t know she was going left. She stops on a dime, the pointy tips of her shoes almost stepping on my toes. Her startled gaze finally meets mine, and I feel like the sun is trying to peek out from behind the storm clouds.

“Sorry,” I say calmly. But I don’t move.

I watch the way the pink creeps into her cheeks, spreading down from her cheekbones to her neck. Her nostrils flare, and there should be nothing pretty about nostrils, yet hers are. Hazel eyes that change color based on what she’s wearing and what she’s feeling shift to a simmering gold. Her perfume is intoxicating, but I can’t focus on that right now.

After much contemplation while following her from room to room, I’ve decided on the direct route. “Want to tell me why you’re mad at me?”

In my family, we knew when someone was mad because it usually came in the form of a tackle to the ground and sometimes a fist to the face. There wasn’t much use in the silent treatment as none of us knew how to be silent. Disagreements were pounded out in a matter of minutes and then we got on with our day, problem solved. This perpetual storm cloud of irritation is completely foreign to me.

Molly scans my face and then tilts her nose in the air, voice crackling with righteous anger. “My son got suspended because of you, Robert.”

She should have just punched me in the gut. That would have been less painful than hearing I had something to do with Matthew getting in trouble.

“What do you mean? What happened?”

Molly explains the situation, the anger only barely masking the pain in her tone as her loud voice bounces off all the damn marble in here. When she ends with Matthew echoing the comment I’d made offhand at his practice and then had promptly forgotten all about, I close my eyes and sag against the doorway.

“Shit,” I mutter. Just when I think I might have left my screw-up self in the past, I go and fuck up something else.

“Yep. Shit is right.” I feel Molly shift, like she’s going to walk away from me.

My eyes fly open, and I grab hold of her arms. She glances down at my hands, and I lighten my grip immediately. “I made an offhand comment. I had no idea he’d take that as advice. I’ll make this right, Molly. I promise.”

Molly shakes her head, then pulls her arms away from me. “Please don’t try. You’ve done enough.”

We continue walking through the house and even tour a second home before I have to leave or I’ll be late to practice, but we barely say two words to each other. By the time I drop her off at her office, I’ve discovered that having someone disappointed in you is far worse than having them angry. I’d take Coach’s anger every day, all day, if it meant Molly would never be disappointed in me again.

I stay in the locker room long after the team has vacated from practice. Everyone kept looking at me during practice and especially as we cleaned up afterward. I’m usually the comic relief of the group, but I just didn’t have it in me to do the normal song and dance. As I skated my ass off in practice, I realized I have two modes of operating: cracking jokes to break the tension or cracking skulls if the tension gets to be too much. I should bring that up with Ashley later today when we have our virtual session. Maybe she can give me some insight as to how to navigate the murky gray area between those two modes.

When I hear kids flooding the rink for their league practice with Chloe, I head back out there, making a beeline for the thin kid with the dark head of hair that sports a hint of red. Thankfully, Molly is nowhere to be found. Matthew’s shoulders are hunched forward, like he was just subjected to the sameI’m disappointed in youtreatment that I got this morning. I don’t blame her. Us guys are mostly just a bunch of knuckleheads.

“Hey, Matthew!” I call out, trying to get to him before he steps out onto the ice.

He lifts his head and gives me the teen head bob that means hello. I sit down next to him on the bench as he begins to tie his skates. I don’t have much time, so I don’t bother asking about his day or talking about the fucking weather.

“Heard you got in some trouble.”

His head whips up and his eyes shift left.

“I’m not here to come down on your ass about it,” I assure him.

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