Page 36 of Snowballed

After Noah finishes his dinner, he seems calmer. I pull a pear crumble from the oven where it’s been warming. I slice pieces for both of us and top them with homemade ginger vanilla ice cream. An aroma of cinnamon and sweetness rises from each bowl.

I slide the dessert in front of Noah, and he lets out a little sigh of pleasure.

I decide to take advantage of his good mood.

“Can I ask for a favor?”

The spoon pauses on the way to his mouth. “Depends what it is.”

“I’m a healthy scratch a lot, and obviously I don’t want to be. Could you help me play better?”

“That would require work like practicing and exercising. You don’t have time for more work.” He tastes the crumble, and I watch him chew. His mouth is so sensual with those soft lips. What would it be like to kiss him?

My own loaded spoon has been hanging mid-air as I admire Noah’s mouth. I put it down and ask, “Umm, why would you say that?”

Noah eats more dessert, his pink tongue darting out to catch a crumb at the corner of his mouth. My breath catches. He swallows and answers, “When I came here, I thought I was a hard worker, but you work even harder than I do.”

“If that’s true, then why am I not a better hockey player?” I ask.

“Because your work isn’t focused. You work on the farm, cook meals, go to school, and play hockey. So you’re good at everything and nothing.”

Seriously? He pays me a compliment then yanks it away.

But before I can get upset, Noah shrugs. “I’ll watch you practice next week and see what I can do.”

“Thanks so much. Would you like another piece of pear crumble now?”

Noah groans. “Why did I never have any trouble sticking to clean eating before I got here?”

“Because you never ate farm-fresh food before.” I may not understand Noah’s complexities, but I know he eats like a man who’s been starved of good food for years.

12

Noah

I go in early to watch the end of Zoe’s practice. I try to be stealthy, but I’m noticed almost immediately.

“What’s Hunky Brewster doing here, Zee?” a big player calls out. Either she doesn’t know how acoustics work in an empty arena, or she doesn’t care.

“He’s here to help me.” Even from up here, Zoe looks embarrassed. I still don’t understand why she’s so confident on the farm and so timid on the ice.

I’m just in time for the scrimmage. As usual, Zoe takes too long to make decisions. I brainstorm the best ways for her to gain time: skating speed, her pivots are weak, even the way she positions her stick could be improved.

“Goody. Why are you here?” Wags sits down next to me.

“I promised to help Zoe. What are you doing here?”

“I came to pick up some gear and saw you.” He looks down at the players. “So, Zoe is best friends with Marie Josée, right?”

“Who’s that?” I ask.

He lowers his voice. “Marie Josée Laroque. Number 9.”

I look down at the players. “Oh. You mean Rocky?” I’ve met Rocky before, but never heard her full name.

He nods, watching the scrimmage the whole time. Then everything clicks.

“You like her?” I ask.

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