Page 70 of Snowballed

He winks at me. “I’m sorry. What part of ‘Candy Sugimoto is my mother’ did you not understand?”

“Holy doodle. Do something. Can you do jumps?”

He laughs and skates away, as he comes back, he lifts one leg and performs a spinning jump, landing it effortlessly.

I applaud, my mittened claps echoing in the cold air. “A six point zero from the American judge.”

Noah is grinning as he returns to me. He is so adorable lately. We start doing easy laps around the ice. Our breath comes out in puffs in the fresh crisp air.

“What was that jump? Did you figure skate as a kid?” I ask.

“Just a salchow. All of us had to learn. My mother said that even if we went on to play hockey, the figure skating would help.”

“Who was the best figure skater?” I love hearing about Noah’s family. Even though he’s having issues with his father, he has so much affection for the rest of his family.

“Honestly? Probably Chi. And she fought the hardest against lessons because she was afraid she’d never get to play hockey.”

“Why did she want to play hockey so badly?” I ask.

“Who knows? Maybe because it was a guy thing. She likes to go against the system. Any system.”

I look heavenward. “I wanted to play hockey because my dad loved hockey. He played beer league and watched games. When we moved here, he became a Burlington Bulls fan.”

Noah squeezes my hand. “Was he happy when you made the hockey team?”

I nod. “He was so proud of me. He came to all my home games.” I can still picture him up in the stands. My dad had zero fashion sense, so the six-foot-tall man in a red ski jacket and a green and white Bulls scarf was pretty easy to pick out.

“He sounds like a great guy,” Noah says.

It’s the first time we’ve really spoken about my dad. Being out on the pond again brings back so many memories. It feels so easy to talk here on the ice in the orange glow of the sunset.

“He was kind, hardworking, and he had the worst sense of humor. I know you think I’m corny, but my dad was like the originator of Dad jokes.”

“Sounds terrifying,” Noah says.

“He would have really liked you,” I say. “If he got to see you and Derek on a pairing, he would have been over the moon.”

“Really?” Noah looks puzzled.

“You know you make Derek better, right? The way you make the whole team better.”

Noah shrugs this off. He loves playing hockey, but he sloughs off praise. For him, it’s the NHL or nothing. I have a theory that the things that Noah brings to the game—like helping team chemistry and improving his D partners—are something scouts can’t see. But they help a team win.

“Do you think you guys can win a championship?” I ask. It’s something that fans of the men’s team are saying.

He shakes his head. “It’s way too early to say that. But there are a lot of guys on the team who won two years ago, so they know what it takes.”

To my shock, I begin to cry. Fat, warm tears run down my cheeks like someone turned on a tap. Noah wraps an arm around me and wipes away my tears with his thumb. He looks shocked. “What happened, Zoe?”

“I’m sorry.” I try to catch my breath, but I can’t stop sobbing. “It’s so dumb.”

It’s the first time I’ve come to skate on the pond since my dad died. My grief rises at the worst times. It’s triggered by places like the pond, events like a college championship, or even a man on the street who walks like my father.

But as humiliating as my uncontrolled sadness can be, I embrace it. It’s better than forgetting him like everyone else has. To move on would be like erasing him from the world.

Noah and I stand together in the middle of the ice. He keeps one arm around me and strokes my hair like he’s calming a wild creature. “It’s okay, Zoe,” he murmurs. I cling to him until my crying eases. I feel safe and protected. How long has it been since I felt like this?

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says.

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