Page 52 of The Best Kind of Forever
“Of course, Little Man.” Hayes crouches down so he’s eye level with the kid, taking the napkin and scribbling his signature over it.
“What’s your name?”
“Grayson!”
“That’s a sick name. You a big fan of hockey, Grayson?”
The boy nods like a bobblehead. “The biggest!”
“We need more fans like you. You’re what keeps the team going,” he says, drawing a smiley face next to his name. “Are you going to be at the upcoming game?”
“Yeah, me and my daddy!” The boy points to a man in a powder-blue suit with a proud smile on his face.
Hayes ruffles the kid’s hair. “Make sure to come find me so I can give you a puck.”
The child bounces up and down excitedly, clutching the napkin to his chest. “Thank woo!” he squeals.
His father comes over to us, a megawatt grin cutting across timeworn features, streaks of silver dappling his hair, and crow’s feet bordering his eyes. He pats his boy’s head in an effort to calm his giddiness. Grubby hands fist the dog-eared napkin, reaching up in a silent plea for his dad to stow it away in the safe pocket of his suit.
“Hayes, big fan.” The man sticks his hand out, and Hayes shakes it firmly.
“Thank you,” Hayes replies. “You have quite the enthusiastic little rascal here.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. All he’s been talking about for the past year is wanting to play youth hockey.”
Watching Hayes work so well with kids makes my heart glug along like an old-timey oil machine. He’ll be an incredible father one day. I’m not a big fan of kids, okay? But after witnessing this interaction, their gremlin meter has decreased just a little.
“Youth hockey is a great idea. If Little Man is serious about it, it’s a great way to introduce him to the sport. I played when I was eight, and it kickstarted my love for hockey.”
The young boy looks up at his father, enthusiasm gleaning in wide eyes. “Pwease, Daddy. Can I pway?”
“We’ll have to see what’s available in Oregon, Squirt,” he says, pressing his son close to his leg.
“You’re from Oregon?” Hayes asks, curiosity needling the tight line of his brow.
“Yep. Born and raised. We drove down here yesterday.”
“Just for this party?”
“We’re big fans of the Reapers. And once we got an invite, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity. It’s a lot different than watching from behind glass.”
Scarlet melts into Hayes’ cheeks, a barely-there blush in the low light of the candles, and he squats down to his haunches again. “Well, I’m glad I got to meet you, Grayson.”
Grayson—who I’m assuming has come down from his adrenaline high—now turtles in on himself and shies behind his father’s body.
“Looks like someone could use a nap,” the man chuckles, smoothing down his son’s rogue locks, ones that have been slicked into spikes from sweaty, chocolate-stained palms.
Hayes’ hand shoots out. “Well, it was nice meeting you…”
“Joshua,” he finishes, shaking Hayes’ hand with vigor.
I watch as the two exchange pleasantries before Joshua shepherds Grayson toward the exit, the two bobbing like buoys amongst a sea of partygoers before being swept away.
“I didn’t know you were so good with children.”
Hayes gifts me a knee-weakening grin. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Is that so?” I volley.
