Page 56 of The Parent Playbook
Yeah, right.
Lily leans over to pass the tickets to Andy, whispering something in his ear that makes him grin. I try to catch the tail end of their secretive exchange and narrow my eyes at them both, but before I can comment, Lily is hugging me goodbye.
“We’ll see you at the rink, Angel,” Scotty says, standing up with Lily. They gather their things, and Lily waves cheerily as they head out, leaving me with a fistful of tickets and a heart full of mixed signals.
Andy beams at me, eyes practically jumping out of his head. “Iloverink side. We’re gonna have thebestview, Mom.”
The best view. Of the man I can’t have.
“It’s going to be great,” I drawl, settling back, my gaze drifting to the door through which Scotty just disappeared.
And that’s that, Game Four. And now we’re tied at two games apiece.
Did I saywe?
Who knew I’d ever care this much about grown men chasing a piece of rubber on ice?
But there I was, heart pounding, as the Ice Breakers squaredoff with those annoying Canadian Lumberjacks again. Annoying because no matter what the Ice Breakers did, the Jacks were always right there.
They have some hot shot who played like he was personally offended by anyone wearing our team’s logo. The guy was a bulldozer on skates, slamming into our players with a smirk that made me wish I could jump onto the ice and show him what a real check looks like.
The game was a nail-biter, the kind that had me clutching Andy’s hand so tight I might’ve cut off his circulation. Every time that Canadian showoff rammed one of our guys, I felt it in my bones.
And then … Scotty. Behind the bench, his jaw set, his eyes tracked every move like a hawk. He’d shout, gesture, trying to orchestrate from the sidelines. But every so often, his gaze would drift to the open areas on the ice, a place where—as he said—he used to fly.
And fly he did, in a past life. After our dinner, I looked up some videos online andwow.Even with the little I know about hockey, I could tell the man wasgood.Many times over, his name was mentioned as a future Olympic contender, a man on the rise.
Even here in Game Four of a charity match, I could see it, the way his body leaned with the plays, the urge to jump over the boards and take control.
What is holding him back from trying again? Fear? Loyalty? Or something he hasn’t found a name for yet?
When the final buzzer sounded, and by some stroke of sheer grit, the Ice Breakers clinched it with a shaky win, a collective sigh released in the rink. Scotty’s face lit up like he’d won the lottery.
When he shot me that thousand-watt smile, my heart did a wild dance. For a second, it felt like he was smiling just for me.
If only he weren’t skipping town when this is all over. If only.
I may not be able to change his mind about moving back to Colorado—nor should I, as I totally get that family comes first—but maybe there is something I can share that will help him take the step to get back on the ice.
This might be my last chance. The Ice Breakers are about to break up. Tomorrow’s game is their last. A lot is going to end then, for Maple Falls, for Andy who has become incredibly attached to Lil, and—whether I want to admit it or not—for me.
If only I knew the right thing to say.
Under the muted glow of my bedside lamp, I toss again, the sheets tangling around my legs like some kind of cotton vine. The clock ticks insistently, mocking my inability to sleep. Outside, the night is too quiet, too still, as if it’s holding its breath along with me. I prop myself up on one elbow, staring at the ceiling before muttering another rehearsed line into the darkness.
“Scotty, you’re a natural on the ice. It’s like watching poetry in motion, and not the boring kind they forced on us in school.”
I flop back down, wincing. Too cheesy. He’d see right through that. I turn over, punching my pillow into a more agreeable shape.
“Okay, how about … Scotty, anyone can coach, but only a few can make the ice sing. You’re one of those few. I saw it.”
Ugh. Now I’m making the ice sing? What is this, a children’s movie? I flip to the other side, my mind racing faster than my comforter can keep up with. The mattress creaks and I groan along with it. When I sit up, dragging my hands down my face, the room swims slightly, fatigue blurring the edges of my vision. I glance at the empty half of the bed, an involuntary image of Scotty sitting there, listening, even smiling at my fumbling attempts.
That image is somehow inspiring. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the cold floor.
“I should tell him straight,” I murmur, practicing a simpler approach. “Scotty, you love the game. It’s obvious. And you’re good, real good. Don’t give up on something that makes you feel alive.”
That sounds a bit more like it—direct, honest. I nod slightly, feeling a trace of conviction stirring. It’s what I need to say. It’s what he needs to hear.
