Page 7 of Pucking the Single Dad
But as I stood in my home gym later, trying to work off the restless energy thrumming through my veins, I knew we would. Because for two hours tonight, I'd remembered what it felt like to be just Brad, not Brad-the-widower or Brad-the-paranoid-parent or Brad-the-injured-player.
And that was dangerous. Because the last time I'd let someone in, I'd ended up with a heart so broken I'd built walls even Finn could barely scale.
But Serena's laugh echoed in my memory, along with the way she'd helped my son without making him feel helpless.
Maybe dangerous was exactly what we needed.
Chapter 4: Serena
I couldn't stop thinking about those eyes.
Brad Wilder had the kind of blue eyes that belonged in poetry—if I wrote poetry, which I didn't. But standing at the ice center's entrance the next evening, skates in hand, I could understand why people wrote sonnets about that particular shade of blue.
"You're being ridiculous," I muttered to myself, pushing through the doors. "He's a single dad who clearly has enough on his plate without you developing some schoolgirl crush."
The rink was nearly empty, just a few die-hard hockey players practicing at the far end. Perfect. I needed to work on my skating without an audience—especially without a seven-year-old's encouraging commentary and his father's steadying hands that had left impressions on my waist I could still feel through my jacket.
I laced up my rented skates, wobbled onto the ice, and immediately questioned my life choices. The ice seemed slipperier than yesterday, the boards farther away, my balance more theoretical than actual.
"Arms out, weight forward," I coached myself, channeling Brad's patient instructions. "Don't look down."
I made it halfway around the rink before I heard the doors open. The air changed instantly—that subtle electric shift that made my skin prickle with awareness. I knew who it was without even looking.
Brad stood at the entrance to the ice, wearing dark jeans and a greyAvalanchehoodie that had seen better days.Without the crowd and chaos of family night, he seemed larger, more present. His gaze found me immediately, and something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe pleasure, before his usual guarded expression settled into place.
"Practicing without your assistant coach?" he called out, stepping onto the ice with the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to skate before they could properly walk.
"Finn would be horrified by my lack of progress," I admitted, grabbing the boards as he approached. "I've managed three whole laps without falling, though."
"Impressive." He stopped just outside my personal space, close enough that I could see the faint scar through his left eyebrow. "Most people give up after face-planting once."
“Speaking from experience?” I asked.
“Maybe. I’m glad Finn hasn’t told you about my early skating disasters yet.” His smile softened his features, easing the lines of perpetual worry.
“That sounds interesting. Where is Finn, anyway?”
"Theo's watching him. Practically shoved me out the door, actually. Said I needed to, and I quote,'stop being a hermit and remember what fun looks like.'"
"Looks like Theo's got opinions about everyone." I executed a tentative push away from the boards. "But I think he means well."
Brad skated backward in front of me, hands out like he was spotting a gymnast. "He does. Even when he's being insufferably meddlesome. Weight more forward—there you go."
We fell into an easy rhythm, him guiding me through basic techniques while sharing stories about his early hockeydays. He had a dry sense of humor that emerged when he relaxed, usually at his own expense.
"So, you're telling me Brad Wilder, professional hockey player, once got his skate stuck in the zamboni door?"
"I was fourteen," he protested. "And showing off for a girl."
"Did it work?"
"She dated my best friend for three years."
I laughed, the sound echoing in the empty rink. "Smooth."
"Yeah, that's me. Smooth." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "What about you? What brings a teacher from San Antonio to our small mountain town?"
The question I'd been dreading. "Fresh start," I said carefully. "Sometimes you need to change your whole environment to remember who you are."
