Page 8 of Pucking the Single Dad
He studied me for a moment, reading something in my expression. "Bad breakup?"
"Broken engagement, actually." The words came easier than expected. "Turns out I was more of a project than a partner. He had very specific ideas about who I should become."
"His loss," Brad said quietly, and the sincerity in his voice made my chest tight.
"Tell me about hockey," I said, needing to shift focus from the way he was looking at me. "You mentioned you're injured?"
His expression darkened slightly. "Torn MCL. Six weeks ago—a bad hit during a game against Minnesota. Should be back on the ice in another month if rehab goes well."
"That must be frustrating."
"It's..." he paused, searching for words. "Actually, it's been almost a relief. Being home with Finn more, not traveling constantly. Since Sarah—" He stopped abruptly.
"His mom?" I asked gently.
"Yeah. She died three years ago. Car accident on highway during a snow storm." His voice went flat, automatic, like he'd said these words too many times. "Black ice. They said she didn't suffer."
"Brad, I'm so sorry."
"Finn was four. Old enough to remember her but young enough that the memories are fading." He started skating again, and I followed, sensing he needed movement. "Sometimes I catch him looking at her pictures like he's trying to memorize something that's already slipping away."
We skated in silence for a moment, the only sound our blades on ice and the distant thump of pucks from the practicing players.
"You're doing an amazing job with him," I said finally. "He's confident, funny, kind—"
"Anxious, overprotected, isolated," Brad countered.
"Loved," I said firmly. "Deeply, obviously, overwhelmingly loved. Everything else can be worked with."
He stopped so abruptly I nearly crashed into him. His hands caught my waist, steadying me, and suddenly we were close enough that I could see flecks of grey in his blue eyes, smell the faint scent of his soap—something clean and woodsy.
"You don't even know us," he said, but there was wonder in his voice rather than accusation.
"I know enough," I whispered, aware that neither of us had stepped back, that his hands were still on my waist, that the air between us had become something tangible.
The overhead lights suddenly cut out.
Emergency lighting kicked in a second later, bathing the rink in amber shadows that turned the ice into a mirror of gold. The temperature seemed to drop immediately without the full heating system.
"What happened?" I asked, involuntarily stepping closer to Brad's warmth.
"Automatic timer. Facility closes at nine—I lost track of time." He pulled out his phone, frowning at the screen.
A metallic clunk echoed through the space. Brad skated to the doors, pulled them, and turned back with a rueful expression. "Zamboni bay doors just locked. We're stuck until someone overrides the system."
"Stuck?" I tried to keep the panic from my voice. Small spaces didn't bother me, but being trapped was too reminiscent of feeling caged in Marcus's apartment, in his expectations, in the life he'd mapped out for me.
"Hey," Brad was beside me instantly, reading my distress. "It's okay. I've got the emergency maintenance number in my phone. Twenty minutes, tops."
He made the call while I focused on breathing, on the vast space above us, on anything except the locked doors. After a brief conversation, he pocketed his phone.
"Jimmy's on his way. He lives about fifteen minutes out." Brad studied my face in the amber light. "You okay?"
"Fine. I just—I don't like being trapped."
Understanding dawned in his expression. "The ex?"
"He never locked me in anywhere," I said quickly. "It was more... psychological. Every door was open as long as I walked through it his way."
