Page 21 of From Ice to Grace
I find myself nodding in agreement. I haven’t found a church in New York, which just tells me again how I’ve basically been sleep walking for the past year.
“I’ll definitely join you, thanks Han.”
At this point in my life, it’s going to take an intervention from God to show me where I need to go.
5
DECLAN
Leaning back in the Adirondack chair, I take in the expanse of the dark sky. Looking up, the only thing visible is the smoke curling up from the fire pit. A wispy trail against the backdrop of faded stars and shadowy tree-tops. The air is crisp and clean, the scent of woodfire and steak filling the air.
“I think you’re the only one in the entire NHL who barbeques on a woodfire,” I say, sitting up and watching as Lucas adds more glowing coals from the pit to the grill that looks self-made. I’m half convinced he made that on the farm in Georgetown before lugging it to the city on the back of his truck.
He’s the only one of us who bought himself a house in Westchester. He used to room with me and Lindgren for a while, but then decided he’d be better off living alone. He’s always been a bit more…domestic than the rest of us. Might be his Southern roots that drove him to look for a home with a yard and a driveway. And then shortly after he found himself a wife to boot.
“Aren’t you supposed to use gas?” I ask, tipping the bottle of water to my mouth, the taste almost therapeutic as it washes away the remnants of last night’s bourbon.
“This is the only way to do it, Dec,” he says with a smile. “And you know it tastes better.”
“It’s the only way to do it,” Nikolai adds, the light from the fire showing the amused glint in his eyes. He’s leaning forward, his dark hair short from the buzz cut he gets at the start of every season. He won’t cut his hair until after the playoffs are over. It’s his tradition.
“It definitely tastes better,” I murmur quietly, thinking about how I’ve never had steak as good as from Lucas’s grill. “I can’t argue with that.”
Niko’s gaze is focused on the dancing flames in the pit. It’s clear he’s in his own world, remembering or reliving something we weren’t a part of.
“My grandfather used to say it’s all you need to survive the winter,” he says, his Russian accent deeper now. “Meat and fire.”
I lean back, a smile tugging at my mouth. I’ve never been to Russia, but I can imagine Nikolai sitting around a fire with a giant parka over his shoulders, cooking something like a rabbit or a deer that he hunted himself.
My own father wasn’t one to show me any of these things. We never barbequed. Not once. I can’t say that he’s taken the time to teach me anything. There are no memories in my childhood of built fires or father-son bonding time.
No. Just the sound of empty vodka bottles and the smell of cigarette burnt carpets.
“This is a far-cry from winter in Russia, Niko,” I mutter.
“True,” he says, slowly nodding before taking a sip of his beer. “But winter can be more than just cold weather.”
My gaze meets his and there’s a sense of understanding slipping between us. We’re all carrying something with us. A past, secrets, something that broke long ago. We just don’t talk about it too much. We bury it beneath quips and hockey practice.
A sharp slap lands on my shoulder.
“What’s up?” EJ says, taking a seat across from me. “You guys started without me?”
“Easy to do when you take forever to get here,” Niko says.
“It’s Avah,” EJ says, his gaze flicking toward the house. “She took her sweet time to get ready and then insulted my car.”
“What’s wrong with your car?” Lucas asks with a laugh, flipping the steaks, the sizzling sound like music to my ears.
“Or was it your music?” I ask, looking over my shoulder toward the house. Lindgren is coming out with a few drinks in his hand. Avah is visible behind him, hugging Hannah with a smile on her face.
A smile that looks a bit strained. Even from here.
“Both,” EJ says, shaking his head. “And there’s nothing wrong with my music.”
Looking back, I find EJ’s watching me a little too closely. Like he’s trying to figure something out, or he’s unsure how far to push.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
