Page 14 of Ice Ice Maybe
As Nolan kissed me, I had a sudden flashback to our Lucha Libre lip-lock fiesta. For a split second, I wondered if we were about to give the diners at Island Prime a show worthy of pay-per-view. Would I need to fake a fainting spell to avoid turning our fancy dinner into an impromptu burlesque?
Luckily, Nolan had the presence of mind to keep things short and rated PG. He pulled away just as I was calculating how many buttons I could undo on his shirt before Mom passed out and Dad suffered an aneurysm. Crisis averted, shirt intact, and parents still standing. I’d call that a success.
“With a sweet kiss like that, who needs dessert?” Nolan said.
Everyone laughed, except for Mitch.
Nolan took his seat next to me. His hand found mine under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. I was immensely impressed with him so far. This wasn’t just Nolan the Zamboni driver; this was Nolan the charmer, and I had to admit, he was playing the part flawlessly.
Next, the appetizers arrived—a spread of lobster bisque, crab cakes, and charred octopus that would make any foodie swoon. As we dug in, the conversation predictably gravitated to hockey, with Mom and me exchanging knowing glances across the table. As the main course was served, Mitch’s gaze locked onto Nolan, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.
“So … what do you do for a living?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual. “It must be something quite impressive to capture the heart of one of the most eligible women in the state.”
Nolan, unfazed, replied with a grin, “I tame the ice. Zamboni driver extraordinaire, at your service.”
Mitch nearly choked on his crab cake. “No, seriously. What do you do?”
“He’s serious,” I interjected, my hand instinctively finding Nolan’s arm. “A man’s job does not dictate whether or not I would want to be with him. How could you not know this by now?”
“Nolan has been maintaining the ice for us for the past six seasons,” Dad added. “And he does a bang-up job. Couldn’t be happier with him.”
“He’s the best,” Coach Quinn added.
Mitch’s eyes ping-ponged between Nolan and me, disbelief etched on his face. “What does that gig even pay? It can’t be much. Fifty K at the most?”
I felt my jaw clench. Of course, Mitch would steer the conversation to money. It was his favorite topic, right after himself. It was one of the main reasons I’d stopped seeing him after only two months. After his first big contract and signing bonus, he’d transformed into a completely different person, a materialistic, money-grubbing man, convinced that wealth was the only path to happiness.
“Nolan, you don’t have to answer that,” I said, squeezing his arm. “Why don’t we change the subject?”
Mitch leaned back in his chair. “What’s the big deal? He knows I signed a three-year contract for fifty million.” He gestured to Dad. “Mr. Dalton is worth twenty-two billion.”
Dad cleared his throat. “Twenty-three.”
“Even better—and Coach Quinn makes a million a year.” Mitch shrugged. “It’s just money.”
I took a deep breath, fighting to keep my voice level. “There’s more to life than money, Mitch.”
Dad shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly more interested in his drink since all he thought about twenty-fourhours a day was money, even though he had enough for a thousand lifetimes.
Nolan, cool as ever, met Mitch’s gaze. “Sorry, but money’s never been my motivator. I like to live my life day to day, appreciating the little things all around me that don’t cost a thing, but are still priceless.”
Mitch’s fork clattered against his plate. “What are you, terminal or something?”
I could not believe he’d asked him that.
Nolan chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Nah, I’m busy living life to the fullest. You should try it sometime, Mitch. There’s a whole world out there that doesn’t fit on a balance sheet or inside a ten-car garage. I find my happiness in other things, like the company of a good friend, walks along the beach, or watching the caterpillars make their cocoons on my orange tree.”
“You might want to look into testosterone injections,” Mitch said.
“Your outlook on life is wonderful, Nolan,” Mom said with a smile. “Everyone seems to be stressed out all the time, always go, go, go.” She shot Dad a look. “It may sound cliché, but I think we all need to stop sometimes and smell the roses.”
I nodded. “I agree. You’re living a life that is fulfilling, and that’s what matters most. It’s one of the things I admire about you.”
“Thank you,” Nolan said, leaning closer and kissing me gently on the lips.
“Fulfilling? Seriously?” Mitch crossed his arms. “How is driving a Zamboni fulfilling? It’s like a glorified snowplow.”
“You’d be surprised,” Nolan said. “There is nothing like the satisfaction of creating a perfectly smooth ice surface, so you and every other player in the NHL can actually have a long andsuccessful career. You get all the glory, but without me, you couldn’t even play five minutes without getting injured.”
