The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(78)

I want to be here.

Just need to figure out how.





Twenty-Eight





Ingrid



We’re late to Piper’s hockey practice Saturday. I’m cranky that she has practice at all, considering half the kids are out of town since it’s Thanksgiving weekend, and the kids who are in town aren’t the kids whose parents I know well enough to beg for a ride for her, and my babysitter isn’t one that I trust to drive my kids in holiday shopping weekend traffic.

The good news is that it’s just Piper and me, since I have a babysitter.

The bad news is that she hates being late for hockey.

The worse news is that I’m a complete and total bear, and I’m trying very hard to not take it out on my kids, but I’m tired.

I’m so tired. The store. Their activities. The squirrel. Just everyday life—today, it’s too much, and I don’t think I can solve it by declaring today to be watch TV and order in pizza day.

Nor would I want to. Staying busy is good, right?

“It’s okay, Piper. No one’s upset that you’re late,” I tell her as I help her shove her skate on. She’s all padded up and ready, bouncing on the bench while five or six other kids skate out on the ice with the coach. “Most of the team isn’t even here. Any minutes you get are bonus minutes.”

“But I want to be out there now.”

I finally get her skates tightened, and she takes off so fast I nearly lose a finger.

That child was born to live on the ice. I’m a little terrified of what’ll happen the first time a coach tells her she can’t play with the boys, or the first time I tell her she can’t move up in the league because Mama’s terrified she’ll take a punch to the ear.

I’m shaking my head as I rise off the players’ bench, but instead of seeing the other parents when I turn to head up into the stands, I come face-to-chest with a mountain in a Thrusters jersey.

I stumble back against the half-wall, crane my neck up, and find myself staring into the face of Piper’s idol.

There are exactly three things I remember about Ares Berger.

One, he’s the largest man in pro hockey, nicknamed The Force, which I’m quickly realizing is probably an understatement.

Two, he told Sports Illustrated in an interview early this summer that he had hearing problems as a kid that went undiagnosed until grade school since his twin brother did all his talking for him when they were little.

And three, Levi knows him.

Ares doesn’t smile—not exactly—but his lips lift in one corner, and I get the feeling that’s as close as I’ll get to any hint that I need to get out of his way, and also that he’s amused at the idea of puny little me blocking him.

“Quit scaring the civilians, Berger,” another male voice says behind him.

I slide aside, pretty sure I’ll never blink again.

Ares unlocks the half-door that Piper just flew through, and six Thrusters in uniform follow him out onto the ice as every one of the dinky little players, including my fearless little girl, turn and gawk at them.

Parents behind me are murmuring and whispering.

The coach smiles broadly and takes a fist bump from one of the players.

I don’t know which players are which or who plays what position. Names flash on their backs, some familiar, some not. Berger. Frey. Lavoie. Murphy. Applebottom. Jaeger. Klein.

My brain doesn’t have space to keep up with all of the names of the pro hockey players, but the heavier pads on two of them tell me the team sent two goaltenders.

I almost giggle at the idea that a professional hockey team would need two goaltenders to stop Piper and her crew from scoring.

“Are you Ingrid?”

I glance to my left, where a pretty redheaded woman in an official Thrusters polo is smiling at me, baby on her hip, then belatedly remember to nod.

She steps next to me and tilts her head to the ice. The players are all bending or squatting to say hi to the kids. “Which one’s Piper?”

“Number twenty-two.”

She lifts a hand and flashes two fingers twice, earning an actual full grin from Ares, who instantly turns and zeroes in on Piper like he knows exactly who she is despite none of the kids’ numbers being visible.

Then she turns back to me. “Hi. I’m Felicity. The Thrusters’ front office got a call from a concerned citizen who was worried we weren’t doing enough to support said concerned citizen’s favorite youth hockey team.”

My eyes get hot.

This is not fair. “He shouldn’t have—”

“Rule number one of knowing concerned citizens—they do what they want.”

I suck in a wavering breath. “He still shouldn’t have.”

“Shouldn’t he?” She nods out to the ice, where Ares has taken a knee to get closer to talk to Piper, and in return, Piper’s taken a knee too, to do what her idol does despite it meaning that Ares has to lean down even farther to talk to her, and my eyes go hot all over again as I pull out my phone and start snapping pictures.

She’s so small next to him. I want to call for her to stand up, but I stifle myself. Ares is smiling at her like he’s amused and I don’t want to interrupt the moment. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Piper’s nodding, and then her jaw starts moving.