But that’s not it.
“Excellent!” Alex says. “I’m excited to see where this goes.” And then he leaves me alone again with Roe’s expressive blue eyes and damn smirky mouth.
I see it then. Roe isn’t daring me to make Alex upset; he’s daring me to upset Jamie.
And he somehow knows I won’t.
Cocky asshole.
I can feel the frown lines deepen on my forehead as I try to figure out how I was so easily played by a guy who barely even knows me.
“So, the Junior league obviously wants to push this whole mentorship thing,” I venture, gesturing to where Alex just was. “I’m assuming the Iceguard are all for it too?”
I cross my arms, making sure the implication is clear that he’s only doing this for himself.
“You want me to tell you that mentoring a junior player isn’t exactly the kind of thing they want to see from me? Of course it is.” He raises a hand to cut off my sharp retort. “But . . .” he says firmly. “That doesn’t mean Jamie doesn’t have talent. Or that I don’t take it seriously. Both can be true, Thatcher.”
I flip the hammer, letting the comforting weight fall back into my hand with a satisfying smack of skin. This is why I like working with wood. Wood is honest. It shows its vulnerabilities. Its limits. Its flaws. Wood doesn’t hide its imperfections, it can’t. People are so rarely like that. All particle board and wood glue.
If anything I’ve read on the internet is true, Roe Monroe isn’t much more than a nice paint job over plywood. He reminds me too much of my father, too much of people who want to take a little bit of talent and make a life out of playing a game. Someone who can’t take anything seriously.
And he wants to show Jamie how to do it.
Or, a little voice inside me says,maybe he just wants to show Jamie how to hit a great slap shot and the rest is just noise in your head.
I’m not an idiot. Jamie seems like a kid to me, and he is. But twelve is six short years from eighteen. Sidney Crosby had a thirty-goal season by eighteen.
I can feel Roe’s intense gaze on me, studying me, and I’m a little surprised he hasn’t said anything.
I straighten up and place the hammer back in my tool belt. Something about Roe’s focused gaze as I do makes me pause, shuffle my feet, and clear my throat as heat creeps up my face.
Something about his look makes me overly conscious of myself.
“Ground rules,” I say, and his eyes dart to mine from where they were watching my arms. I brush off my forearms, which are likely covered in wood dust or shavings.
“So, you’re in?” His face morphs into a smile, making his blue eyes dance and his entire demeanor change.
“Jamie wants this, Monroe,” I tell him. “I’m not going to deny him the chance to work one-on-one with a pro player.”
“One of the best centers in the league, actually. I won the—“
I cut off his boasting with a sharp look. Yeah, he’s a big deal. I got that from listening in the hallway Friday night and from a lifetime of hockey awareness.
“You don’t have to sell me. I get it. Mentoring like this doesn’t come along every day. I know.”
“But?” he asks, practically bouncing on his toes. “Ground rules?”
“Stick to hockey. Whatever you want to teach him on being a better player, or fixing a shot, just . . .”
Monroe waits, head tilted, eyes wrinkled at the edges making his blue eyes darker.
“You and I both know the statistics of anyone going pro in any sport. Not only that, but the chances of making a life out of it. Jamie’s young, too young to understand the realities of all of that. He doesn’t need to get ideas in his head, or be sold some story about fame and money and—“
“Thatcher.” Monroe gently cuts me off, and the soft way he says my name makes me blink. “You said you get it. I get it too. It’s just going to be hockey. No romanticizing the NAPH.”
I nod. “Just hockey.”
Monroe’s smirk transforms into a smile that rises just a little higher on the right side of his face.
