What I’d give to be back where this kid is. To know then what I know now.
Something pulls deep: a longing for the impossible.
Hell, at his age I was perfecting my signature five-hole shot on ice not that much different from The Keep’s. I’d just watched Oshie at the Olympics hand team USA a massive win over the Russians with four shootout goals in six attempts, including scoring through the five-hole. Twice. Against Sergei Bobrovsky at that.
I feel a smile cross my face. How long has it been since I’ve thought about that? I won a game for the Knights in a shootout two years ago, with a five-hole shot that had been highlighted on SportsCenter so much it landed on the end-of-year reel. But I don’t think even that moment made me reminisce about my misspent summer of trick-shots and accuracy drills like watching this kid does.
I whistle and the kid looks up. I toss him a puck and step out on the ice, not in skates, but I have my stick. He adjusts effortlessly to my flat-footedness without the skates, looping his drill around me like I’m one of the cones he had out before I joined him.
We go back and forth for maybe twenty minutes, until I hear his phone go off and he stops, pulls the phone from his pants,and taps it silent, then he pulls off his helmet and walks toward me.
“Thank you, Mr. Monroe,” he says, polite and steady. “It was an honor to share the ice.” He even sticks out his hand for me to shake.
I smile. It’s nice to be recognized without having to introduce myself. “Well, you have me at a disadvantage. What’s your name?”
“Jamie Thatcher.”
I grin wider at the young man. “That’s a strong name. A hockey name.” I tap the side of my head. “Worth remembering, I bet.”
“Thanks.” He gives a glance up, past the seats to where Benji and I were leaning this morning. “My dad’s here, but thanks again.”
“You better go, then,” I tell him with a smile, unsure how to tell a Pewee-level player that the twenty minutes on the ice with him killed a lot of noise in my head. Truly, I’m grateful.
Jamie moves to gather the cones and pucks left over from his drills, but I wave him off. “I’ve got it. Don’t leave your dad waiting.”
I glance up and then I see him—Jamie’s dad, leaning on the railing above the ice with an unreadable expression.
And holy hell, Jamie’s dad ishot.
I check myself. This isn’t Chicago, and I need to remember that.
Still, I clock the broad shoulders, large hands, and light eyes sharp enough to draw blood even from a distance. His hair’s a little long on top—as though he forgot to cut it, not because it’s a style—and he’s a big guy, but somehow his muscle hangs lean, as if his body’s used to movement. His handsome face is covered with a little bit of scruff that’s darker than his brown hair. My stomach clenches as desire heats my veins.
Flannel never looked so damn good.
I avoid running my eyes down to the denim that’s cradling his thighs, but I can still see enough from the corner of my eye.
I think about a wave, flashing a smile, or starting something flirtatious.
Instead, I turn and start packing up the cones.
As far as first days go, this one wasn’t half bad.
Chapter two
Gabe Thatcher
The Bench Social Media Group
Patti Jensen: Not to add gossip, but Gabe Thatcher ended his date outside the diner early, and let’s just say it did not go well.
Ash Patel: Another one bites the dust, and he hardly ever dates.
Patti Jensen: The date was good looking enough, but rude to my waitresses. Thatch wasn’t having it.
Riley Novak: Someone better scoop up that man.
“Morning, kiddo.”
