He stares at his hands on top of the counter.
I lean in. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy.” I don’t tell him it might be his only shot out of this poverty cycle. His grades are terrible. Even if he gets into a community college, I’m not sure he has the attention span to do any better than he did in high school. Sure, he can do a trade school. I mean, I guess like Mrs. Wagner said, there’s always plumbing, but again, I don’t have any money to help him pay for that. He’ll be saddled with loans.
Man, I hope for his sake, he sees his potential.
“Noah, I’m being completely honest with you. If I didn’t think you had a shot, I wouldn’t encourage you. I would never want to set you up for heartbreak, but this is different. This is hockey. You have just as much drive as anyone else. You should try.”
The air between us thickens, and he glares at me like if I say one more thing he’ll bolt. Then, finally, he lets out a long breath. “So, if I decide to try out, will you come with me?”
I freeze, not from hesitation, but from surprise. My throat tightens because he could’ve asked anyone. He has tons of friends and guys on his high school team, but he’s asking me.
I’m looking at him, but my mind does some weird time warp thing, where all the years fold in on themselves. Every early morning practice. Every late-night ice time. Every extra hot cocoa to comfort a bruised knee. My friends always said, when Noah gets to be a teenager, he won’t want me around, but that’s not the case. He still wants me here, and it warms my mama heart, making all the sacrifices worth it. I smile, blinking an extra time as I try not to get sappy. “Yeah, if that’s what you want. I’ll be there.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Rolling his bottom lip in, his gaze grows distant for a beat.
I slide off the stool and scan the tables. Most of them are empty, as it’s before the dinner rush. Noah and I eat early, or Idon’t get a chance to eat until after I close. “I’m having Margie make me hashbrowns. Should I ask her to make you an omelet?”
“Sure, extra meat for me, please, but don’t you know hashbrowns don’t count as a meal?”
“You know I prefer to snack.” I pull out my pad, scribble out our order and push it through the window. As I turn my focus back to him, his gaze floats above my head. What I wouldn’t do to know what he’s thinking. He’s at the age where he has so many big decisions ahead of him.
So many possibilities.
I want all his dreams to come true.
three
Bill
I sure didn’t expect it to look like this.
Tucked at the edge of the park, the frozen pond looks more like a Hallmark movie set than a tryout rink. White stringlights crisscross above the ice. There’s even a snack stand with peppermint cocoa and soft pretzels. It’s charming, but nothing like the sharp lines and plexiglass of a hockey arena. Since my arena isn’t ready yet, this will do.
I can’t help imagining what my arena will look like when it’s finished. Cushion seats, luxury boxes, a custom Jumbotron, an entire food court. The kind of place kids dream of stepping into someday. I'm halfway through mentally calculating the space in my luxury box when chaos breaks out right in front of me.
“Ah! Sorry! I slipped!” a voice calls from my left, perking my attention to where two kids have knocked over an entire tray of cocoa that a concession worker was carrying. The concession guy is covered in cocoa, and his eyes grow wide with fury or maybe pain as I’m guessing that liquid is hot. Styrofoam cups roll across the packed snow, while napkins flutter away in the light breeze.
I catch a napkin midair and peer at the concession guy, feeling his pain. “Why don’t you go ahead and get cleaned up. I can take care of this mess.”
“Are you sure?” He gives me an unamused grin.
“Totally, it’s my pleasure.” I wave him off.
“Thanks, and sorry,” he quickly replies as he spins on his heel, heading toward the bathrooms.
“You’re welcome,” I call after him as I crouch, hurriedly gathering napkins before they blow away. I don’t have a bag or anything to throw them into. A fast eye sweep tells me there are no trash cans on this side of the park. I know for a fact there are some garbage cans by the bathrooms, so I stuff the napkins in my deep jacket pockets until I can circle around to the trash cans.
“Here’s another one,” a voice says, sounding amused and extremely close. I glance up, and a jolt of electricity shoots right through me. A woman is standing behind the railing, bundled in a pink coat with a white beanie that makes the whites of her eyespop against the dark blue sparkle. Her hair falls in soft curls, and a sparkle of laughter in her gaze hits me square in the chest. She holds out an empty cocoa cup. “I caught one for you.”
For me?
I blink.
Does she think I’m the janitor?
I give her a side-eye as I ponder this for a moment. I could correct her. Nobody has ever given me their garbage before, as most people—especially in Mapleton—know exactly who I am. It’s sort of funny. I take the cup, and a smile grows on my lips. “Thank you.”
She smiles back and turns her attention to the rink. Her side profile is even more beautiful or maybe equally. It’s hard to decide, but I find myself mesmerized by her pink lips pinching together like she’s nervous.
