Twenty minutes in, Aiden wipes out hard, face-first onto the ice—thank God for mouth guards. My heart lurches, instinct screaming at me to rush onto the slick surface. I shoot to my feet, almost losing my laptop to the floor. But Eli is there in a flash at his side. He doesn’t grab Aiden right away, but pats his back with a comforting hand, talking to him and making sure he’s okay. He crouches and waits, giving my son space to pull himself up.
On second thought, maybe I should let Mom bring Aiden to these things. It’s never been easy to see my son hurt in any way. But I breath once again when he plants his gloves on the ice and gets back up. A minute later, it’s like nothing happened as he races down the rink again. Eli gives me a thumbs up. I wave back, hoping Aiden didn’t scratch up his face.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, intruding on the moment. I hesitate, then pull it out. Jerrod’s name blazes across the screen. I should probably take this.
“Hi,” I answer, and I slip out to the waiting area, leaving the sound of skates and laughter behind.
“Just checking in. I wanted to talk about Christmas. About Aiden’s birthday,” he says, sounding distracted, papers rustling in the background.
“Okay.” My shoulders tense. He hasn’t visited Aiden since Easter, but I’m trying to be patient, considering his new wife and her kids take all his time.
“There’s a work thing coming up,” he continues, although his definition of work is a loose one. When we first married and moved back to Chicago, he worked in his Dad’s small sawmillbusiness, but they’d argued and he moved on, taking job to job, never happy. I contributed, watching other people’s children in our home, getting paid under the table, but we were broke all the time. Finally, he settled into commercial real estate and things improved for us little by little.
When he closes on a property, he flourishes, but he could go weeks or months until another one happens. “There’s a deal I’m chasing, a big one, and if it closes, it’d be around Christmas. I might not get away to visit.”
“Oh. I understand. Not sure Aiden will. He’d like to have a party with his friends this year.”
“It’s just… I don’t want to promise to be there, but end up disappointing him.”
My blood boils. I want to tell him he has already been the biggest disappointment ever. That when someone commits to a custody arrangement, it should be a priority in his life.
This news will hurt Aiden. Then again… I stare through the glass at the rink, where my son glides clumsily across the ice toward Eli, laughing when he nearly collides with him trying to stop. Eli reaches out, steadying him without breaking stride. The look the two of them share—it’s like they’ve formed a unique bond already.
“I think he’ll be okay,” I breathe. “We’ll figure it out.”
Jerrod exhales. “Good. I’ll call again soon when I know for sure.”
“Fine,” I reply, and he hangs up before I can say more—before he even thought to ask how Aiden is doing. If Mom were here, she’d yell at me for not reminding him he’s a few months behind on support.
I stand here longer than necessary. The phone grows cold in my hand. It’s been months since Jerrod last visited. He calls once a week to speak with Aiden, but the detachment and thedistance build. Part of me wonders guiltily if he will even miss his father at Christmas.
When I head back inside, I take a seat on the bench, deliberately keeping my eyes off the ice. I pull out my laptop and pretend I can focus. But laughter erupts from the center of the ice where all the kids and Eli and his coaches are playing a game to finish out their time.
The thing is, Eli is a complication and a distraction, not a replacement for Jerrod. For my son’s sake and both our hearts, I cannot afford to let myself forget that.
When the class finishes, I gather my things and find Aiden in the waiting area talking with his friends. I head in his direction so we can get home and I can get back to studying as soon as possible, but a hand on my arm stops me.
I gaze down at where my skin tingles from Eli’s warm grip; my knees almost give out. His hands could always do sinful things to me. Back in college, we stole time together alone in either of our dorm rooms when our roommates were away. Or, yes, even a quickie inside that famous cleaning closet in the hockey team’s locker room before a game. Is there a closet here in this rink?
I shake that dirty thought away, stay upright, and stand taller. “Yes?”
“Would you mind staying a few minutes longer? My assistant just texted to inform me that you forgot to sign one waiver for Aiden to play,” he explains.
“Oh, did I? Sorry.”
“Just wait for me. Everyone should clear out in a few minutes.” He walks off to join the other coaches in engaging with the parents and answering their final questions about the program as they all leave.
I stand there, almost dumbfounded, observing. It’s interesting to see him as an adult—fully responsible andhandling things like a pro. When I knew him in college, if it didn’t involve hockey or me, he gave it little time or attention, like his studies. He graduated and got his contract to play professionally; that’s all that mattered, I suppose. But I always implored him to think about what he’d do if he didn’t have hockey, if he got injured or something and could no longer play. Maybe through this foundation, he’s found it.
Aiden tugs at my sweater. “Mom, I’m starving. Do you have a dollar so I can get a granola bar from the vending machine?”
“Um…” I search my bag, coming up short by a quarter.
“Here, sport.” Eli flips him a coin and Aiden catches it. He runs to the machine. The place is empty now; only the three of us and the other coaches remain. “Aiden, I need to talk to your mom for a minute. Can you wait here?”
Coach Mason speaks up. “I’m about to run the Zamboni. You want a ride?”
“Yeah. But I thought you said we couldn’t have rides?” My smart little guy counters, scratching his head and checking in with Eli.
