“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Making my son like you better than me?”
“What are you talking about? Let’s leave him out of it. You’ve never likedme,that’s the real issue here.” I glance at the ice behind Jerrod, making sure the boy is safely playing with Zammie.
I shift around and move through the rental shelves, finding the right size helmet.
“You’re right. This started long ago when you tried to take Stella away from me,” he snaps, and blocks me in behind the counter. I could take him and protect myself if it comes to that, but none of that matters if Aiden sees me lose control.
“You had already broken up when I met her. Now, excuse me so I can take this?—”
“She was always mine, and would have come back to me until you got in the way, you son of a bitch.” His face reddens.
“What does it matter now? You convinced her to break up with me. You got her back. She had your baby. You won then. Yet here you are today, you’re not even together with her anymore, and you’re all up in my face about it.”
“It matters because you’re playing family withmyson. And no one, especially you, gets to do that.” He scowls, his face almost purple now.
“You need to let this go, man. You have a new wife. Stella deserves to find someone who makes her and Aiden happy, too.”
“But not you. You stay away from them.”
“Or what?” I step closer. “Are you going to hit me in front of your kid?” I’d beg him to do it. Let the bastard try to get custody then. But I don’t like the way Jerrod looks at me like he wants to strangle me.
Out of the corner of my eye, something is wrong. The rink is too quiet; silence where there should be blades. None of Aiden’s usual laughter. Only Zammie barking over by the Zamboni.
I look harder, and my heart seizes. Aiden is climbing up the side of it, but his hand loses its grip and he falls, screaming.
“No,” I choke.
Jerrod turns just in time to see him go down hard—head snapping against the ice with a sickening crack.
“Aiden!” I’m moving before my brain catches up, running and sliding across the ice, knees slamming down beside him.
He’s not moving. I put my ear down and check for breathing.
No, no, no.
“Hey, buddy,” I shout, hands shaking asI lightly slap his cheeks. “Come on. Open your eyes.”
Nothing.
I check his chest.
Nothing.
Training takes over. I’ve seen this before. Years of crashes, concussions, bodies sprawled on the ice. We undergo intensive CPR training regularly as a team.
I tilt Aiden’s head, start compressions, counting out loud because if I stop counting, I’ll fall apart. This is pure instinct I’m operating on now; if I stop and think, he could die. I breathe into his mouth and then I shout to Jerrod.
“Call 911!”
I see him locked in the place where I left him, face stricken, watching with horror.
“Jerrod, call now. He’s not breathing! He could die.”
That shakes up and he fumbles for his phone, dropping it once, hands trembling as he dials. His voice cracks as he gives the address I shout to him to the dispatcher.
“One—two—three—” I continue another round of CPR on Aiden.
