I dressed in a black T-shirt and my favorite jeans. Sliding on my sunglasses as I pulled out of my driveway, I still squinted against the rising sun. My new, old SUV that I’d bought when I moved to Houston withstood the hours of traffic I crawled through each week. A comfortable hybrid, the vehicle met my standards. I didn’t need new and flashy like some guys. In fact, I’d found I liked the reliable, preferring to fix and clean up some things rather than buying shiny and new.
Sure, the guys teased me, but I reminded them I planned to live off my money long after I quit playing. Many of the players, especially the younger ones, refused to believe their million-plus salaries would dry up one day. But I’d faced that reality at twenty-six when I sat in Gauthier’s office, holding my breath as he decided whether to trade me or kill my career. He’d thought he’d done the latter by sending me to Houston. But so far, I’d proved him wrong. And I intended to continue—by beating his star scorer on Sunday.
Gauthier had reached out after Pete explained the whole sordid tale. But it was too little, too late. The man had beenmycoach, not Dukovsky’s. I would never forgive him for introducing Shannon to the little shit while we were at a party, nor for signing him. Once I let him know that, my former coach never reached out again.
The team skatehad gone well this morning, each line running their plays with precision and leaving me optimistic about our chances for the second half of the season…as long as our guys stayed healthy and focused. I never took the good times for granted because I knew how quickly they could end.
Cruz and Nik skated in close, and I fist bumped them with my gloves. “Great practice. You ready for this?” I grinned.
Cruz nodded, his expression his typical resting murder face. The burly dude’s facial hair bristled out from his jaw. He looked scary as fuck in his skates and pads, which was ironic because he cried at commercials and any movie with a dog in it. Cruz’s tears were as regular as my lawn sprinklers.
“Think the kids will scream when they see me?” he asked, his gaze darting around.
“Just don’t smile,” Nik said.
“Shove it, Nik,” I replied. “They’ll love you, Cruz. You know why?”
“They’ll scream,” Nik said, a gleam in his eye.
“They’ll love you because they know your interest in them is genuine.”
Nik snorted. “Don’t believe this guy—he doesn’t have any rug rats.”
“Neither do you,” I responded with a scowl.
Nik’s gaze caught mine, and the teasing expression slid from his face. He swallowed. “Um. Sorry, man.”
“Maybe I should go shower…” Cruz skated away.
“Too late,” I said as little voices rose into shouts. As much as Nik’s comment stung, I couldn’t help but grin as I skated toward the mob of youngsters. They were plowing toward the ice like a tsunami.
Chapter3
Keelie
Before today, I’d never realized ice had a smell—something sharp that bit into my nose. I hung back, letting Mrs. Ruiz and my friend Lisa, a second-grade teacher the kids called Ms. Vaughn, sort the students into their groups. They were noisy, more excited than I’d seen them before. But then again, few people got to ice skate in a professional rink.
“What do you think, Andy?” I asked to the child next to me.
The small boy sucked two of his fingers as he raised his gaze to meet mine. The skates gave the kids a few extra inches of height, but Andy was small. He’d been born premature with infant alcohol syndrome. While he was as physically able as many of his classmates, he remained shy and slow to join new activities.
He pulled his fingers from his mouth. “It’s big.”
“Yes, it is. Now that we tied your skates, are you ready to hit the ice?”
Andy shook his head. His dark hair fluttered around his ears. My heart melted. This boy—so gentle and sweet—never deserved other kids making fun of him. Already he struggled to find his place, and he was only in first grade. Anger boiled in my chest, a weight sinking in my belly.
Kids like Andy were part of why I’d gone into physical therapy after getting my undergraduate degree in social work. I knew the system could only do so much to protect a child.
It hadn’t been the system that hurt me; my parents did that long before I met a social worker or occupational therapist. My low-income school had been chosen as part of a pilot program that brought in occupational therapists, and Ms. Anaya had helped me get back into the “regular” classroom. Without her, I never would have considered going to college, let alone getting a graduate degree.
“Let’s get on that ice,” I said, my tone bright if brittle. I hated thinking about my past, so I avoided it.
Becausethatwas a healthy coping mechanism.
“Don’t leave me?” Andy whispered.
“Never,” I promised, taking his small hand.
