He flattens his lips, his expression unamused. “Oh, you’re going to be one of those students.”
I offer an enthusiastic nod. “Definitely.”
He shakes his head, an amused expression twisting his lips. He pulls out the skates, helps them onto my feet and does up the laces.
I stare down at the pretty white skates.
I balked at the outrageous price, but my fake boyfriend had his boss hat on when he insisted there was no way I was going to use the price tag to wiggle out of learning how to skate.
Sheesh.
“Stand up.” Kaz extends a hand.
I do as I’m told.
I walk on the spot. “Okay, I got a feel of what it’s like to wear skates. I don’t need to go on the ice.”And I don’t need to die today.
“You’re going on the ice.”
I let out a groan.
A mother holding a little boy’s hand approaches. “I’m sorry to interrupt you—and I’m certain I’m wrong—but you look like Kaz Lindström. You’re his doppelgänger, right?”
His baseball cap was a lousy disguise.
The man has the aura of a champion. It’s no surprise people recognize him.
He straightens up. “You got me.”
The brunette’s eyes widen. She places a hand against her chest and gasps. “My husband and three older boys are your biggest fans. The hubby cried when you retired.Cried.But he was beaming with pride when the NHL retired your number. You’d think he was related to you.” She laughs.
“It was a big day for me,” he says. “The highlight of my career.”
“My little muffin wants to follow in your footsteps.” She tugs on her son’s hand. “Don’t you, Timmy?”
“I’m going to be number twenty-three.” The boy’s eyes light up. “Or twenty-one, or twenty-four, or?—”
His mother puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Close to your number,” the little boy, who can’t be older than five says, with a determined nod. “When I grows up, I wants to be big and tall like you. And I wanna be strong.” He lets out a menacing grunt with accompanying superhero pose. “And I want all the hockey players to be afraid of me—like you—’cause I’m gonna be thebestestplayer in all of the world.”
It’s good to dream big, Timmy.
“Bestplayer in the world, honey,” his mother says.
Timmy punches the air with a tiny fist.
“I have no doubt I’m in the presence of a future Stanley Cup winner,” Kaz says.
“Yep.” Timmy nods. “I’m gonna wins lots, and lots, and lots, and lots of Stanley Cups.”
“I’m going to win a lot.”
He glances up at his mother. “That’s what I said.”
Her attempt at correcting him falls on deaf ears.
I suppress a laugh. This kid is adorable.
