I can handle this.
I have to.
But at the top of that list, above all, I have to stop thinking about Patton. I should write it on a Post-it note and stick it to my forehead as a reminder.
7
PATTON
The puck slamsagainst the boards with a satisfying crack, and I’m in position to intercept it during practice with the rec league. My skates carve into the ice as I pivot around Austin’s attempt to body-check me and I race down the ice toward the goal.
He shouts, “Come on, old man! My grandmother moves faster!”
“Your grandmother is seventy-three and runs marathons,” I fire back, sending the puck sailing past him toward the net.
It goes wide by six inches. Reese, our goalie, boos loudly.
Scotty retrieves it with a grunt that echoes across the outdoor rink.
Aside from escaping into the mountains for some solitude, Thursday night hockey practice at Huckleberry Hill’s tiny community rink—complete with flimsy boards and lighting that flickers when the wind picks up—is the highlight of my week. Out here, nobody expects me to smile or make small talk. In fact, we mostly trash talk.
We play hard, win harder.
“Did you catch the Rebels game last night?” James calls from the blue line, already winded. He needs to lay off the pasta at Sunday dinners with his in-laws. Or maybe he’s stress-eating. From what I’ve noticed lately, his marriage has more cracks than this ice.
“Caught the third period,” I say, easily stealing the puck from Hayes and sending it back toward center ice.
Reese whoops loudly, presumably cheering about our very own local hockey hero who plays for the NHL. “Welter worked to save the puck in overtime.”
“The man is a legend. We should catch a game in Reno soon. The Nebraska Knights are coming to town next month.” Austin snags the puck.
“I’m in,” Scotty says.
Hayes—still learning to skate backward without looking like a newborn giraffe—nearly takes out James. “Me too! I’ve never been to an NHL game.”
My dad used to take me to see the Rebels when I was a kid. We’d travel to Reno, get absurdly expensive hot dogs, and he’d explain every play like I would someday be out there with a chance to win the Stanley Cup. I still remember the smell of the arena—ice, stale popcorn, and the old man who always had an air of woodsmoke around him. Me too, now, I guess.
The memory twists the dense muscle in my chest. I body-check Austin harder than necessary when he high-sticks me while savagely stealing the puck.
We reset for another drill. The cold air burns my lungs and I like it. Out here, everything makes a certain kind of sense. There are rules, positions, and strategies. No guesswork. No unpredictable fires. No sticky notes plastered on every surface like a preschool art project. No warm brown eyes belonging to a woman who looks at me like I’m a problem she’sdetermined to fix.
I’m definitely not thinking abouther.
We break for water and Austin slides next to me. “How is progress on the Fireman’s Ball coming?”
I shoot him a look that could freeze the air, never mind the surface beneath us. I instantly recognize this is revenge for being a total goon to my own teammate. “It’s not.”
“What do you mean by ‘It’s not’? I’ve been looking forward to getting dressed up.” His eyes light with amusement. “Mayor Barbie assigned you the role of co-planning it.”
“I’m aware.”
“With Winnie.”
“Also aware.”
“It’s obvious Patton here thinks she plays for a rival team,” James adds most unhelpfully, skating over with a grin that’s way too wide for someone who’s supposedly my friend.
“Like an enemy?” Reese asks.
