My father was next in line, bearded as if the playoffs were this month, but then he’d always been a fiend for facial hair. He gave me a big hug then set me back. “Thought we were meeting at the diner.” His faint Scots burr kissed the words. Even after all these years in North America, he hadn’t quite lost it.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you play. Pity you couldn’t do better.”
“Isner plays pretty aggressive for a practice.”
Plays pretty aggressive in all areas, though I kept that to myself.
My dad brushed his hand against my cheek. “I need a quick shower then I’ll meet you outside the locker room?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
And then there was one.
Jason had hung back, and I wondered if he didn’t want my father to know about our current relationship, such as it was. Or perhaps he wanted to talk to me in private. I suppressed a giddy flutter at the idea he might actually want to see me. (And behind my dad’s back, too!) That boy-curious teen was never far beneath the surface.
He leaned on the wall, sucking down water. I ignored that thick column of neck muscle and focused on his thighs. Better, but not much safer.
“What are you doing on the ice with the ancients?”
He chuckled. “The ancients? Do they know you call them that?”
“Actually, I call them the Three Wise Men.”
“Cute. I could learn a lot from these oldsters. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve visited a practice rink. I used to spend my childhood here when I wasn’t foraging for snails and slugs. Violet lamented my behavior.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I was obsessed with hockey players. Was always sneaking into the locker room to get a peek. Very inappropriate, but I was fourteen and hormonal.”
He shuffled a little closer, still behind the wall, and it felt like the flimsiest of barriers.
“Fourteen and hormonal? I can relate.”
“Thirty-six and no change?”
His soft laugh felt like a hug. “That tongue of yours is awful sharp, Francesca. Besides, you’re one to talk with your hormones the way they are.”
He had me there. “I could say that my hormonal fluctuations have a good goal while yours?—”
“The judgment. Here it comes.”
That made me laugh, the sound too loud against all the ice. “Seriously, though. Why aren’t you practicing with your teammates?”
“I will later if any of them show their lazy asses. I was in the gym when I saw those guys heading out. The lure of skating with legends was too much to resist.”
My dad and his cohort were legends, to be sure. That golden season when Cat and I came to live with Dad, when he met and wooed Violet, and the Rebels won the Cup, was a glorious time, indeed.
“I get it. It must be disappointing not to play on the same team as Theo, though.”
“It is. But we’ve played against each other plenty, and I’ve no doubt he’ll be joining this veteran crew before long.”
I liked his attitude. Strange to say, but I was starting to see Jason Isner in a whole new light. How odd we had come to this point with my childhood nemesis—overstating it, but the residual unease remained—asking me to co-parent with him.
I was sixty percent convinced that Jason made good points about balancing the genetic input and giving my child the best possible chance to be well-adjusted and not a complete nerd. I had learned quickly how to repel the bullies with my smarts, but what if I could give my child another layer of protection?
However, deep down I knew that this was a fallacy. Genetics didn’t work that way. Look at me, the product of a mother with no interest in anything intellectual and a father with sporting prowess and a history of alcoholism. Where did I come from? I may as well have been adopted.
