“See you on the ice!” I call to him. I wave to Belle, whom I’ve been watching out of the corner of my eye. She waves back and skates toward me alone, looking far more comfortable on the ice.
I glide over to her, but my mind is still on the handsome, grumpy man and whether it was jealousy that made him even grumpier tonight.
* * *
Ronan
I haveno rightto be jealous.
But knowing that isn’t making a difference.
Normally, I’m slow to anger. Or at least I’ve learned to control my reactions.
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life. Unemotional. Cold. Intractable.
Yet here I am, burning with the fire of my Viking ancestors. When I saw Conner and Poppy with their heads together while he typed something into his phone, probably putting their meet-up on his calendar, I wanted to wipe that smarmy smile off his face.
I didn’t, because I’ve spent the last fifteen years building my practice of control and discipline.
When I was fifteen, I used to hang out with my friends downtown. There was a small dojo studio with posters on the door. I was fixated on one. It said,The best fighter is never angryandAn attack is proof that we are out of control.
I was angry back then, and my whole life felt out of control. It was the opposite of what I craved, which was calm and order. I wanted whatever that karate studio was selling. Maybe it was because I’d seen the movieKarate Kidon TV once. I imagined that the sensei would see me, sense great things, and take me under his wing. I wanted someone to Mr. Miyagi me until I had power and purpose. And, most of all, peace.
But that’s not how it happened. My first sensei may have been a decent teacher, but I didn’t find a surrogate father in him. I was just another student. However, in the practice, I found the discipline and the control I needed. I got a job to pay for lessons and trained every minute I could. I channeled my anger, frustration, and strength into the gym. On the mat. At the dojo.
Training led me to become a fight extra in a movie that was filming in my hometown and then to doing stunt work, which led to my career.
Training also gave me patience in dealing with Conner. There was a part of me who wanted to hurt him, just a little, for the overly appreciative way he looked at Poppy. For all those things I knew he was thinking when he checked out her ass in her tight jeans. For the way he watched her full lips when she smiled with that Christmas-red lipstick. For that familiar wink he gave her when he left. I know what he was thinking because I was thinking the same damn thing.
And to hell with my lifelong illusion of calm. I’m still jealous.
I want her to be mine.
Only mine.
I can’t concentrate. I keep losing track of the conversation. Belle asked me if something’s wrong. Poppy keeps glancing over at me nervously. And I’ve almost tripped over my skates. Twice.
All because I overheard them setting a time for a date, or, as Poppy claims, a non-date.
But it’s something.
And that’s the other thing. She’s not telling me what that something is.
I hate that she’s holding back from me, which makes me appreciate her normally forthright nature. Where I’m closed, she’s open. Where I’m contained, she’s enthusiastic. She overshares, trusts me with her stories.
I wish things were different. Because I want her to trust me with it all.
“Daddy, watch!” Poppy has hold of my daughter’s hand while Belle balances with no other aids. They skate smoothly, and then Poppy lets go as Belle glides along, only slightly wobbly. When she reaches me, she holds out her hands, and I grab them, catching her.
She’s beaming, her cheeks pink from the cold. “Great job.” I pick her up and spin us around slowly. She squeals.
I set her down again with a firm grasp so she doesn’t fall, and we skate back to the edge.
“That was so much fun! Can we do it again?”
I laugh.
Poppy skates up to us. Her cheeks are as red as Belle’s. Her nose as well. It’s cute.
