I ignore him and lean forward in my seat, peering at Holden through the windshield as he gets out of his truck, walks around to the back and opens his truck bed box and pulls out skates and a stick.
He’s leaving work to play hockey? That doesn’t make any sense. I wait until he’s disappeared inside, count to ten and then get out. I turn back to Sterling and shoot him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Thanks for indulging me. I will give you that tip.”
“Okay,” he says, looking leery. “Let me give you a tip. Don’t stalk your boyfriend.”
“He’s my contractor!” I call, but Sterling has driven off already.
True to my word, I punch in a twenty-dollar tip in the app and a five-star rating, as I hurry across the parking lot. As I swing open the door and step inside the arena, I’m shocked and yet not shocked by the fact that everything is the same as it was when I was a teenager. Same chipped blue paint on the cinderblock walls, same green doors on the locker rooms, same rinky-dink concession stand tucked into the corner at the far end. I wonder for a fleeting second if Holden’s coming here because he’s going to be renovating it. Lord knows it could use it. But then the ice comes into view and I notice a bunch of pint-size hockey players. There’s also a handful moms in the stands, most of them staring at their phones.
A whistle blows and three grown men skate across the ice to the center. One of them is Holden. They divide the kids into two groups and start calling out drills. Holden Hendricks is coaching hockey. I raise a hand to my chest and lay it over my heart as I sigh in relief. But why didn’t he want to tell me this? He can’t be embarrassed by this—it’s heartwarming!
I watch him for about half an hour, sneaking my way into the stands and tucking myself behind a couple of moms so I don’t stand out. The longer I watch him, the more I realize it’s more the just warming my heart to see him out there gliding across the ice and laughing and smiling with the kids. It’s warming other parts too. Because it’s fucking hot. I’ve always thought of Holden as this tough, brooding, hard-ass type but here, with these young kids, he’s lighter. He’s smiling and joking and when one of them gets frustrated and smacks his stick against the boards after he flubs a drill, Holden skates him to a corner, pops off the kid’s helmet, squats down and gives him what looks like a pep talk. The kid skates back to the group with a big smile on his face.
I know I should sneak back out and call another Lyft, if I haven’t been banned from the service, but I can’t take my eyes off Holden. It’s an indulgence to see him like this and I’ve never been good with moderation when it comes to indulgences. I once ate an entire chocolate cream pie. For breakfast.
“Duke is developing quite the slap shot,” one mom says to another, pointing to a boy wearing a number three on his jersey.
“He says Holden taught him a new way to grip his stick that’s helping,” the other mother says in a tight, tense tone. “He acts like Holden is a freaking messiah.”
“Well, he is doing a great job as a coach,” the first mom counters.
“If only he did the same bang-up job as a brother,” the other woman bites back and as she glances at her friend, I catch a solid look at her profile. Is that…Bradie?
I didn’t know Bradie at all when we were kids. I think I saw her maybe twice my entire childhood. She was a few years older than me and she didn’t hang out with all the neighborhood kids like Holden did. She was a bookworm who spent the majority of her summers inside. She hated the beach and the ocean and hockey and all the stuff that we lived for back then.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” she says. “Duke is failing classes and the rule is if he doesn’t get good grades, he doesn’t get to play. Which is fine because the longer he hangs around his uncle, the bigger his disappointment will be when Holden gets tired of being a good, reliable guy.”
She must feel the weight of my stare because she glances over her shoulder and I immediately avert my eyes, but it’s too late. She does a double take, tucks her long flat brown hair behind her ear to get a better look and speaks. “I know you.”
Inwardly I’m groaning as I slowly bring my eyes back to hers. “Yeah. I’m Winnie Braddock.”
“Shit! Right!” Bradie smiles. “Your brother used to play with my brother, and now he plays hockey professionally, right?”
I nod. “Yeah. Jude plays for the San Francisco Thunder.”
“Right.” Bradie’s brow furrows. “What are you doing here?”
“I-I,” I stutter and swallow. “I was in the area, so I just wandered in. Walk down memory lane and everything. I spent a lot of time here as a kid because of Jude.”
I shift uncomfortably on the hard concrete bench and change the subject. “Your brother is actually renovating our cottage.”
“Yeah?” Bradie’s eyebrows shoot up. “How’s that going?”
“Fantastic,” I say. “He’s doing an incredible job. We’re really pleased. He’s professional and the quality of work is top-notch.”
I feel like I’m passionately reciting a Yelp review, but I don’t care. Something inside me feels the deep need to defend Holden. Bradie is silent for a second as she absorbs what I said and then she nods. “I’m pleasantly surprised to hear that.” She pauses and her eyes narrow. “Aren’t you the girl who punched him?”
A whistle blows on the ice and we all turn to see what’s going on. The older guy calls the end of practice and my blood runs cold. I have to get out of here before Holden sees me. Although I’m sure his sister will probably mention I was here. Shit. I definitely didn’t think this through. Bradie and her mom friend both stand and start down the stands. I sit there, frozen by a complete lack of any idea of what to do, and of course Holden glances up from center ice where he’s talking to his nephew and of course his eyes land right on me. Of course.
He looks completely stunned. His nephew skates to the boards, where Bradie is now standing. Holden stays put, staring at me. I bite my bottom lip and give him a little guilty shrug as if to say Yeah I know I’m as surprised as you are that I’m here. He shakes his head. His nephew calls him and as he skates to the boards, I decide it’s time to bolt. I scurry down the concrete risers and am about to disappear down the hall to the front door when he calls my name.
“Winona!” His tone isn’t angry. It’s actually maybe slightly amused.
I turn slowly, like a Scooby-Doo criminal being caught by those dastardly kids. Holden is waving me over as Bradie and Duke look on. I slink my way toward them and smile at Bradie. “Hi again.” And then I turn to Duke. “You must be Duke. Hi, I’m Winnie.”
“Hi, Winnie.” He waves at me, his hand engulfed in a giant hockey glove. “You know my uncle?”
I nod. “He’s working on my cottage, but I’ve known him since he was just a little bit older than you.”
