“In comparison to you, yes. You nearly had an apoplexy when I made you eat a MetroMart bun before paying for it.”
The slightest hint of amusement seeps into me, mingling with the pain. With a breath in, I hit another puck, harder this time, and it sails into the net. I stand with my back to Kennedy, waiting for her to speak again. When she remains silent, I set up another puck, then glance back at her.
She doesn’t ask if I’m okay, doesn’t try to make conversation, doesn’t fill the silence like she’s got to be itching to do. She just sits there, arms wrapped around herself against the cold, watching me work through the pucks. After a while, I stop keeping track of how many shots I’ve taken, focusing on the rhythm—the wind up, the shoot, the crack of the stick, the echo through the empty building.
I finish the bucket, collect the biscuits, and work my way through another.
Kennedy hasn’t left the perch of the penalty box, but her arms have disappeared into the warmth of my sweatshirt.
Eventually, I run out of gas and stand at center ice, chest heaving, stick resting on the surface beneath me.
“It’s a good thing you’re a goalie,” Kennedy muses, capturing my attention. “Because you’re low-key really bad at shooting.”
What starts off as a rumbling chuckle in my chest spirals into uncontrollable laughter that has me heaving over, resting my hands on my thighs.
“Thanks,” I call out, wiping my eyes. “That’s what every NHL player wants to hear.”
She tosses me a thumbs-up. “No problem. Someone has to keep your ego in check.”
Straightening, I shake my head. Her one tiny insult has somehow done what even dozens of pucks couldn’t. The ache is still lodged somewhere behind my ribs, but it’s dulled now, pushed to the edges instead of consuming my every cell. Like she took the volume of it and turned it down just enough that I can think past it.
I skate over to her and dig my blades in hard, stopping sharply enough to send ice shavings spraying. It’s more theatrics than necessary, but Kennedy’s told me she thinks it looks cool.
“You think you can do better, sweetheart?”
“Definitely not.” She shakes her head, blond hair shimmering like sunrays. “My talents lie with icing, not actual ice.”
I cock a brow. “Want to try anyway?”
Not one to back down from a challenge, she nods. “Do I need to wear skates, or can I stay in my sneakers?”
“Gym shoes are fine,” I tell her, using the proper Midwest term for athletic shoes, and hold out a hand to help as she wiggles to the edge of the box.
The second her feet hit the ice, her legs do this ridiculous Bambi thing, one going out to the side, one flying in front of her. She clings to my arm like I’m the only thing keeping her from certain death.
“Stand, sweetheart,” I direct. “Not whatever the fuck you’re currently doing.”
“This is what my standing looks like,” she snaps, clutching me tighter. She’s shaking, but I’m not sure if it’s from cold or the effort of staying upright.
Without letting her go, I snag one of the sticks I left by the boards and hand it to her. “Here. Use this.”
She takes it like it’s a lifeline, plants it on the ice like it’s a cane, and carefully shuffles forward. It takes her a full two minutes to make it the fifteen feet to where I’ve set up my bucket of pucks, and by the time she gets there, she’s breathing like she just ran a marathon.
She adjusts her grip on the stick, plants her feet in what I think is supposed to be a hockey stance, and takes a swing.
The stick whiffs completely over the puck, and I can’t help but cringe.
“That was a practice swing,” she announces.
She tries again, and this time she makes contact, sending the puck drifting about five feet.
“I did it,” she says, wiggling her body like Goose when Cole brings him to the ice. “Did you see?”
“You absolutely did not do anything.”
She points to the puck as if I can’t see it from here. “I hit the puck and it moved.”
“Sweetheart, my grandmother could sneeze and move a puck farther than that.”
