She sticks her tongue out at me, then winds up again and swings with everything she’s got. The stick connects with a solidthwack, and the puck goes flying. Directly into the boards about eight feet to the left of the net.
“Well,” she says, slightly out of breath. “At least it went farther this time.”
“That’s a generous description,” I tease.
She shuffles over to another puck, her expression one of intense determination. She gets the puck pointed in the general direction of the net, but it slides across the ice in a slow, sad trajectory that wouldn’t make it past a house league goalie. We both watch it like it’s the Stanley Cup finals.
It stops two feet short.
“Oh, come on!” She throws her hands up violently, and her feet nearly come out from under her.
I catch her before she goes down, chuckling at the look of pure defeat on her face.
“Wait,” she says. “You should get in the net.”
Cupping her shoulders, I steady her on her feet. “What?”
“Get in the net.” She pushes out of my arms and shuffle skates toward the blue line using the stick like a crutch. “I want to see if I can score on an actual NHL goalie.”
“Kennedy, you can’t even get the puck to the net.”
“I was farther away.” She peers over her shoulder, her eyes flashing with mirth. “And I was aiming at an empty net. That isn’t very motivating. Come on. You know you want to.”
She says the last part in a singsong voice, the teasing tone making me smile despite myself. I skate over, step into the crease, and settle into my stance. If any of the coaches saw me ready to protect the goal with not an ounce of gear on, they’d kick my ass six ways from Sunday. Lucky for me, they’re not here and Kennedy can’t shoot hard enough to injure anyone but herself.
“All right, sweetheart,” I call out. “Let’s see what you got.”
She scuffles around, lining up a puck, her form still terrible, and to her surprise—but not mine—the rubber disk slides toward me at roughly the speed of a turtle. I’m more than ready for it as it inches toward my skates and knock it away with ease.
The curse that flies out of her mouth has me raising my brows.
I give her some feedback and direction, which helps marginally, her next shot moving minimally faster, but goddamn, my girl is meant for icing, not the ice.
For the next fifteen minutes, I have possibly the most fun I’ve had out here in years. Kennedy isterrible, but she’s determined. Or stubborn. Maybe a little of both. And I can’t help but appreciate her hustle.
She sets up another puck, her tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. She winds up, swings, and—miracle of miracles—makes solid contact. The puck actually comes toward me with some speed. I could easily stop it, but I step aside and let it go past me into the net.
Kennedy’s scream nearly deafens me. “I scored and I don’t even care that you totally let me!”
She makes her way over and picks up the puck like it’s a newborn chick. Her face is flushed as she smiles up at me.
“You should sign it,” I suggest with a chuckle. “Commemorate your astonishing achievement.”
“Great idea.” Laughing, she peers around, then lets out a low whistle. “This is cool.”
I look around the practice arena, trying to see it through her eyes. “This is home.”
She nods easily. She gets it. Her pastry kitchen is her home, just like the rink is mine. Having Kennedy hereshouldbother me. Thisshouldfeel like a violation of the unspoken rules I’ve built around this day. I never spend my mom’s anniversary—the exception being game days—with anyone. Ever. I don’t want to talk about it or think about it or suffer the anguish and frustration that come when people try to make me feel better. All I want is to just be.
But somehow, Kennedy’s presence doesn’t feel like an intrusion. She’s not hovering, asking if I’m okay every five minutes or giving me that pitying look people get when they know a person has lost someone. She’s just existing in the same space as me without demanding anything.
She tips her head back, a gentle smile on her face, and brushes hair off my damp forehead. Her fingers are icy against my overheated skin, the sensation making me flinch. “You’re freezing.”
“And you’re hot.” She waggles her brows. “Like, literally and physically.”
Chuckling, I grip her hands in mine to warm them. “Thanks.”
Her expression softens. She looks at me in a way that makes my chest tight. There’s no pity there. No worry. It’s like she sees me, all of me, and wants me anyway. “You good?”
