Chapter One: Jules- 15 years ago
I didn’t know if I was allowed to say yes to him… And I still couldn’t believe he asked me.
He worked in the front office of the rink, punching our ice time cards whenever we went out for a practice session. He only worked a couple days a week. I knew this was because he was probably one of the many guys who lived with a billet family and played on the junior team here at the Ice League and worked for discounted ice time.
But I thought he’d been watching my friend, a term I used loosely for her, named Ally, not me.
I was too shy to even look at him when I handed my punch card over. Ally was the one who had conversations with him. If I said one word in the conversation, I was thinking about how stupid I sounded for the rest of the day, so I usually just stayed quiet.
He was one of those funny, magnetic kinds of people, like everything he said was meant to make someone smile and everyone loved him. I was envious of those kinds of people because no matter how hard I tried it didn’t seem like anyone ever wanted to stick around me for very long. I hadn’t even seen my grandparents who I lived with in about two weeks.
I walked down the rubber-floored hallway to the front office to punch my card a little earlier than usual today. Another girl I skated with was having a breakdown in the locker room and I wanted out. I’d rather hang in the lobby than be pulled into that drama.
I didn’t realize he was in the office alone until it was too late to walk away. I would look awkward as hell if I did that. I took a shaky breath and handed my card over, reminding myself I’d be on the safety of the ice in five minutes. He lifted his head and gave a bright smile and his whole face up to his eyes seemed to light up.
I thought the whole exchange was going to happen without words until he suddenly spoke.
“Hullo again. What’s your name?” he said in what I detected as a slight Canadian accent.
I felt awkward under his gaze and paused a second too long, “Uh, Julianna…Hurley,” I stammered out. “Yours?”
“Makes sense,” he said, nodding seriously, and pushing a hand through his short brown hair.
“Huh?”
“Pretty girl, pretty name,” he said with his head tilted to the side as he studied me. “I feel like I’ve heard Hurley before,” he tapped his fingers thinking. “Do you have any brothers who play?”
I felt my face blush hot at his compliment and tried to focus on what he was saying past that. “Play?” I asked.
“The best sport,” he said with confidence, puffing out his chest, “Hockey.”
“Oh,” I hesitated not knowing how much I should share with a stranger. “My dad… uh…”
Realization dawned on his face and his eyebrows scrunched together. “I’m sorry, Julianna, I didn’t realize... I just-” he stammered for a second, and I felt the upper hand and eagerness to help him out of the uncomfortableness of the situation.
“It’s ok, I don’t remember at all,” I grimaced with the slight embarrassment I always felt over not remembering my father’s death, which I knew in the back of my mind was a misplaced feeling. It wasn’t unusual for people not to remember before the age of four, I’d looked it up enough times to be sure, but it never soothed the guilt for some reason. My father was a hockey star, I was told. He’d reached the NHL and played for the Rangers for two complete seasons. In the midst of his third season, he had a heart attack on the ice and never made it home to me. All I had of our father-daughter bond were a couple of photos: Him holding toddler me up on the ice after a conference championship game, and him proudly smiling with me sitting inside the coveted Stanley cup.
I guess I also had his parents, who raised me as well. He left them, however, with no information on my mother, an aspect I knew they were salty about. After being shut down at each point of questioning pertaining to my mother, I left the subject, but gathered the fact that they believed that with “all of the women throwing themselves at hockey players,” she was “just another puck bunny,” according to my grandmother. I had a hard time believing this because I couldn’t even talk to boys usually.
My grandparents didn’t understand my need to be on the ice, considering where his death took place and all, and if I ever asked to play hockey, I think they’d both have aneurysms. But I always chalked that up as another tally in my mental column of the ways they didn’t really know me. The rink was the only place I felt closer to knowing something about him; and at least they respected the sport of figure skating.
I felt the need to change the subject and push pity away. “Well, what’s your name?”
“Greyson Scott. But I go by Grey,” he added with a wink.
It was my turn to study him. It was a strong, but serious name. He didn’t seem like a serious guy to me. Maybe he’d grow into it one day… but that would be kind of a shame. I liked his lightness.
“So, Julianna, you ever skate at Tenny Park?”
The question took me by surprise. “Uh, no. I love outdoor skating, but I don’t get to go much,” I admitted.
“You love outdoor skating and you’ve never been to Tenny?!” He asked, acting aghast at the idea.
My face heated again, and I felt my lips twist in amusement. “I’ve always wanted to,” I pointed out, “But I’d probably get in trouble for skating out there.”
“In trouble?” He asked curiously.
“Yeah, because I have to practice every day. I’d have to skate there at night, and then somehow get my skates sharpened and ready to go for the next day.”
