I wince and turn my head toward the window. “You saw.”
Because if I say it out loud, it stops being something I can write off as a bad moment. It becomes a choice. And I’m not sure I like what that says about me.
“I saw what happened, but I don’t understand why. From what I can tell, this incident was out of character for you.”
That might be the case from her perspective, but it’s not like she actually knows me. True, I don’t usually bring my anger to the ice, but that doesn’t mean I have it under control. “Not really,” is all I say.
“You could still walk me through it.”
I raise one shoulder, staring out the window. “It was what it was.”
There’s enough glare on the glass for me to see her reflection over my shoulder. Remy’s glaring at the back of my head.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll do what I can, but I needyouto understand that I can’t do my job if you won’t give me anything to work with. I’m not here to babysit you. I’m here to help you, which will, in fact, require some effort on your part.”
There it is. The edge. The part of her that doesn’t back down. It hits something in me that wants to push right back, even though I know she’s not wrong.
I clocked her North Shore accent during our first meeting, but it clearly gets more nasal when she’s annoyed. Which, of course, only annoys me more. Because here I am, three thousand miles from home, being pushed around by some haughty chick from the North Shore who thinks she knows better than me.
Back home, girls like Remy dated future hedge fund managers and guys whose fathers owned boats. Not angry kids from Southie with busted knuckles and eviction notices sitting on the kitchen counter.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say.
Remy doesn’t respond. When I check again, she’s turned away from me, back to reading some file she brought with her.
I immediately feel like an ass. I wish she’d pushed back, rather than take the high road. Now I’m sitting here, feeling like a sulky child… which is exactly how I’ve been behaving.
She doesn’t have to say anything to make her point. That’s what gets me. I’d almost prefer if she snapped back, gave me something to react to. This quiet disappointment? It sits heavier.
My late father would have been proud of how obnoxious I’m acting. My mother would not be. I should apologize, or answer the question, but the truth is, I’m not even sure where to start.
* * *
The community center where Dante’s driver lets us off is smaller than I expected. Of course, I’m used to the Venom arena, but I’m guessing this parking lot can hold a hundred cars max. I don’t say a word as Remy leads the way, shaking hands with volunteers and chatting with everyone who crosses our path as if we didn’t just suffer through the most awkward car ride in history.
I still don’t know what she’s expecting from me here. Smile for the cameras, shake a few hands, pretend everything’s fine. I can do that. I’ve been doing it my whole career. Doesn’t mean it’s real.
Mostly, I keep my mouth shut and watch the rink, where a bunch of kids and teens are hanging out on the ice. Some of them skate in packs, while others stay with their parents. This doesn’t appear to be a game, or the kind of ginormous, public fundraiser that Dante likes to throw.
Which is good, because even with a relatively small audience, I already feel out of place.
Remy taps me on the arm, snapping me out of my reverie. “Okay, Rourke, this is a community skating event.”
“Owen,” I interrupt. “Call me Owen.”
Remy sniffs. “I’m not sure we’re that friendly yet, actually.”Ouch.“As I was saying, this is a community skate event. Two Sunday mornings a month, the rink lets families with children twelve and under skate for free, with rental equipment included for the kids. A lot of these families can’t afford to come here the rest of the time, much less shell out the cost of a ticket to anNHL game.” She gives me the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “We’re here for a meet-and-greet. Think you can manage that?”
Well, I guess I can’t blame her for being annoyed with me, given how I’ve been acting. “Yeah, I can handle it.” And then, because I do feel a little bad for being a sullen prick, I add, “It’s nice of the rink to do that. My family needed all the help we could get when I was that age.”
Remy’s frozen mask melts ever-so-slightly. “I’ll be watching if you need anything.” After a beat, she adds, “Have fun.” She doesn’t even sound like she’s being sarcastic.
One of the volunteers gets me a pair of skates, since I didn’t bring my own, and I make my way onto the ice. It’s weird to be in rentals again, especially since these are kind of shitty compared to the high-end designs I get to use in the League. I don’t have a plan, but as soon as I join the crowd, my lack of preparation proves irrelevant. Kids notice me, and they come swarming the instant they recognize my jersey. Brand recognition, baby. It’ll get you every time.
They didn’t watch the game. Or if they did, it doesn’t mean the same thing to them. I don’t know if that makes this easier or worse.
Three boys practically skate over themselves to get to me. I’d guess that they’re around ten, old enough that their parents are watching from the side of the rink while they chat. The smallest and fastest of them narrowly avoids skating right into me in his excitement.
“Oh, my gosh, are you Owen Rourke?” he asks.
