Aspen Linwood is sitting in the third row, blue-line side, in the exact seat where the lighting is bad. She’s wearing a coat that is too good for the rink, one pointy boot up on the seat in front of her, and has her phone in her hand. If this girl had a cock, she and I would be each other’s biggest problem on the ice — that’s not me being nice, that’s a fact, her old man is the best bench boss in the National Hockey League, and my father’s oldest rival turned best friend, which means I’ve technically known Aspen Linwood my whole life. And in that whole life, she has never once called me by my first name. She saysErmingtonlike the syllables are beneath her.
I skate my circle. She doesn’t look up.
Which is normal. Totally normal. I’m thriving.
I skate it again. Nothing again. Now it’s just rude. And to be honest, I’m choosing to be annoyed.
So I cut in tight to the boards directly under her, close enough that any reasonable person would catch the movement and look, but she still doesn’t look up, because she’s not a reasonable person, she’s whatever’s worse than that with good bone structure.
I knock on the glass.
Nothing.
“Linwood,” I say, loud enough to land.
Nothing. Tap, tap, tap. Whatever’s on that phone is getting the attention I’m out here losing fluids for.
“Linwood,” I drawl, dragging it out long enough to poke the bear.
“Do you need something?” she says — to the phone, not to me — “or is this just happening to me?”
I grin. I got a full sentence from the princess. That’s basically a hug. I’m already winning and the day’s barely started.
“Top shelf, glove side, no-look.” I rap the glass. “Off the rush. Put it in the report for your dad. Spell it right.”
“You’re still talking.” She’s stating a fact, cold as ice.
I lean on the boards, a man with nowhere to be. “You can spell it phonetically if it’s hard,” I tell her. “E-R-M.”
“Go away, Ermington.” There it is. The name. The tone. Her voice is a seagull that paid for elocution lessons and got robbed. Her eyes never leave the screen of her phone.
And I stand there one moment past anything survivable.
“Tell your daddy I said hi,” I say, then I shove off the boards, throw the arms out, do the airplane for the empty stands like she’s a sold-out crowd, and bank into the turn.
“Pleasure as always, Linwood!” I yell, loud enough to carry up to the seats.
I glide off the ice. Coach is forming a sentence at me while my stomach turns. I’m about to fart.
“With all due respect, Coach,” I tell him, already moving, “I think I have the shits.”
The guys lose it.
“JesusChrist,Ermington.” He flings both hands at the ceiling like he’s surrendering to a god who isn’t listening, then stands to call the end of practice. And I am gone, sprinting for the nearest toilet.
By the time we’re back at the Hawthorne House, I’m hollowed out. Wrung. A husk. I could not make this up if I tried.
“Rowan.” I find him in the living room. “Brother. Tell me you checked the expiration dates on the dinner you made last night.”
He stops dead center of the room. “Listen up. I’ve got an announcement.”
I light up. “We’re all here. Hit me.”
“I’m done cooking for everyone.” He says it to the floor, then exhales like a man setting down a piano he’s carried for years. “Oh, man. That actually feels incredible to say out loud.”
The room groans. I pat my own stomach, which gurgles back in agreement.
“I think my colon thanks you.”
