Page 46 of Playing for Keeps

Dad lit up. “Did you know that fans throw hats on the ice when someone scores three goals? It’s called a hat trick.”

“Noted,” I said, thinking about how it might work as an image in my book.

Mum stirred the gravy one last time, turned off the hob before coming to sit next to Dad, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “So you two are spending time together?”

“We are,” I said.

“Can you tell me something more about him?” Mum tried to sound casual but failed.

“He’s tall. Loud on the ice, quiet when it matters. Cocky. Thoughtful. He writes like a teenager, though, you would hate his texts.”

“Oh, so you’re texting.”

I rolled my eyes. “Everyone texts, Mum.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, just like she always does when she’s about to pry. “Are you sure you don’t want to give it a chance? You don’t have to marry the man. You can… explore.”

I stared down at the sofa cushion, picking at a loose thread. “I know. I just… I told him I don’t want to start something when I might leave in a few months. I don’t want to have a fling either. That’s not me. He knows that.”

Mum reached for the camera as if she could touch my face through the screen. “As long as you’re taking care of your heart, darling. And his.”

“I am. He’s… good. He understands. He teases me about it, but he understands. And he’s been very helpful with the hockey, which is the point.”

Mum’s phone buzzed on the table and she glanced down. “Your aunt wants to know if the pie recipe calls for lard. No, of course not. What on earth is she thinking!” She typed a reply with decisive stabs. “Right. More nosiness. Does he make you smile?”

I took a breath, surprised by how easy the answer was. “Yes,” I said. “He does.”

“Good,” Mum said. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

“Tell us more about the book, Em,” Dad intervened, saving me from further interrogation.

I told them what I could: that I was still working on the middle and wasn’t sure about the ending I had in mind; that I wanted to capture how people move around each other, both on a rink and in real life. “As I told you at Christmas, this book has a little more romance in it than I’m used to. Not a pure romance novel. Just a stronger thread.”

“We like romance,” Mum said right away. “We met at a bus stop. He offered me a mint.”

Dad held up his mug, solemn. “An excellent mint. Did you know…”

“No,” we both said, and he laughed.

“Jokes aside, darling, are you all right? You sound happier. Different.”

I shrugged because my face was clearly betraying me. “I am, actually. Teaching helps. I didn’t realise I would like it so much. I get to talk about books for a living, and the students aren’t afraid to argue with me. It’s a nice balance with the writing.”

“Even the marking?” Dad asked, sympathetic, because he knows exactly how much I complain about marking.

“Even the marking,” I lied. “Some of it.”

“And the students?” Mum asked. “Anyone driving you crazy?”

“Only one,” I said, unable not to smile. “He turned in an essay that was so full of grammatical errors I felt like I had aged five years in twenty minutes. But he’s trying. I’ll get him there.”

“Of course you will,” Dad said.

Mum tilted her head. “And Toronto is still… good?”

“It is,” I said. “Although it’s a big city, it doesn’t feel like it. It feels cosy, despite the freezing temperatures. And the people are nice, like my friend Grace who works at the library and my colleague Simon, who has also become a good friend. We’ve been salsa dancing a couple of times. He gets me out of my comfort zone, which I didn’t know I needed. It feels… I don’t know. Like I might be building a little life here.”

Mum’s face softened, but she didn’t say anything.