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“Arran is openly dating your mom, and you know he is,” I drawl. “It’s not fair of us to do that until our cards are on the table with you.”

“I have another question,” he complains.

“Go make it happen,” Ci grins, standing. “Take it around the goal posts first.”

“Okay, okay,” Zayn says, picking up his stick.

“Is anyone else nervous?” Alastair asks out of the corner of his mouth as he watches Zayn skate.

“I’m worried he might take something we say badly,” I admit. “I’m not worried about anything else.”

“How is your ass doing?” Ci asks.

“Fine,” I snort, amused. “Not a hint of a gurgle.”

The sound of the blade hitting the puck is sharp and loud, and I force oxygen into my lungs as Zayn makes the shot.

“Why did you want to teach me to skate?” he asks, turning toward us once the rules of the game have been fulfilled. “You don’t live here. So why me?”

“You’re part of Noor…” I say.

“And part of us,” Alastair grunts. “We aren’t asking for anything, Zayn. You and your mom have your lives, but we do want to get to know you.”

“Hockey and ice skating have always been a big part of our lives. We want to share that with you,” Ciaran says. “We thought it was the most important thing in our lives, but it’s another thing we got wrong.”

“Being an adult doesn’t mean you have all the answers,” I add. “Do you know what we’re saying, Zayn?”

Zayn pulls off his helmet, his face screwed up in an effort to hide the big emotions inside of him.

“I need you to say it,” he says, tears glistening in his eyes.

The sound of a door opening has us all flinching and Zayn shifts to see his mom.

“Don’t be mad at your mom,” I say immediately.

“I’m not,” he says obstinately. “She’s the best, and she does it all alone.”

“I know,” Alastair whispers. “We could help.”

“One of you is my dad,” Zayn says. We nod as he sucks in a breath, nodding. “It’s like Ade and Ari and their dads, huh. Except they show up for their kids.”

Shots fired.

“There’s a reason why we didn’t,” Alastair murmurs.

“Zayn?”

The sound of blades across the ice are loud and he looks up to find his mom skating toward him. His jaw drops because he’s never seen her skate before.

“Why are you crying?” she asks, stopping in front of him. She’s been bringing her skates the last couple of lessons in case she felt like skating, but there hasn’t been time. She must have put them on quickly when she saw us talking. I reach out to steady her when her foot slides, an immediate response to keep her safe.

“We were talking,” Zayn mumbles, pulling off a glove to rub his face. “You can skate.”

“I didn’t warm up, so I’m going to be a little wobbly,” she says, shrugging as she leans toward him. “Talk to me, Little Beam.”

“That’s a baby name,” he says.

“Do you need your mom or a grown up lady?” she asks archly.