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We all laugh, except her husband, who rolls his eyes. “You’re out of control.”
She winks at him in response, then looks at me. “Have you guys noticed Mitch staring at Andie?”
Steph turns a little red. She’s not… jealous… is she? My shoulders tense. I’ve done my fair share of ogling the poor grump, but I haven't once seen him look in my direction.
“He is not. Stop that,” I whisper back, glancing toward the glass to make sure he isn’t nearby. Not that he’d be paying attention to me, anyway.
Bryan chuckles. “I’m a dude, and I even noticed how often he looks over here. I’m just relieved he was looking at you and not my wife, though. Given the option, she might go home with him.”
Tori slaps him on the shoulder. “Oh, I would not, and you know it! Admiring God’s creation is one thing… climbing it is another.”
We all laugh at that, even Bryan.
Tori gives me a playful nudge. “You should ask him out, you’re single, right?”
“What about me?” Steph asks, obviously offended.
“Girl, the ink on your divorce papers is barely dry.” Tori turns back to me, not noticing how offended Steph is.
“I’m single… but I’m not desperate. Even the zamboni driver would be better than that jerk.” I find my little brother out on the ice, his eyebrows pinched in frustration as Mitch lectures him about something. “I mean, on his first day here, I saw him yelling at the boys. That’s not the kind of example I’d want to bring around Noah.”
They nod, listening intently. Steph seems to have calmed down, so I continue, “If I was going to make time in my chaotic life for a man, it would be someone empathetic, caring, and… you know, fatherly.” I remember the sweet man in my current romance novel that has the personality of a golden retriever and hold back a dreamy sigh.
Tori lets out a little sound that sounds like aww. “That makes sense. But here’s my two cents: a man who’s a little rough around the edges and commands authority can be just as tender and as wonderful of a father as the gentle souls.” She raises her eyes to the ceiling as if thinking back on a memory before looking back at me again, her eyes full of mischief. “There’s nothing better than a man with a firm hand.” She says it in such a sultry, teasing tone that I gasp playfully at her comment.
Steph does a slow clap in agreement with her speech, then shivers dramatically as she says, “Yes, ma’am! A good, firm hand.” She fans herself like she’s overheating.
Tori adds, “Every time Bryan tells our kids to be quiet and speak respectfully to me, I could just drag him into the bedroom immediately.”
Bryan clears his throat. “Uh, I’m gonna go back to that quiet spot over there.” He walks away without another word, leaving us girls in a tizzy of giggles.
* * *
After practice, we’re waiting by the front doors for the boys to come out of the locker room.
Steph’s son, Declan, who has the same freckles and red hair she does, comes out first. A big mischievous grin plastered onto his face. The other boys file out behind him, but they go unnoticed by me because Noah’s expression is furious. He’s obviously upset because he walks toward me, takes the car keys from my hands, and stomps out into the parking lot.
Before I can run after him I feel someone grab my elbow from behind me. It’s a gentle touch, but that large, warm hand sends a flurry of goosebumps over my skin. I’m not sure how or why, but I know it’s Mitch Anderson before I can even turn to look at him.
“Can we speak… in private?” He asks in a low voice, having to lean in near my ear to be heard over the crowd.
It’s annoying what that deep, baritone does to me. That voice shoots through my entire body, like one of those massage chairs that caresses you from your feet all the way up to your head.
I turn to face him. “Oh, you’re not going to run off this time with your tail between your legs?”
His regular frown turns down in an even deeper frown. “Sorry, did you need to yell at me some more after that last practice?”
While he’s speaking, I notice he’s changed out of his coaching getup and skates, into a plain grey tee and worn jeans with sneakers. My gaze falls to his arms when he crosses them in annoyance. They’re covered in tattoos. I want so badly to touch the artwork, and to study every piece of art on him, but that would be awkward.
And cool tattoos don’t change someone’s terrible personality.
Prying my pupils away from his arms, I answer, “Yes, in fact. I did. Clearly someone needed to tell you how to work with kids.”
He releases a sound that’s a combination of a groan and a sigh. “Can I talk to you, or not?”
“Fine,” I say.
He tilts his head toward the girls’ locker room, which is empty now, and not as smelly as the boys, I hope. I follow him, noticing his movements off the ice are just as sure as they are when he’s got his skates on.
