Knowing that Drew’s going to be at Graham’s practice tonight, and actually seeing him on the ice interacting with our kid, are two totally different things. I thought I was prepared. I was dead wrong.
“What’s wrong?” Jules asks. “You just winced.”
Did I? “I’m just sore from dance class last night.” It’s not a lie. I am always sore on Thursdays.
I may have misled my family and friends into thinking I’m taking the type of dance I did all through high school and college—jazz and hip hop. Thank God no one’s asked for specific details, because what I’ve really been doing for the last four months is taking pole dancing lessons. It’s an amazing workout, and I leave every week feeling incredibly powerful, both physically and in terms of my sexuality.
Last night’s class, however, we tried a new move and today my serratus anterior muscles—a back muscle that works with the trapezius for upward rotation of the shoulder blade—are screaming in protest every time I move my arms or shoulders. I didn’t even know the serratus anterior existed until I looked at an anatomical diagram this morning to figure out what was hurting so bad.
“Have you talked to Lauren yet?” Jules asks from her seat beside me, oblivious to my pain. We’re snuggled down under a blanket together, and I’m trying to pretend like watching Drew on the ice with Graham isn’t turning my whole world upside down.
“No. She sent me a text yesterday, saying she wants to talk about Sunday, but that she’s been swamped at work, and then when she’s home at night, Jameson is always there. She’s planning to call me tonight while he’s at practice,” I say, nodding toward the rink where our brother skates around, barking orders.
Jules’s big eyes widen. “You’re going to take that call right here?”
“I mean, I’ll probably head out to the lobby or something. But I can’t ignore the call.”
“Are you ready for more people to know?” Jules asks.
On the ice, Drew bends over and helps a kid reposition his hands on his stick and walks him through the motions of a slapshot. Then he calls Graham over and does the same thing. When he puts one hand on Graham’s lower back to straighten him up a bit, I try to ignore the memory of the way he ushered me out of the restaurant on Monday night. His hand on the small of my back had my entire core quivering, and it was a relief when he dropped his hand outside the restaurant, because I cannot be having these feelings for him.
He’s not the kind of guy you settle down with, and even if he was, getting involved with him would be too risky. If it didn’t go well, it could ruin his relationship with Graham. Me and my stupid sex drive—which is inconveniently more super-charged than ever—are not going to be the reason Graham doesn’t have a dad in his life.
“Eventually,” I tell Jules, “everyone’s going to know. But for now, while Drew gets to know Graham, I want to keep it as quiet as possible.”
“So are you going to ask Lauren not to tell Jameson?”
“I can’t ask her to lie to him. We’ll see how it goes once I talk to her.”
On the ice, Drew’s hands are back on Graham’s, and again, all I can think of is how his hand brushed mine multiple times on the short walk from the restaurant back to my place. By the time we reached the steps up to my front door, I felt near ready to combust, and then he leveled me with a look so perfectly laced with longing that I think it must have been rehearsed. He probably gives women that look and they start stripping their clothes off immediately.
It was a good reminder that he has his choice of women, and no shortage of them, so I remained strong. And by “remained strong,” I mean I thanked him for the drinks, then turned and practically sprinted up the steps and through my front door. I couldn’t even collapse against the closed door once I was safe inside, because Jules had gotten me the wooden doors with the big glass panels I’d wanted so badly and he would have seen me.
Instead, I headed straight to my room, and after getting ready for bed, I may or may not have crawled between the sheets completely naked and imagined that my hands were Drew’s as they crept all over my body. And it definitely wasn’t his name on my lips as I made myself come. Nope, because I’m not thinking about him like that. He’s my kid’s biological father, and that’s it. That’s all he can be, because anything happening between Drew and me is a disaster waiting to happen.
In my hand, my phone buzzes, and before I can even glance down, Jules says, “Well, speak of the devil.” When my eyes land on my screen, Lauren’s photo is lighting it up.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Jules as I stand and start heading down the stairs of the bleachers. When I hit the rubber mats at the bottom, I answer the phone. “Hey,” I say, “hold on one sec, I’m just going to find somewhere more private.”
“Okay,” Lauren’s sweet voice carries through my phone.
I head through the glass doors, and luckily the lobby is empty like I hoped it would be. I take a seat on the bench along the far wall. “Alright, all good.”
“Didn’t want to have this conversation in the rink, in front of the other parents?” she teases.
“Definitely not. Especially with both Drew and Jameson there.”
“Drew’s there?” Lauren’s interest is clearly piqued.
“Uhh…Jameson didn’t mention that?”
Her voice takes on a sing-song quality as she chirps, “He sure didn’t.”
I tell her about the assistant coach canceling for tonight and that Drew was looking to do some volunteer work in the community.
Lauren’s chuckle interrupts me. “Uh huh. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you and Graham being there.”
“Listen, Lauren. I know you probably have questions about that conversation you witnessed Sunday night.”
“You got that right,” she says, and in the background, the white noise fades. I can picture her walking farther from the baby monitor. She probably just got the girls down for bed a few minutes ago.
“Here’s what I’m thinking. It would be great if you didn’t ask those questions, so that I don’t have to lie to you, or ask you to lie to my brother.”
“Not ready to talk about it?” she asks.
“Trust me, I want to talk about it.” I love that Lauren’s in my life now—she’s like a big sister who’s now a good friend. “But I’m not ready to talk to Jameson about it. Drew and I have…things we need to figure out first.”
“And if you talk to me about it, you think I’ll tell Jameson?”
“No. I think that if he asks you about it, right now you have plausible deniability.”
“Are you doing something illegal that I should be pretending I don’t know about?” she teases.
“No, but you know what I mean. When Jameson asks if you know if anything’s going on between us, or whatever, you can honestly say you don’t know.”
“Why? Is something going on between you guys now?” I can’t tell if she sounds extra-curious or hopeful, but there’s definite excitement in her voice.
“No, definitely not. So you can be honest about that.”
“Do you want there to be?”
“No, and Lauren, we’re not having this conversation, remember?”
“I can’t help it!” She sighs. “I’m so freaking curious about what’s going on.”
“Well, once I figure that out, I’ll let you know.”
“Al-right.” She drags the word out slowly, sounding an awful lot like Eeyore, which makes me laugh.
“I’ve got to get back to practice,” I tell her. “I’ll see you Sunday night for dinner.”
“Okay. Come early, because we’re supposed to have perfect fall weather this weekend, and Jameson inflated the bounce house the other day. The girls can’t wait for Graham to go on it with them.”
We say goodbye, and when I head back into the rink, the boys are coming off the ice. Graham is running toward me on his skates, and over his head, Drew and I lock eyes as he steps off the ice. He looks like he wants to devour me, and it has heat flashing through my whole body. I look away, hoping no one else noticed.
“Mom!” Graham says with a big smile, one that I instantly match. “There’s a new player on the Boston Rebels and he’s here helping Uncle Jameson.”
“Yeah, Bud, I can see that.” I glance from Graham over to Drew where he’s chatting with Jameson, and the conversation looks a bit heated. Drew texted me Tuesday, letting me know about his phone call with Jameson, which is yet another reason it’s best if Lauren can deny knowing anything at this point.
“I told him we were going to get cookies after practice tonight,” Graham says, excitement making him speak so fast he’s hard to understand. “And he said he loves cookies. Can I invite him to come too?”
Graham’s got sweat dripping down his neck from his hair and is still in all his gear, and when I glance over at Drew again, Jameson locks eyes with me. Shit.
I squat down next to Graham, wondering when they had this conversation—maybe while I was on the phone with Lauren? “You know what, he looks kind of busy with Uncle Jameson right now. Let’s not bother him. We can always ask him next time.”
Graham’s face falls, but he says, “Okay,” and sits on the bench to start taking off his skates and gear. As I bend over to untie his skates for him, I wonder if he isn’t just a little too compliant for a five-year-old boy. I mean, I didn’t want to raise a hellion or anything, but Graham’s a really sweet kid, and I always worry that maybe he’s not tough enough.
“I can do the rest,” he tells me once the double-knots are out, and so I stand, glancing up at Jules where she sits a few rows behind us.
Even though my back’s to the walkway, I can tell Drew’s walking toward us by the way Jules’s eyes track the movement, and the way Graham’s head snaps up with a hopeful look on his face.
“Good job today, Graham.” Drew’s voice comes from behind me, and the smooth sound of it washes over me just like it did outside the restaurant the other night. Then he drops his voice so low that only I can hear him say, “Check your texts,” and keeps walking.
“Hey.” I hear my brother as he approaches. He must have been hot on Drew’s heels.
“Hey.” I try to keep my voice completely neutral. I don’t want him to know the effect Drew’s presence has on me, or how much it hurt that he didn’t stop just now—even though I suspect Jameson’s the reason for that.
“Good practice today, kid,” Jameson says as he reaches over and ruffles Graham’s hair.
“Thanks,” my son replies. “Are we playing a game on Saturday morning? Or just practice?”
“It’s a scrimmage,” Jameson says, and I know he’s explained this to the boys, but Graham still doesn’t quite understand the concept. “It’s like a practice game. We’re not going to keep score. It’s just a good way to put into play all the things we’ve gone over in practice.”
“But it’s at the Rebels’ practice rink?” Graham asks.
“Yep.”
“Do you think any of the Rebels will be there?” His face and voice are so hopeful, you’d think the kid had never met a real-life NHL player, even though he’s been surrounded by them his whole life.
“Maybe,” Jameson says. “But if they are, they won’t be in their jerseys or anything.”
“Why not?” Graham asks.
“Because they won’t be playing, you will be. Alright, gotta run. Lauren’s got the twins in bed, and she ordered dinner for us,” he says.
I laugh, because this man who swore up and down that he’d already raised me and Jules and was never getting married or having kids literally can’t wait to get home to his future wife and kids.
As he leaves, I help Graham pack his gear into his bag, double-checking that there’s nothing he’s left behind. His whole bag already smells terrible, and we’re only a few practices into the season. Maybe Drew will have some tips for this? I think to myself as I pull the zipper shut, and then remind myself that I can just ask my brother.
He picks up the bag now that he’s finally—barely—big enough to carry it himself, and I pull out my phone to look at my texts as we walk outside.
