WALKING INSIDE MY PARENTS’ townhouse—er, mine now, I suppose—I sling my backpack onto the floor. The hooks that hang by the door are already taken, weighed down by backpacks, coats, and miscellaneous hockey gear. A large family portrait hangs above the hooks and I take a second to stare at my mom and dad’s smiles. I haven’t changed a thing since moving in nine months ago. Part of me wants to leave it and pretend nothing happened. That my incredible parents didn’t get killed in that car accident.
But even though it doesn’t feel like my home at all, I haven’t been able to solidify the fact that they’re gone. And the decor in this townhouse feels like the last piece of them. Looking around, I can take comfort in the paint colors my mom chose, the decor she probably hung herself while Dad was at work, the furniture they sat in. I can still picture my dad sitting on the front stoop beside Noah in the morning. Dad sipping his coffee, and tiny Noah sitting in his lap.
This isn’t even the house I grew up in, and yet, I feel emotionally attached to it. After my parents had me, they tried for years to get pregnant again. Once they finally gave up, it happened. Hence the age gap between my brother and I. By the time my parents sold our house in Virginia and moved into this place so Dad could be closer to work and spend more time with me and Noah, I was already starting high school.
It would probably be good for me, and for Noah, to spruce the place up… together. To put our own stamp on it.
I’ll add that to my never-ending list of things to do.
Slipping off my tennis shoes, I slide down the hallway covered in laminate wood flooring. I expect to find Ronda and Noah at the kitchen island doing homework, but instead find Ronda on the sofa by herself, a worried expression causing her eyebrows to droop.
She perks up a little when I enter the room. “Ah, Andie. You’re home.”
“Everything okay?” I sit next to her on the couch and she leans back into the cushions.
“Everything’s fine, I think. It’s just Noah seemed extra moody when I picked him up from practice. He hardly uttered a word to me. But he finished his homework.”
I relax, allowing my body to sink into the sofa. Leaning my head back, I take a deep breath, and after a moment I turn to look at Ronda. “So, he usually talks to you?”
Her head leans to the side slightly as she studies me. “Of course. He tells me about his day, and always informs me how many pucks he got in the net during practice.” She smiles to herself.
My eyes start to burn and I try to will the sensation away. I will not make Ronda feel bad for Noah opening up to her. I won’t. It’s not her fault my brother barely speaks to me.
Clearing the knot that has lodged itself in my throat, I try to huff out a casual laugh. “That’s great.”
She stands up and takes a few steps toward the small kitchen. “I’ll warm you up some dinner. You want a glass of wine?”
I lean forward to stand up but she glowers at me. “Don’t you dare. Sit down and relax.”
Knowing better than to argue with her, I stay put. “You know that patient in room 504?”
She rolls her eyes. “Do I ever. Most high-maintenance patient on the floor.”
“He was one of my patients today, so I don’t even have the energy to feed myself.”
She chuckles. “Sorry, sugar, but I draw the line at feeding you.”
I laugh. “I’ll muster up the energy to lift the fork to my mouth. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Tender cuts of chicken, breaded with rare italian bread crumbs. And pasta in a decadent cream sauce,” she replies, grabbing a stemless wine glass from the cabinet and filling it halfway with moscato.
“So, chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese?”
“Yep.” She smiles, bringing me a plate full of dinner and the glass of wine.
I take the items from her, placing the plate on my lap and the glass on the ottoman in front of the couch. “Thanks, Ronda. For everything.” I smile. “This actually looks delicious. Even though it’ll go straight to my thighs.”
She smacks my knee gently. “Oh, you stop that! Men like a little junk in the trunk, anyway.”
I gasp. “Ronda! You are so naughty.”
She rolls her eyes and walks back into the kitchen where her coat and purse are resting on a bar stool. “You guys need anything else before I head out?”
“Nah, we’re good. I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” I ask through a mouthful of macaroni and cheese. I wash it down quickly with the wine.
“I’ll be there.” She slides her coat over her shoulders just as Noah clomps down the stairs, his hair is wet from his shower and he has plaid pajama pants on with no shirt.
His shoulders slump for a second when he sees Ronda with her coat and purse. “Are you leaving?”
She ruffles his damp hair. “Yeah, buddy. I’ll see you next week?”
“Alright.” The corner of his mouth pulls up in a small smile. The sight of it makes my heart skip a beat.
We say our goodbyes to Ronda and Noah is about to head back up the stairs. “Hey, wait a sec!”
He stops and looks back at me. “How was practice?”
He shrugs one slim shoulder. “Alright.”
“Ronda thought you seemed maybe a little… upset. Afterward.” I take a step toward him, but don’t move too fast. Like he’s a wild animal and I might spook him away.
Noah sighs heavily. “It’s not a big deal. Just that stupid new coach is… bossy.”
I frown, remembering Mitch Anderson raising his voice to the boys. I can’t help but wonder if they did something to deserve such a strong reprimand, but Anderson is also apparently known for being a hothead with a temper. I grit my teeth.
“Do I need to talk to him?”
His eyes widen and he shakes his head no. Then his mouth opens slightly, like he’s going to say more. The way my heart leaps at the small movement is ridiculous. But maybe we’re making progress here.
He clamps his mouth shut and looks down at his feet for a moment, then back up at me. “Will you… um…. be at the next practice?”
“Yeah! I’ll be there.” My voice comes out way too excited, but I’m desperate for this kid’s approval.
“Can you maybe…” he starts but then stops, looking down at the floor again.
“Can I do what?” He’s actually asking me for something, this truly is a breakthrough. My heart soars inside my chest. We’re going to get through this awkward phase where he barely speaks to me and back to where he thinks I’m cool. Like before I became his guardian, in the good old days when I sent him presents from my travels.
“Can you stay off the ice next time? That was embarrassing.”
My heart drops, and I’m pretty sure my face falls too. I try my hardest to school my features into a nonchalant smile. No big deal, he’s embarrassed by me. Whatever. Totally cool.
“Of course.” I shrug.
“Okay.” He looks at me like I’m insane and I might lose my cool any second. “Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Noah.”
Two days later, we arrive at the ice rink for Noah’s hockey practice. I truly never realized how all-encompassing sports are for parents. The practices, the cost of the gear, the games. It takes over your entire life. But Noah loves it, and I’ll do anything to see him happy.
I guess that’s what keeps sports parents going, watching their kids do something they love. Although, every mother in here is watching Mitch Anderson… and not their kid.
I can admit it’s mesmerizing watching such a large, muscled man move around on the ice with as much grace and finesse as a figure skater. Sure, his movements aren’t meant to be pretty, but his skill is impressive nonetheless. And, of course, that’s the only reason I can’t take my eyes off of him. Not because of that dark beard, or those large shoulders. Definitely not the huge hands I see whenever he removes those big hockey gloves.
Mitch skates by the plexiglass right in front of me and my new-found hockey mom friends. He switches effortlessly from skating forward to backwards and raises his deep voice slightly to direct one of the boys, but not in an angry way.
The two women beside me release a collective sigh and I roll my eyes at how obvious they are.
“You guys have zero chill,” I say, coining a term I’ve heard Noah use before. That is, when the kid actually speaks to me.
“Mitch lives rent free inside my head, and I’m not mad about it.” Steph waggles her red-brown eyebrows and we all laugh.
Tori’s husband walks over to join us from where he was standing. She introduced me to him earlier when the kids were putting their gear on. Tori’s husband, Bryan, has blue eyes and he seems outgoing and friendly. His hair is mostly covered with a D.C. Eagles cap, but shaggy brown hair pokes out from beneath it.
Bryan glances at his wife, shaking his head and pouting before he throws a thick, plaid scarf right at her face. “Here, babe. I think you need this to clean up your drool,” he teases.
Tori stands up, the ends of the scarf in both hands, then loops the middle around the back of her husband’s neck, pulling him towards her for a quick peck. “No one compares to you, honey.”
She pulls away from him, but not before he grabs the edges of her puffy coat and yanks her into his chest for a longer kiss. “Stop!” She gasps. “Mitch might be watching and know I’m taken!”
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.
He holds the door for me, allowing me to step past him inside the plain locker room. I brush past him, getting a whiff of his skin in the process. He doesn’t smell bad like he should. He smells like a fresh mountain waterfall, which is really irritating. He should smell like B.O. or burning hair. Something horrible to match his grouchiness.
Taking a few steps inside the locker room I take in the large space lined with metal lockers and wooden benches in neat rows. I take a seat on the edge of one and Mitch follows suit, sitting on the bench next to mine.
“I want to explain what’s going on so you don’t yell at me in front of everyone… again.” He quirks one eyebrow, but his eyes are serious.
I cross my arms and raise my chin. “Okay.”
The grey shirt makes his hazel eyes look more brown today than when he’s in the navy blue coaching uniform. Not that I’m keeping track of which side of the hazel spectrum his eyes are on a daily basis.
He nervously runs one of those giant hands through his sweaty hair, drawing my focus to his tattoos again. There’s a roaring tiger on his bicep, and I want to know the story behind it. Or maybe he’s one of those people who just gets tattoos he likes for little to no reason. Maybe he gets a tattoo every time he’s feeling grumpy… which would explain how many there are.
“Listen, you’re not completely wrong. I don’t know how to work with kids. Hell, I don’t even want to be here. But I have to be.”
“Well, at least you’re honest,” I say in a clipped tone. But his admission makes me feel a pinch of guilt. Nine months ago, I had no clue how to care for Noah, and thank goodness I didn’t have an audience watching all the mistakes I’ve made.
He clears his throat. “Anyway. The boys in our group are teasing Noah.” He pauses, looking at his sneakers. He takes a deep breath, obviously feeling uncomfortable. “They’re talking about you, mostly. Which really gets under his skin. And they know it.”
