“WHAT? I don’t understand why… or even why that would bother Noah.”
Noah’s mom looks genuinely surprised and confused. She obviously doesn’t realize how attractive she is, and how these pre-teen boys like to tease Noah about it. It’s the old Stacy’s mom thing. Except… Noah’s mom.
This whole conversation is really awkward. Dealing with parents is another reason not to work with kids. Thankfully, Aaron is speaking with Freckles’ mom, he said she can be a bit… challenging. Women.
I cock my head to the side to crack my neck, a bad habit I’ve had since I was a kid. When I look back at her, I notice she’s staring at my arms.
A rush of satisfaction pulses through my veins, making me feel a little hot. Thankfully, I’m already sweaty and gross, so she probably won’t notice.
I look away from her and continue explaining the situation, “That’s not what matters, really. Coach Aaron is already going to speak to the other parents. But the thing is, Noah’s temper is getting him into trouble.”
Her eyes widen. Maybe it’s a surprise to her that Noah has a temper. “Takes one to know one,” she mutters under her breath.
I glide my tongue along the front of my teeth, trying to calm myself. She’s not wrong, but she could keep her sass to herself for once. The mouth on this woman makes me want to bend her over my knee and… no, that’s not a good place for my thoughts to go.
I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “Noah has potential,” I admit reluctantly. She’s staring at me with those pursed lips and that irritated expression, and I’d like to haul the infuriating woman over my shoulder again just to wipe that look off her face. What is it about her that gets under my skin?
Closing my eyes, I get my thoughts back on track… again. “The thing is, Noah is more athletically talented than the other boys, which is probably the real reason they pick on him. But when I’m spending half of our time penalizing him for getting in fights, I can’t help your son hone his skills on the ice.”
What I don’t say is that her son reminds me too much of myself. But seeing as the woman staring at me with those big brown eyes hates my guts, I’ll keep that bit to myself. But that suppressed anger that bubbles out of Noah at the worst moments? Yeah, case in point. And I’m not sure why, but I don’t want Noah to end up like me, still dealing with this pent-up anger at almost thirty years old.
“Noah is my brother, not my son,” she offers before swallowing. Her skin looks a little more pale than it did before, like she’s just realizing the extent of his powerful emotions and how they affect his everyday life and friendships. “He’s had a hard time since our parents died. I’m not trying to make excuses for him, but I’m out of ideas to help him.”
My stupid heart wars between aching for Noah that he lost his parents, and skipping a beat at the fact that she’s his sister, not his mom. That’s why she seems so young, because she is. Probably not much younger than myself. I can’t even imagine if I’d had a younger sibling to care for on top of everything else. Suddenly, her sassy quips and defiant armor make sense.
“I know I’m not your favorite person, but maybe I can help.”
Her face pinches and she scoffs. “You? What, are you going to brawl with each other and fight your anger out?”
I pin her with an annoyed expression that mirrors her own. “You talk too much.”
To my surprise, she doesn’t respond, just narrows her pretty eyes at me.
“If I worked with Noah one-on-one, we could focus on his hockey skills. And the extra ice time may even be good for his mental health.” I look down at my feet. “It helps mine.” I never usually talk this much, but sitting at home is driving me crazy. Sure, I have my practices with the team, and working out with my trainer, but without the games and the traveling, that feels like nothing. Maybe it’s selfish for me to offer this, like I’m using Noah as a distraction, an excuse for more ice time. But if it helps the kid, is that really so bad?
She just stares at me again, with that stunned expression that makes her brown eyes look like two shiny chocolates. I’m not really a sweets guy, but something about those eyes makes me think I could become one.
No, no, Mitch, you cannot become one. Not one of anything. You could never be what a woman needs.
I stand abruptly, my conscience reminding me to keep my distance from anyone who makes me feel… anything. “Anyway, I have to run. But think about it and let me know at the next practice?”
I slowly inch my way toward the door and she watches me in confusion.
She stands from the bench, seeming confused. I leave before she can respond.
Tuesday, after practice with my Eagles teammates, I drive over to Dr. Curtis’s office for my second therapy session. The room is quiet and calm again today, with the same comfortable looking armchairs and couch. Today, it’s not raining, and I notice the view offered by the large window. I can even see the Washington Monument from the window.
He‘ll probably ask me more obnoxious questions today… questions about myself and my family, questions I didn’t want to answer then, and will never want to answer. Good luck figuring out the code to this safe, doctor. I locked myself up and threw away the key a long time ago.
I’m staring out the window when he breaks the silence with a question that surprises me. “Mitch, what’s something you like about yourself?”
“My charming and outgoing personality,” I say dryly, looking back to the window.
He chuckles. “Alright. Anything else?”
I think for a long moment, having a hard time coming up with something I genuinely like about myself besides being good at hockey. But I don’t think that answer would appease him, and if I answer this simple question it might be good enough for me to get through another session without him grilling me about my parents again. I need him to believe he’s magically pried open the vault inside my chest… that I’m really opening up and making progress, or whatever.
Finally, I sigh and turn my attention toward him. “I’m a hard worker.”
His face brightens. “Good, good. I can see that about you. It’s how you got where you are today.”
I relax a little, and try not to feel smug at how pleased he is I answered his stupid question. I tilt my chin in a barely noticeable nod.
“Can you think of anything you dislike about yourself?”
I scoff loudly before I can hold it back. Dr. Curtis tilts his head to the side in interest.
“Do I really need to say it out loud?”
One of his eyebrows curves in question. “Say what out loud?”
I throw my hands in the air, already feeling frustrated at this nonsense. “There are a million things to choose from,” my voice is raised, I can feel the familiar fire of anger starting in my gut and making it all the way up to my ears. If it was scientifically possible, steam would be shooting out of them. I don’t even need to look in a mirror to know my earlobes are bright red. “But most of all, I hate my temper.”
Dr. Curtis doesn’t react to my outburst, he’s calmly glancing at me and writing a note on his tablet. “Thank you for your honesty, Mitch,” he sets his tablet on the side table beside him and crosses his ankle over his knee, studying me. “What’s interesting is you said there are a million things to choose from.”
I stare at him blankly. I offered my feelings for the day. Now I’m done.
“Why do you think it’s easier for you to think of negative things about yourself than positive things?”
His question genuinely catches me by surprise, causing my unaffected mask to slip. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I think back to my dad and when he started using recreational drugs to numb himself after my mom left. Which quickly turned into illegal drugs. The things he said to me when he wasn’t in his right mind, either drunk off his ass, or high. The things that seemed like truth to my eight-year-old self.
You’re a bad kid. Your mother would’ve stayed if it wasn’t for you. If you weren’t here, we’d still be together, and I’d be happy.
I push the thoughts deep down, rage rising in my chest. These are the things I don’t think about, the things I block from my mind and put at the bottom of my proverbial lock box. And this stupid doctor is trying to dig it all up again.
“Why don’t we try some breathing exercises? You seem upset.”
At the sound of Dr. Curtis’s calm but concerned voice, something inside of me snaps. I can’t do this. Can’t sit here and talk to this man I barely know about the ghosts of my past, week after week. This is a special kind of torture. Do people actually do this voluntarily?!
I rise from my seat in the armchair and walk out of his office. I don’t even bother to grab my coat.
He doesn’t come after me.
The satisfaction of storming out of Dr. Curtis’s office deflates quickly, because fifteen minutes later, I’m stuck in back-to -back traffic. I feel like a caged animal again, like that freaking circus tiger. Like everyone and everything is circling around me, waiting for me to either jump through that damn hoop, or go rogue and gobble up the circus performer. My knee bounces up and down with pent-up aggression, I glance over and see a popular bar. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and it doesn’t look busy, and for a moment, I regret the fact that I don’t drink.
But I refuse to be like my father. Although, once in a while, I have to suppress the urge to numb these inconvenient things called feelings.
Feelings, emotional trauma. I’m not even sure what the difference is anymore, I just know I don’t want to feel that vice-like pressure gripping my chest and threatening to make it burst.
By the time I finally make it home and slump down onto my couch, I’ve calmed down.
I take my phone out of my pocket and see I have a missed call and text from Dr. Curtis. I ignore the missed call, but read the short text message.
DR. CURTIS
It’s understandable to feel overwhelmed. And it’s okay to be upset. But please let me know if you’re not okay.
I roll my eyes, but deep down I know he’s just making sure I didn’t do anything stupid.
MITCH
I’m fine. At home.
I throw my phone over to the opposite side of the couch, it bounces and lands on the floor. With a groan, I pick up the T.V. remote from the ottoman and turn on a recording of the movie Rio Grande, featuring none other than John Wayne. This was Granddad’s favorite one.
I’m working with my group during hockey practice. I’m actually relieved that I have a distraction and something to keep me busy after my blow up in Dr. Curtis’s office yesterday. I already worked out at the team gym for three hours this morning. If I lift any more weights I’m just going to injure myself. Then I’ll be out of the game even longer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a camera flash. I glance over and spot Max and his minion watching me again. It looks like Max is telling him when to take photos, as if the photographer doesn’t know how to do his job. And why does he need so much camera equipment, anyway?
I look around the rink and my eyes land on Coach Aaron, he’s working with the smaller kids, the ones who are still cute and not sweaty mongrels. He catches my eye and salutes me with a grin.
Oh, he knows he did me dirty, and he’s relishing it.
Wombats must be an incredibly aggressive and hateful animal, hence how they came up with the stupid name Washington Wombats. Not sure how Max and the photographer are getting anything useful from all this to help my image. Tonight is the same old drama, despite our conversations with the parents. Freckles—er, Declan—I learned his name from the roster Coach Aaron finally gave me, keeps muttering under-handed comments to Noah. I can instantly tell when these comments are about Andie, because of the aggressive way he responds.
I have to applaud him for coming to her defense, but the way he goes about it is all wrong. Not that I’d know anything about that.
If these kids weren’t wearing caged helmets to protect their faces, Noah would’ve knocked several of Freckles’ teeth out by now.
“Hey,” one of the boys yells to Freckles, who’s a few yards from him. “Did you see Andie’s wearing the scrubs today? The ones that make her butt look amazing?”
Freckles nods enthusiastically. “Of course. You’d have to be blind not to notice that fine a—”
His words are cut off when Noah slams into him. Their gloves come off and fists are flying. This is their third tussle already.
All I want to do is high five Noah for sticking up for his sister to these disrespectful little pukes… but I have to remember they’re kids, and I’m supposedly the responsible adult here. I skate over and pry them apart with a heavy, aggravated sigh.
“Knock it off!” I yell over the noise of the ice rink. “You guys think you’re gonna learn anything if you’re so busy penalizing each other?! You’re on the same team tonight, for f—” I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering to keep my language clean around the kids. “For fork’s sake!”
Freckles raises a red eyebrow. “You realize we’ve heard the f word before, right?”
“Sure. But you’re not going to hear it from me.”
One of the other boys chuckles. “We’re just trying to be like you, Coach. We know you love penalties.”
Freckles snickers. “Yeah, you made it to the NHL beating the crap out of everyone. We thought that must be the secret to success!”
They all burst out laughing. Except Noah, who looks at me with those big, dark eyes. His expression always seems a little melancholy, which makes me like him… maybe because that look reflects my own. I like that he doesn’t talk excessively and doesn’t run his mouth in smack talk like the others. He’s here for one thing, and one thing only: hockey.
If only the boys would leave him the hell alone about his sister.
“Hold it together, champ,” I tell him in a tone I’ve never heard come out of my mouth before. Something softer and more caring than usual. I withhold a shiver at how much I dislike my voice sounding like that. I clear my throat and try again, speaking in a deeper voice, “Don’t let them get to you.”
He dips his chin. “So, are you really going to work with me one-on-one?”
“Your sister talked to you about it?” My spine stiffens, knowing they discussed it. Discussed me. There was a part of me that hoped she’d forget all about the offer. But there was a larger part that hoped she’d remember.
I don’t know why I wanted her to say yes to the one-on-one lessons so badly, but the feeling of anticipation annoyed me all weekend.
Noah wipes the sweat from his neck with the back of his hand. “Yeah. I told her I want to do it.”
“Okay.”
I inhale a deep breath that I hope he doesn’t notice, then search the bleachers for Andie. She’s not always here, sometimes an older woman brings Noah. But much to my stupid heart’s delight, I find her easily in the small crowd. The entire place is dim and grey, worn out from all the kids and skaters coming in and out of the rink. But Andie is the bright spot in this place, shining like the sun on a dreary day.
Okay, a really mouthy sun.
“I’ll find her after practice and we’ll get things set up.” My heart speeds up at the thought of another sparring match with the small but mighty Andie. I must be a glutton for punishment because the idea of his big sister roasting me with one of her sassy one-liners makes me way too excited.
With another nod from Noah, he skates off.
Once practice is over and I’ve changed, I leave the locker room to find a certain sassy blonde, but I don’t have to search for long. Andie’s twinkly, brown eyes find me instead. If you lined up twenty women in front of me and covered everything but their eyes, I’d pick Andie’s out easily.
She smirks, and it hits me like the punch I got from Ilya during our fight. The few interactions I’ve had so far with Andie, she’s either been gawking at me like I’m insane, or yelling at me in frustration. But this small smile isn’t an expression I’ve had the privilege of seeing yet, and that deep dimple in her left cheek makes my knees weak. She’s wearing blue scrubs again, so I can only assume she works at a hospital, which explains her not being here some days.
Andie sidles up next to me, trying to match her steps with mine as she follows me outside the rink into the lobby of the iceplex. Her short legs don’t stand a chance of keeping up with me. Legs I found impossible not to stare at in those black leggings she was wearing during our last conversation… Trust me, Andie is strong. Her quads give mine a run for their money, and that’s saying something.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the thoughts away. When was the last time a woman made my head spin? Maybe never.
She starts talking as we walk, “Alright, Big Man. If I’m being honest, I’m unsure about you and Noah working together, but he seemed okay with it, so I’ll give you a chance.” She pauses.
Give me a chance. I stop once we’re out of the way of the crowd that’s trying to leave the rink. For once in my life, I have to fight the urge to smile. Anyone but this woman would likely sell their own arm to get an NHL player to work with their kid one-on-one. But not her.
“I mean, if the offer still stands?” she adds quickly.
I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket and ask, “What’s your number? I’ll save it and text you about times that will work.”
Her cheeks pinken, and damn if it’s not the cutest look on her. I wish she’d smile again so I could see her dimple.
Andie rattles her number off then adds, “It might be challenging with my work schedule, but I’ll try to make it work.”
“What do you do?” I ask before I can stop the words from coming out.
My desire to know everything about her is almost overwhelming, but I shouldn’t be asking her personal questions, I shouldn’t be getting close to her.
“Oh, I’m a critical care nurse.” She smiles again, giving me another view of the dimples I’d easily become addicted to. “I’m PRN now that I’m Noah’s guardian, so my schedule is flexible… sort of.”
Now that she’s Noah’s guardian. I want to ask more questions and get a clearer idea about what happened to their parents, but I hold them back.
“Okay.” I scratch the back of my head and look down at Andie’s sneakers. I’ve always been bad at knowing how to end conversations, and I usually just abruptly walk away. But for unknown reasons, I care about Andie’s opinion of me.
When I turn my attention to her face again, I notice she’s looking at my bicep. Withholding a smirk of my own, I bring my arm back down to my side. She continues tracking the movement of my arm, and I realize she’s studying my tattoos. I deflate a little, knowing she wasn’t ogling my muscles like I thought. Andie blinks her eyes a few times and those chocolate orbs meet my gaze again.
She pops a hip out and rests a fist on it. I try not to notice the enticing curves there.
“You promise to be nice to my brother?” Her voice has that same sassy undertone that it did the first day I saw her. But I think she’s trying to be nice to me for once.
My mouth pulls up in a smile, using facial muscles I don’t normally use. It feels weird, but also nice. “One pre-teen boy is nothing after working with eight of them. I think I can handle it.”
“Alright. I’d hate to come out there and mother you again.” Her eyes are fierce, but her mouth quavers like she’s trying not to laugh.
“You do that, and I’ll have to throw you over my shoulder again,” I say, lowering my voice.
What has gotten into me? Who is this smiling, flirtatious guy and where did the intolerable asshole go? I want him back.
Her dark brown eyes seem to darken further, and the look in her eyes makes a fire burn deep in my stomach. There are a lot of things this woman makes me want to do that go further than throwing her over my shoulder.
“Are you ready?” Noah’s quiet voice interrupts whatever was just happening. Andie jumps slightly, obviously surprised by his sudden presence by her side.
Feeling uncomfortable for flirting when Noah might’ve been watching, I draw a strict line between us in my mind. Which is why I bump my fist gently into her shoulder like a dude-bro.
“Later,” I barely manage to breathe out before turning and walking out to my car as quickly as I can.
I hear Noah whisper, “Why’s Coach Anderson being so weird?”
