Ten Years Later
My mom and Karen went completely over the top. They were two of the most spirited older women when it came to hockey—something every sports news station had mentioned time and time again over the years—and it was no different for youth hockey.
Mila took after me when it came to the ice. Instead of having grace and fluidity like her mother, she got my precise velocity. Although she was tiny, she was mighty. She was an angry little thing. We channeled it into a contact sport: hockey. I liked to tease Riley and say that Mila chose hockey over figure skating because my genes were stronger, but the truth was, hockey was in both of our genes.
Her grandpa retired as one of the best college hockey coaches the Eastern Conference had ever seen, and her dad was an NHL sensation.
“Mom.” I leaned back. “Enough with the cowbell.” It was the same ol’ cowbell that she had used when I played hockey that was now painted green and white—the colors of Mila’s hockey team. “The game is over.”
Riley’s mom laughed from beside mine and shook her own bell. Yep, that’s right. They both have their own bells.
“We need to work on her focus,” Roy mentioned, rubbing a hand over his five o’clock shadow. He may have been retired, but his coaching days were never too far gone.
“Now you know what Riley would say if she just heard you say that,” I said, silently agreeing.
My dad stretched his legs out in front of him and mimicked Riley. “Let your granddaughter have fun.”
We all laughed, but Riley was in the right spot at the right time, because she peered up from below, on the ice, holding an abundance of little snack packs that she made for Mila’s team. “Shush,” she said, rolling her pretty blue eyes in our direction.
I chuckled after winking at her.
She scoffed with pretend annoyance, but I lived to see her pretty mouth twitch with amusement.
The moment the team saw my wife holding the snacks, they rushed over the ice to grab one along with a juice box. I was pretty certain that most of them only came for the snack, but not Mila. She was one of the last to head in our direction. The one thing she did get from her mother was the perfection gene. That girl was determined to win every game, even if she was the underdog.
She was one of the only girls who played at this age.
Most little girls moved on to Barbies and makeup.
Not Mila.
I kept my eyes on my daughter as she slowly skated toward her mom. One of the boys—who was much taller than her—whizzed past and knocked her down, causing her stick to go flying and her unstrapped helmet to tumble off her head. I stared lasers in the boy’s direction, catching his number and adding it to my shit list.
When I looked back at Mila, she popped up quickly and had the same look on her face that Riley used to send to me before I made her mine.
“Down, boy,” my dad said from behind.
I ignored him along with the chattering of my mother-in-law and my own mother from behind.
That little fucker, I thought.
Riley glanced up at me and raised an eyebrow, silently warning me.
Mila brushed herself off and grabbed her stick with anger. She was still glaring at the boy who knocked her down, likely sick of them always acting like they were better than her—even if she was my daughter. I watched another boy skate toward her. He bent down with precision and grabbed her helmet. Mila glanced at him, and I watched the anger disappear from her face as she gingerly grabbed the helmet from his hand.
What the fuck is that look?
My eyebrows crowded as they skated off together, acting friendly.
I looked over at my father-in-law and said, “I get it now.”
“Get what?” he asked.
“I get why you wanted to kill me back then.”
He smiled before patting me on the back. “Oh, you just wait, son. This is just the beginning…”
