Page 25

"Got it," I affirm, though I'm sure my grasp on the game is as slippery as the ice below. "Simple enough."
"Yep, and there's offside rules, penalties, power plays, but we can get into that next time," Samantha continues. Her finger moves as she outlines an invisible map of the arena. "That's where our team will huddle," she gestures to the bench closest to us, "and the away team will be opposite."
I look to where she's pointing below us, and blink my eyes a few times in confusion.
"Isn't that Victor Stone?" I lean in, squinting at the man confidently striding to the bench where Samantha just pointed. The tailored lines of his black suit cut a sharp figure against the casual backdrop of the rink, and something about it doesn't sit right.
Samantha peers down, following my gaze, then nods slowly. "Yeah, that's him alright. He looks out of place, doesn't he?" Her brow furrows with genuine puzzlement. "But where's Coach Marty? The game's ticking close."
Emily leans forward, her hands gripping the cold metal of the bleacher rail. "Haven't seen him. Andnobody mentioned he wasn't going to be here." She glances between us, concern etched across her features.
"Odd," Jessica mutters, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Victor isn't exactly Mr. Team Spirit."
"Look at him," I can't help but snort, "a full suit? Really?" My arms cross over my chest as I try to tamp down the annoyance bubbling inside me. This is supposed to be about the kids, not some corporate showboat.
Samantha smirks, a playful edge to her voice. "Oh, I don't know, Avery. He's kind of giving off Emilio Estevez vibes." A twinkle in her eye, she nudges me with her elbow.
"Please," I sigh heavily, shaking my head. "This isn't a movie, Sam. This is our kids' season opener."
She laughs softly, a sound that almost masks the tension. "What a shame, though, huh?"
"Total shame," I mutter.
The rink echoes with the scrape of blades as the kids pour onto the ice. Their youthful energy is a stark contrast to the stillness that has settled among us moms. We watch them gather around Victor like moths to a flame—his presence undeniable, even if unwanted.
I narrow my eyes, trying to gauge Victor's every move from afar. "I've got to hear what he's saying," I declare. "He better not be filling their heads with any of his nonsense."
Emily places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Avery, it's probably nothing. Maybe something happened to Marty, and Victor's just stepping in."
"No way," I huff out, shaking off her reassurance. "He's setting himself up as the hero—hogging the limelight that's meant for our kids. I'm gonna go down and listen." My gaze sweeps over Samantha and Jessica, but they both avoid eye contact, shifting uneasily.
"Seriously? None of you are coming?" Disbelief colors my tone.
They exchange sheepish looks, shoulders rising in a collective shrug. "You've got this, Avery," Samantha murmurs, offering a weak smile.
"Fine," I mutter, feeling the weight of solo responsibility settle on me. "I'll do it myself."
I march down the stairs, each step echoing my resolve. As I take a seat right behind the home box, the coldness of the glass sends a shiver down my spine. It's a barrier, muffling Victor's words from my desperate ears.
The team glides away in a flurry of sticks and skates, and then Victor turns, catching my eye. His lips curl into that slight smirk—the one that inexplicably sets my heart racing even as my mind rebels against it. Handsome devil. I mentally scold myself, vowing to confront him later.
The game kicks off, and I can't help but watch Victor, scrutinizing his every interaction. To my chagrin,he's... good. The way he gestures, the nods he gets from the kids—it’s clear he knows his way around the ice. A reluctant respect worms its way into my thoughts, leaving me unsettled and unsure.
Chapter Fourteen
Victor
I pushopen the gate to the player's box, the metal clanging shut behind me with a finality that echoes in my chest. The chill from the ice seeps into my bones, and for a second, I'm a statue, feet glued to the ground, heart racing like it's trying to outskate my past. But I can't stand still, and I push past every instinct that screams to bolt from this place that's soaked in memories.
"Move, Victor," I mutter under my breath, willing one foot in front of the other. It's just ice. Just kids. No big deal.
Except it is. I've avoided arenas like this for years—the sharp scent of cold air, the sound of blades carving up the surface, all of it. Now here I am, stepping into a role I never wanted, feeling more out of place than ever.
"Pull it together," I tell myself, eyes scanning over the glossy expanse waiting for the swarm of energy that is elementary school hockey players. I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, pretending I'm not about to have a full-on panic attack at the sight of a puck.
A thunderous eruption of noise signals their arrival, and I lift my gaze as the kids pour onto the rink, a blur of bright jerseys and flashing skates. Their laughter bounces off the walls, and I feel it—a tug at the corner of my mouth that I quickly squash. No room for softness here.
"Hey, over here!" I call out, a bit too loudly, maybe, and I cringe inwardly. They skate over, a disorganized flock, their faces lit with the pure joy of the game. It's infectious, and for a moment, I remember what it felt like to be one of them before life played its rougher games on me.