Page 3

CHAPTER 3

Camden

I’m still standing stock-still when the older boy skates away, giving me a little nod I can’t return. Hell, I can hardly breathe.

“Hey, Mr. Cam,” Liam says. His tone is funeral solemn, and I know that’s my fault. Same with the flat look in his eyes.

“Hello, Liam.”

He’s grown since last summer and has the look of a kid who hit a growth spurt and is still trying to figure out how to manage newly longer limbs. Still shorter than the other two boys who were picking on him, but they also were a few years older, I think.

How old is Liam, again—ten? Nine? Eleven?

Has he had a birthday since I left?

A sudden tightness clutches my chest at the mental image of Liam and Naomi sitting at a table with a cake and birthday candles. Just the two of them.

But no—she would have her whole horde of extended family from Oakley Island with her. I met most of them, then promptly forgot everyone's name. Except for Jake, her lawyer brother who looked at me like he’d find a way to either murder me or sue me into bankruptcy if I hurt Naomi or Liam.

I can feel the searing heat of that gaze now, a few states and a few hundred miles away. Jake is probably plotting my demise right now.

“Mr. Cam? Or should I call you Coach Cam now?” Liam asks, his face so bright and open.

“Yo! Cammie! Get your skates on, bro!” Eli calls. He’s overrun with little kids who look like they’re trying to fell him like a tree. Stuffed animals litter the ice around him. “A little help here?”

“Is that your group?” I ask, remembering what the one kid said about pucks versus stuffed animals.

Liam’s head dips, but not before I see color rise in his cheeks. “Yeah.”

He’s at least five years older and six inches taller than everyone else in the group. Apparently, he’s the only kid his age who truly looks like he’s never been on skates before.

“I’m taking this one!” I call to Eli, whose face falls.

Liam’s head snaps up, but he looks away again so quickly I can’t read the expression on his face. I ignore the voice of protest in my head telling me this is a bad idea—a very bad idea. Because if Liam is here, his mom can’t be too far away. I don’t allow myself to scan the groups of parents who stayed to watch. Not yet. “You’ve got it!”

I’m not so sure that’s true, though, as a moment later, the kids take Eli down and swarm over his body like locusts on a fresh crop.

He’ll live.

“I’ve got my gear over on the bench,” I tell Liam, not meeting his eyes. In truth, I’m ashamed to look straight at him.

I don’t know what his mom told him about everything that happened. Or how he processed our last conversation, the one I wonder if he told Naomi about. But considering the way he rode his bike to my hotel on his own without permission, I suspect not.

And more than anything—more than what I said to Naomi in our last conversation, more than the way I packed and left the island so quickly, severing any and all ties—I feel terrible about how I left things with Liam. I hate remembering the look of disappointment on his face. I know what it’s like to have adults let you down. To be crushed by their choices.

At the time, standing in my hotel doorway, my bags halfway packed and Liam staring expectantly up at me, I told myself I was doing him a favor. Making a difficult choice now to save him from more heartache later. I blamed the distance, an easy thing to blame.

“I have to go home,” I told him. “My whole life is there.”

Before the words left my mouth, they seemed like a pretty basic explanation. Toothless. But once I saw the way Liam’s face fell and then how he tried to draw himself up, absorbing the words and pretending they didn’t crush him, I realized how they must have sounded to him, what he might have heard.

My whole life is there; you and your mom are not part of my whole life.

But he was gone before I could repair the damage. Not that I would have had any idea how to begin fixing the hurt I caused. My last view was of him pedaling away, back stiff and legs pumping as fast as they could go.

I wouldn’t blame the kid for hating me.

But Liam’s face looked happy moments ago, not bitter or hurt or angry. Which almost makes it worse somehow. Anger I could take. Forgiveness, on the other hand, I don’t know if I deserve. Even if the way things ended between his mother and me was her choice.

At least, she started the end. I simply finished it.

“Come on. It'll only take me a few minutes,” I tell him.

“Okay,” he says, his voice unsure. But there’s the smallest spark of hope in his eyes that wasn’t there moments ago.

When he doesn’t move to follow me, I realize that he may not actually be able to navigate to the bench. At least, not quickly. He’s still gripping the low wall for support.

“Grab on.” I face him, holding out my hands, palms up.

He hesitates, then takes one of my hands in his gloved one, clutching the wall until the last second. Even after I’ve got both of his hands, he almost goes down.

I bite back the urge to say steady , because obviously, if he had any choice in the matter, he’d be steady.

“Keep your weight over your legs. Don’t lean forward. That’s it. Bend your knees a little—like that. Trust your legs. Feel the difference?”

He nods, which throws him off-balance. This time, though, he doesn’t pitch forward or use my hands to hold him up. I can see him straining, working to keep his weight in the right place.

“Good.”

He beams at the praise, but then he almost goes down and the smile falls. “I can stand here, but I don’t know how to move,” he admits.

I wish I could remember how my dad taught me to skate. But he pretty much threw me on our backyard pond in Wisconsin almost as soon as I could walk. The memory brings a swell of uncomfortable emotion, like a hiccup stuck in the base of my throat.

I’ve often wondered if my father regrets teaching me to skate and setting me on this path. If he knew how things would end up, would he have given me a basketball or a baseball bat? I’d ask him, but that’s not the sort of relationship we have now—the kind where I can ask honest questions about the past.

These intrusive thoughts are replaced by another: I need to get home.

A sliver of worry zips up my spine. But an extra hour away should be fine. Just in case, I’ll send a text saying I’ll be late once we get to the bench.

“For now, I’m going to pull you,” I tell Liam. “Just focus on keeping your knees bent, your toes facing me, and don’t lean forward. Got it?”

He does, mostly, and I pull him back to the bench where I dropped my bag a few minutes ago. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t come down to the rink. If I’d just gone home like I told Coach I needed to do. Now, I’m stuck.

But maybe … I’m glad?

Time will tell. And it will depend on someone other than Liam. Because I can’t imagine Naomi being pleased about this.

Now, as Liam sags onto the bench and I drop next to him, I let myself scan the crowds, seeking out a head of wavy brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Naomi isn’t the kind of woman who can disappear into a crowd. She’s a woman who?—

“She isn’t here.” Liam’s voice jerks me back into the moment. He’s taken his helmet off, revealing sweaty hair sticking up in a bunch of directions. He stares at me intently, like a challenge. “My mom. She had errands to run, but I think she was just avoiding any chance she’d run into you.”

Man. I’d forgotten how direct Liam is. No thought of holding back. Liam says the things he’s thinking. And he’s always thinking, which means he’s always talking.

I wonder what that’s like.

“I mean,” Liam continues, talking a little faster now as he clearly realizes he might have said a little too much, “not that she said anything about it. I’m just guessing. Because of, well … you know.”

“Why are you here?” I ask, desperately not wanting to talk about the you know Liam hinted at. But my question is a little too abrupt.

This is why I told Coach I shouldn’t work with kids. Well. It’s one of the reasons. The other is the kid sitting beside me. Though I was thinking more about avoiding memories of him (and his mother) rather than actually avoiding him . This was definitely not on my bingo card. Because Liam and Naomi live in another state. Or … they did .

“I’m here because I want to play hockey,” Liam says simply. A little bit of duh in his voice. Also a fair bit of stubbornness. Which is good. He’ll need it if he wants to play hockey.

I’m also glad to see him warming up, opening up. Makes me think that maybe I didn’t ruin everything before I left.

“I mean, why are you here in Harvest Hollow?” I ask patiently.

“Oh. We moved.”

“You moved? Here?”

“A week ago. Mom’s new job had an opening, and she applied and got it before she realized it would be in Harvest Hollow. Then she tried to tell her boss she actually didn’t want a raise if it meant moving here, and her boss said no, and then Mom threw her phone and said a lot of words I’m not allowed to repeat because she didn’t know I was listening. And now, here I am!”

There’s a lot to unpack there, and I store away most of my thoughts and questions for consideration later, when I’m alone. Needing something to do, I unzip my bag and pull out my phone, shooting off a quick text about my delay. I get a response quickly, assuring me it’s not a problem. I tuck my phone away and start pulling on my shin guards.

“Is that all your gear?” Liam asks.

An obvious question, but I can see his curiosity as I pull out my gloves.

“Just my practice stuff. I like to keep it with me. Just in case.”

Liam’s grin is fast. “Just in case of a hockey emergency?”

I smile. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Every guy is different in how they handle their equipment. My preference is to lug my practice stuff back and forth and keep my game day gear at the Summit to be washed and handled by the equipment manager. My practice pads are still damp and in need of a wash, but I don’t need to put everything on now. It’s not like Liam is going to be knocking me into the boards or hitting pucks at my face. He’s not even ready to have a stick.

“So, how did you convince your mom to let you try hockey?” I ask.

I don’t think I need to add, Since she didn’t even want to move here because of me . The implication is clear enough that it might as well be sitting on the bench between us. It doesn’t make sense that Naomi would let Liam sign up for a sport at the very facility where I spend all my time if she wanted to avoid me.

“Uh,” Liam says. He takes off one glove and scratches his nose. “I didn’t tell her. I borrowed her credit card and signed up on my iPad.”

I can’t help the laugh that booms out of me as I pull on my hockey pants. “I bet your mom loved that.”

“She said some other words I’m not allowed to repeat.”

“I’ll bet.”

Liam watches with interest as I slide on my hockey socks and start taping them up. Honestly, I could probably have just put on my skates and no pads, but it feels weird enough to leave off my shoulder and elbow pads. Plus, there’s something inherently calming to me about the routine of getting geared up.

Right now, calm is what I need.

After the summer, I thought about Liam a lot. Hard not to, with his mother always on my mind. I wondered how he was doing and if he was okay, generally speaking. I hoped he wasn’t too hurt by what I told him, that it wasn’t some kind of formative dark moment—like the ones that haunt me when I let them.

Naomi kept a careful distance between her son and me at first. It made sense to keep things slow in that regard, considering Naomi and I were vague about how or even if things would end when I left Oakley. It was the conversation we constantly pushed off. Even when I didn’t leave after my planned week-long vacation on Oakley and instead booked my room all the way up until the day before training camp.

By the second week of us dating, she asked if I minded Liam tagging along on a beach day. I didn’t. Though I was nervous. I’m not around kids much, other than hockey meet-and-greet events. Which is no preparation for meeting the child of the woman you’re seeing.

I didn’t want to mess things up. Didn’t want to be too standoffish, but I also didn’t want to do the opposite and form a bond when I didn’t know what the future held. Naomi warned me ahead of time that he was on an ancient Egypt kick.

“He will tell you disgusting facts about mummies, and I’m very sorry,” she told me.

And true to fact, within two minutes of being introduced, Liam told me that when preparing the mummies for burial, embalmers would pull the brain out of the nose with a hook. Naomi looked like she was going to throw up.

I laughed.

I’m not sure why, as there is nothing humorous about the mental image I got. I think it was more just the shock of it and the matter-of-fact way Liam said it. When I laughed, he grinned and asked if I knew how to ride waves. We spent the rest of the afternoon doing just that, with Liam critiquing my form. Any awkwardness I’d felt dissolved quickly and never returned.

At least, until now.

Now, I’m feeling unsure for a lot of reasons.

First of all, we have a secret between us. One I’ve kept from his mother and assume Liam did too.

Back then, I probably should have told Naomi that Liam came to see me. If I were a parent, I’d want to know. But I was—and still am—torn, not wanting to betray Liam’s confidence, especially after sending him away.

Now, I’ve been blindsided by Liam’s appearance and the knowledge that Naomi is in Harvest Hollow.

I don’t have a playbook for this.

But then I realize I don’t need one; I have hockey.

“How do those skates feel?” I ask Liam while lacing mine up.

His are clearly borrowed, scuffed with dull blades and mismatched laces. Possibly the wrong size. His hockey socks are sagging because he didn’t do a good job with the tape.

“Fine, I guess. How should they feel?”

“They should support you. Tight but not too tight. Did you lace them up yourself or did your mom help?”

For most younger kids, getting geared up is a two-person job. But I’m not surprised when Liam tells me he got ready by himself. His mom really must not want to see me. I swallow down the lingering discomfort I have about this.

At a glance, I can tell that Liam’s laces are too loose. Kneeling before him and keeping my gaze firmly fixed on his skates, I say, “Let’s tighten these up, get some fresh tape, and then we’ll get you back on the ice.”

* * *

Half an hour later, I’m watching Liam shove his mismatched gear into a duffle bag. I’m not sure where Naomi found all this stuff, but it’s all heavily used and ill-fitting. Without meaning to, I’ve made a mental checklist of his size and what he needs.

Not that I have any business even thinking about buying Liam new gear.

I don’t want to assume it’s a cost issue for Naomi, who never mentioned financial struggles in our brief time of dating. From what Liam said, moving to Harvest Hollow related to her getting a raise. Maybe Naomi told Liam she’ll buy him his own gear if he sticks with it, which sounds like a Naomi thing.

Hockey is the most expensive youth sport besides any sport involving horses, so it’s a practical choice to start with used gear. Even though some of Liam’s looks like it’s falling apart.

There are hockey players who keep wearing their old gear until it looks this bad, but that’s more about superstition. Dumbo’s shoulder pads are the same ones he’s been wearing since he was seventeen and are held together by duct tape and—according to him— good vibes . But that’s different from Liam’s ill-fitting, worn-out gear.

He doesn’t seem to care, though, and beams up at me after zipping up his bag. “Thanks, Camden. I mean, Coach Cam. That was awesome. Will you be here next week?”

“Yeah, Cammie.” Eli appears, draping an arm over my shoulder. His floppy blond hair tickles my neck. I shove him off. “Will you be here next week? I could use another set of hands. Did you see those little kids? Bloodthirsty monsters, I tell you.”

I don’t answer quickly enough, and Liam’s face falls. Eli’s hand gives me a painful squeeze.

“Yes,” I say finally. “I’ll be here. But not to help with your group.” I shake Eli off and give him a playful shove. “Just Liam.”

Bad idea , a little voice in my head warns. I ignore it, as you’re supposed to do when you hear voices in your head.

“Really?” Liam’s voice pitches high with excitement.

My chest constricts, thinking about how, in a few years, he’ll be entering into the too-cool teenage years when guys seem to think they have to hide their enthusiasm for anything.

Even while trying to keep his skates underneath him, Liam was stoked to be here. Concentrating with all his might, celebrating every little victory, and rattling off hockey facts. Between the last time I saw him and now, he’s grown two inches and become a veritable pinata stuffed with hockey information.

Is this … because of me?

Last summer, Liam’s knowledge of the sport went so far as to know that it’s played on ice with skates. Now, he’s here in Harvest Hollow, sneaking his mom’s credit card to sign up for hockey training, and knows Sidney Crosby’s current number of assists. Not for the season. Sid’s lifetime number of assists.

Maybe it’s unrelated, but this sudden interest—fixation?—seems a little too pointed to be coincidental.

I shouldn’t feel so happy at the thought.

Eli narrows his eyes at me, letting me know he’s going to have a lot of questions later. I ignore him, the same way I will when he asks all the questions.

“See ya, kid,” he says, ruffling Liam’s sweaty hair before walking off toward his group of little guys. “You looked good out there.”

He did—at least compared to how he started. I mean, he’s still wobbly and barely able to take more than a few strides in a row without falling. And he can’t turn. Or stop. But he’s no longer holding onto the wall or to me for support.

“Thanks, Coach Cam,” Liam says.

I shake my head. “That was all you. Way to put in the work.”

We stand there for a few seconds, Liam still grinning and me trying not to watch the door for his mom. Long enough that Liam stops smiling and picks up his bag.

“I should wait outside,” he says.

“Want me to go with you?” I hope I don’t sound as desperate as I feel for even just a glance at Naomi. Not that a glance would be all I want. But at this point, I’m a bear coming out of hibernation. I’ll take what scraps I can get.

Liam hesitates. “Um.”

“Ah. I can’t walk you out because your mom won’t want to see me, right?”

“I’m sorry.” He looks miserable.

“It’s not your fault, Liam. It’s just … grown-up stuff.”

And to explain it, I would have to understand it myself. I’m still honestly confused about how it all went down. One minute, Naomi and I were together and I was trying to find the best way to talk to her about what would happen when I left my unexpectedly long stay on Oakley Island for training camp.

The next minute, she was telling me we were done.

And any thoughts about trying to convince Naomi to at least talk about what things could look like with us long-term or long-distance, all that vanished when Liam came to my hotel. Which is a dark kind of irony since he came to convince me to stay.

“Mom said that too,” Liam says. “It’s not my fault. But …”

He doesn’t finish whatever thought is in his head—a rarity.

“Liam, it wasn’t your fault. Sometimes with adults, things just get … complicated.”

His smile has a bitter edge, one that looks too old for his young face. “Funny how you and Mom say all the same things. I thought breakups happen when two people don’t agree.”

I don’t have a response to this. Not a good one anyway. Normally, when I don’t have things to say, I don’t say them. It’s why I’m often accused of being too quiet.

Now, I need to say something.

What to say is the question.

I decide to go with brutal honesty. “You know, I’m sad about your mom.”

I probably shouldn’t say this. I don’t want to give him false hope. But I don’t know what the protocol is with kids. Not in general situations, and especially not in this one. But I can’t not say something . And this is the something that comes out of my mouth.

Liam nods, his jaw clenching. Again, he looks older, giving me a glimpse of the young man he’ll turn into.

“Yeah. Mom’s sad about you too. She pretends, but she’s not very good at it. See you next week.”

And with that, the kid hoists his bag with the broken zipper and walks out the door like he didn’t just pull the pin from a grenade and then drop it at my feet.