Page 4 of Fake Skating

“Hey, sweetie. How was work?”

“Good,” I said, shutting the kitchen door behind me and kicking off my shoes. “Quiet, thank God.”

I worked at my uncle’s hardware store every weekend (and any other time I could squeeze in extra hours, to be honest). Usually it was only on Sundays during hockey season, but since we’d had a game the night before and just an early practice that day, I’d been able to get in a bonus Saturday shift.

Which was perfect, because I needed new skates.

Like, yesterday.

“After you shower, will you make sure the twins look presentable?” My mom was rolling out dough on the center island—fucking beer bread, yes— and had three pots going full steam on the stove.

Which made me want to cry little happy baby tears, because I was fucking famished.

“They’re watching TV in the basement,” she said. “Dad was supposed to get them ready, but Andy swung by, so odds are good he forgot.”

“Yeah, but why?” I pulled off my jacket, being extra fucking careful with my left arm, and put it on a hook. “Andy doesn’t care what they look like.”

Andy was my dad’s best friend and basically like another member of the family.

“The Boches are coming over for dinner,” she said casually as she focused on the bread.

The Boches ?

“What exactly does that mean?”

I was impressed by how chill I sounded when I felt like I’d been kicked.

She couldn’t mean Dani was coming over tonight.

She hadn’t brought up Dani and Hannah since last month’s announcement that they were moving back, and I’d been delusionally hopeful that something had changed.

I definitely wasn’t expecting her to come to my house for a meal.

“Mick, Dani, and Hannah,” she said. “Duh.”

“They’re ‘the Boches’ now?” I asked, because Dani and Hannah had never gone by Hannah’s maiden name before.

Or at least not that I’d known of.

“Well, Dani still goes by Collins,” my mom said, “but Hannah’s back to Boche.”

She said it with a triumphant smile, probably because she’d always hated the colonel, but I was starting to feel like something was sitting on my chest.

This couldn’t be happening.

I knew I was going to have to run into her eventually, but why tonight, when my shoulder was fucking killing me and all I wanted to do was eat and fall into my bed? Doing anything sounded like too much, but seeing Dani?

Nope.

“And they’re all coming over for dinner tonight ?” I opened the fridge and looked inside, trying to wrap my head around the knowledge that she was going to be here , in my kitchen, within the hour.

No fucking way.

Seeing her was going to suck, but seeing her at a meal with my family, who’d always loved her and would kiss her ass and treat her like a long-lost beloved niece, was going to suck nails.

“Hey, Sarah,” I heard as the door opened behind me and cold air whooshed in.

I turned around as Doug (my dad’s other best friend) slammed the door behind him and said to my mom, “Is Mick Boche really coming over for dinner?”

“God, I told John to keep his mouth shut,” she said, but she was grinning.

Mick Boche—Dani’s grandpa—was a hockey legend. He’d been the best player to ever come out of Southview for sure, a superstar enforcer in the NHL until an injury forced him to retire in his prime.

And even though he lived in town, the guy was notoriously antisocial, which made him even more of an elusive icon. When spotted around town, people ID’d him with a Sasquatch level of excitement.

“So it’s true, then,” he said as he took off his boots and went around me to grab a Busch Light from the top shelf. “We’re breaking bread with Mick Fucking Boche tonight, holy shit.”

“ You are doing no such thing,” she said with a laugh, pointing a finger at him. “This isn’t a fan meet and greet; it’s a nice family dinner for my best friend, and he happens to be her dad.”

“Am I not part of this family? Nice game last night, by the way, Al.”

“No, you literally are not,” she replied.

“Thanks,” I said at the same time.

“Sarah. Come on.” Doug shot me a smile before he said to my mom, “You have to let me stay. You’re having dinner with my hero, for God’s sake, and all I’m asking is to quietly sit at the table and witness the greatness. I won’t say a word, and I’ll—”

“You always say a word—too many of them, in fact—and the answer is no.”

“He can have my spot,” I said, shutting the fridge. “Because I just want to sleep.”

“And you can,” she said in her authoritative voice, “ after dinner. Besides, I thought you’d be dying to see them.”

“I mean, I am,” I lied, “but if they live here now, I’ll see them all the time, right?”

“I’m going downstairs,” Doug said, disappearing down the steps while yelling, “but I’ll be back up for supper, Sar.”

“No, you will not, Doug—”

“What’s this I hear about Mick Boche coming for dinner?” The back door opened and Ed, one of my dad’s other buddies, came inside and went straight for the fridge. “Hey, Al—great game last night.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“He is, but you’re not,” my mom answered, not even looking up.

“She doesn’t mean it,” Doug yelled from below.

“But Big John said I could,” Ed lied, because everyone knew my dad would never have the balls to go against my mom. “He said I could sit directly across from Mick, actually.”

“Bullshit,” I muttered.

“Worth a shot, though, right?” he murmured to me with a smirk.

“Go downstairs before I hurt you, Ed,” my mom said, which was basically her caving on the whole no-fanboys-at-dinner thing.

Which would make it slightly less terrible.

More people to focus on while trying to pretend Dani Collins wasn’t in my house.

But, like, shit— it wasn’t fair.

I had enough to worry about right now.

Seeing her again—in my house—was just too damn much.

I cannot believe she’s going to be here.

That we’re going to have to speak.

Fuck.

I followed Ed down to the basement and was pleasantly surprised to see that the twins were fully dressed and not in need of my assistance.

Thank God. I was good with helping my mom, but five-year-olds were a lot sometimes.

Cole and Ashton were staring at the small TV in the toy corner of the room, fully immersed in a show about crime-fighting dogs, while my dad and his buddies watched ESPN on the big screen.

“How was work, kid?” my dad asked, grabbing the handle of his cane and slowly getting out of his chair. His eyes narrowed and he winced as he reached his full height, and I realized that I could barely remember what it looked like to see him moving without pain.

“Slow,” I said. “Thank God.”

“Killer game last night, Al,” Andy said from his spot on the couch. “How bruised is the shoulder?”

Dude, if you only knew.

“Fine,” I lied. “Deep purple but not black.”

“Nice.”

“Mom told me to check on the twins before I get in the shower,” I said to my dad. “Are they good?”

“Yeah—they’re under the spell of Disney, so go shower. The Boches are gonna be here in an hour.”

“Is that what we’re calling them now?” I wasn’t sure why I found that so annoying. “The Boches?”

We’d never called them that.

“I just repeat what your mother says, you know that.”

But it bugged the shit out of me as I went back upstairs and turned on the shower, especially when the Bluetooth speaker cued up “Little League,” the song that always made me think of her.

Of us, back then.

When we were younger

We didn’t know how it would be

“Next song,” I shouted at my phone.

Everything about this sudden social event was bugging the shit out of me. So they’d moved to Southview—why the fuck was this a big deal?

People moved all the time, for God’s sake.

My breath hissed out between my teeth when I lifted my shirt over my head because shiiiit .

It was getting so much worse.

I could handle my shoulder’s fuckery when I was playing, but for some reason, stupid things like lifting my arm over my head while getting dressed were nearly dropping me lately.

Even with the steady rotation of ibuprofen, Tylenol, and ice.

I was setting my phone next to the sink and about to step into the shower when I got a text.

Vinny: Zack’s bonfire is tonight and it sounds like everyone’s going

The word “everyone,” when paired with “bonfire,” was no longer part of my vocabulary.

I was supposed to be keeping my nose clean.

I needed to keep my nose clean and steer clear of any parties that could get out of control.

But as I stepped under the hot water, turning to soak the throbbing shoulder that scared the shit out of me because I couldn’t afford—literally or figuratively—to be taken out by an injury, I was tempted.

Getting a little bit numb suddenly didn’t sound like such a bad idea.