Page 38 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)

“Now scoop out like it’s ice cream.” He showed me what he meant, and using my left thumb again against the back of the blade to push it into the wood, I imitated him, continuing to use the hooked knife to carve out the inside of my spoon.

Then, once we had our desired depth, we used the same knife to smooth and even things out.

I went to try to smooth it out more, but my hooked knife went into the wood too deep and another big chunk flew off.

My jaw went slack. “Shit.”

“Let me see.” He took it from me without asking, studying my mishap.

While I was fine making a mistake, since this was my first time ever whittling, it still kind of sucked.

I didn’t want to have to start over. Man ran his gnarled and weathered old index finger over the spot I botched.

“Just make it shallower. Even out all the way around.” He picked up the knife I used before—the sloyd knife, I think he called it. “Use this.”

I did as I was told—again—and while it wasn’t as deep as I initially intended it to be, I managed to salvage the spoon. “Thanks.”

He grunted.

My back screamed at me for relief as I sat there, hunched over on the unforgiving stool. I shifted a few times, then set down my spoon and knife and stretched my arms overhead, giving an involuntary moan.

Man glanced at me. “You hurt?”

“Just stiff.”

He nodded, still whittling, still watching me. “You’re hurt.” This time, it wasn’t a question.

“Ah,” I toddled my head side to side, “I sustained a back injury at work a month ago. Still on leave. Still recovering. I’m seeing Maz at Unger Wellness and he’s helping.”

“How’d you hurt your back?”

Picking up my wood and knife again, I resumed my whittling. “I’m, uh … I’m a hockey player. I play … professionally.” I glanced up at him for some kind of recognition in his eyes, but he fixed me with a blank stare in return.

Okay, then.

“Anyway, I got body checked from behind, went down—hard—and crushed two vertebrae. Also got a concussion.”

His bushy, dark brows with the flecks of silver shot up his wrinkly forehead. “Which vertebrae?”

I wasn’t expecting that question. “Uh, L3 and L4.”

He nodded, still whittling, still watching me. “Did you have prior trauma to that area?”

“I’ve been having back pain on and off for about a year, yeah.”

More nodding. “Did they do a kyphoplasty or a vertebroplasty? I don’t think they would have done a spinal fusion.”

I paused and met his gaze. “Uh, kyphoplasty. Wait … are you … were you …”

“I was an interventional radiologist in India before we moved our family here. Then I worked as one in Santa Barbara until I retired twelve years ago.”

“Whoa, I—”

“You thought I bought this house and land with money from selling spoons?” His giggle was surprisingly high pitched, and his entire body shook as he laughed.

“No … I … I’m just surprised. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Crap. Way to stick your skate in your mouth, Mav.

He waved off my apology. “I’m just teasing you. I am sorry for your injury. Do they think you can return to hockey?”

“Doctor’s say I should sit out until next season. But I’m in a contract year, and if I can’t play in the playoffs … it could hurt my chances of getting signed again. I’m also not the league’s favorite player right now. For political reasons. Not because I’m a shitty player.”

Man cocked one brow at me. “What political reasons?”

Grateful that we were finally talking, I spilled my guts. From everything going on with Damon, Henderson, the podcasts, my family—all of it. It felt good to get it all off my chest while keeping my hands busy and creating something beautiful.

Man didn’t really say anything as I blathered on. There were head bobs and the odd grunt, but otherwise, he kept his lips zipped.

I heaved a deep sigh. “And that’s that.”

He remained quiet as he set down his tools and reached for a fresh sheet of sandpaper.

He tore it into two pieces and handed me one.

I set down my tools as well and followed his lead, smoothing out the spoon.

“We left India because we have four daughters,” he finally said.

“Four wonderful, smart, funny, creative daughters, and I hated the things I would hear from family and friends every time my wife would give birth and we would find out it was another girl. I was overjoyed. In love with each one more than words could ever express. My heart bursting. But everyone else felt bad for me. That I ‘didn’t get my son.’” He made air quotes.

“We were blessed with four healthy pregnancies, and four healthy children. What else mattered? My wife received so much pressure from family to give me a son. But she was done having children and called selfish because she ‘wouldn’t give me a son.’”

We switched the grit level of our sandpaper to something finer, and continued.

“While there are more opportunities for women in India than there were twenty, thirty years ago, it still has a long way to go. Boys can do no wrong. Girls can only do wrong. And the level of misogyny and sexism … how terrible some families treat their daughters, and daughters-in-law …” He met my eyes.

“And the rampant sexual assault …” Shaking his head, he pulled in a deep breath.

“Padma and I knew we needed to raise our girls somewhere safer. Somewhere that had similar values to us. And since we were both doctors, it was easy enough to get working visas and move our family here. We tried for Canada, but we were both offered positions at the hospital in Santa Barbara. So we moved to the States.”

“That had to be scary, moving to a completely new country.”

He frowned. “A little. We had more hope than fear though.” A sparkle entered his eyes, and he smiled.

“Our girls thrived. They could be what they wanted. Who they wanted. We never applied pressure. Not about academics or sports. Just support. Padma was very firm on that. But all of our girls are so successful. Nisha is an obstetrician in Seattle, Anika is a lawyer in Los Angeles, Pihu is in finance in New York, and little Durga is a kindergarten teacher in San Diego. They are all happy, some are starting families, and others are blessing me with endless pictures of their ‘fur babies,’ as they call them.”

I wasn’t expecting the rush of emotion, but the back of my throat grew tight and the corners of my eyes burned.

I could just feel, not to mention see, the level of pride and love Man had for his daughters.

Not to mention, how thoroughly glad he was that he and Padma had moved their family here to give them the opportunities they had.

“You’re an amazing father, Man.”

His spoon looked sufficiently buffed, so he set down the sandpaper and reached for a small bottle with clear liquid.

The label said it was “mineral oil.” Squirting a little bit into his hand, he started to rub it over the spoon.

“You do that podcast. Alice is right. Target the parents who created these Little Emperors. These Little Princes. Teach them to hold their sons accountable.”

“If I do it, will you come on as a guest?” I set down my sandpaper, happy with how smooth I managed to get the wood, and he squirted a little bit of the mineral oil into the hollow of the spoon.

“Will you come back and visit me again?”

Well, I wasn’t expecting him to say that.

“I would love to come back and visit you. I wasn’t sure you liked me at first. You’re a tough dude to read.”

He grunted and showed me how to rub the oil into the butternut. “I’ll come on your podcast.”

My grin hurt my face. Not only did I have a new spoon, but I had a new friend, my first guest on my podcast, and new hope for the next generation. Today was shaping up to be a good day.

Would it continue to be a good day?

Was Gabrielle thinking about me? About us?

I glanced at Man who was hunched over and using a small dustpan and hand broom to sweep up our shavings. “Hey, Man?”

“Hmm?”

“How’d you woo Padma?”

That familiar twinkle entered his eyes. “It was an arranged marriage, but if you want to stay for lunch, I can tell you how I made her fall madly in love with me.”

Yeah, today was shaping up to be a great day.