Page 36

Chapter 36

Nat

The morning of the tournament dawns grey and ominous.

I rarely bother to check the forecast; it’s almost a guarantee there’ll be some type of snow, in addition to the cold. But today, I can’t help but stare at the screen of my phone as I lie in bed.

Naturally, they’re calling for a storm.

Doesn’t matter, though. I throw off the covers, climb from bed. Today’s not a repoing day; I already agreed to Zam duty from start until close.

Not sure if I’ll regret that. On the one hand, I’ve got an excuse for not making an appearance on the ice. On the other hand, I’ll be at the rink all fucking day. Wouldn’t be hard for Charlie or Olli or even Syd to find me, convince me to get out there.

It’s early enough the aforementioned teenager isn’t up yet, but late enough the sun’s already crested the horizon. What little of it will deign to make an appearance, anyway.

I should make breakfast, get the day started, but a restless energy churns the blood in my veins to froth.

So I head to the gym, try to burn some of it off.

Doesn’t help.

The memories keep resurfacing, peppering their way through the veil of reality to haunt my waking life .

Arms wrapped around me, holding me back. Refs yelling. My vision tunnelled in on a fallen body. The roar of the crowd a muted fuzz outside my head, like waves crashing against a distant shore.

I was a mess that night, out of my head on coke and booze. I knew it was stupid, so fucking stupid—or maybe it’s just now that I know, and that colors my understanding of the past.

Just like I know now that I never truly believed in myself—and that is what destroyed my dream.

Back in my kitchen, I’m a mess of nerves, of muscles that should be soft and tired instead of tightened to a painful clench. My mind races, trips over the same dark thoughts like a pinball.

The memories.

The stakes.

The idea of facing my own brother at that tournament.

I can’t sit still, so I pace. Back and forth, back and forth, across the kitchen, into the living room, down the hall to my bedroom, pace.

I’m going to wake Sydney.

So I force myself into the kitchen for breakfast.

I peer into the refrigerator. We’re running low—and I still haven’t bought Syd’s yogurt—but there’s plenty of eggs and cheese and bread.

While my omelet bubbles cheerfully in the pan, I perch at the kitchen island with a cup of black coffee. Down the hall, a door snicks open. Soft footsteps pad across the hall to the bathroom, and the door clicks closed.

Well, she’s awake.

I get up to flip the eggs, sit. Almost wish I had social media so I could see what people are saying about the tourney, about Jess. But I don’t, so I stare at my hands instead. My hands—inked in black letters, bruised and scarred, still scabbed from the remnants of my last fight.

The same hands I’ve always had, aside from the ink. These hands have served me through so many hard years—hockey, broken dreams, janitorial services, repoing, Zamboniing .

These same hands have won almost every fight I’ve ever fought. They’ll win me another one tonight, should I choose to stand in front of that crowd. Skate. Play. Fight. Win.

Those same hands now clench tight into fists.

Do I want to be that person, the broken, scared, confused, angry kid I was then? Do I want to go back to that? To the selfish little boy I was, pursuing dreams I never truly believed I could have? Dreams make us—and just as easily break us. Turn us into monsters, into the very demons from which we run.

Just look at Jess. At young me.

Do I want to be that boy when I’ve worked so hard to be this man, the father Syd needs?

That’s why the crowd loves you—because they see themselves in you.

But maybe that’s not who I want to be. Day River is a broken town, one that’s always owned me, held me prisoner of its ice and cold and heartbreak. But I’ve always wanted more, if not for myself, then for Syd.

The smell of something burning jerks me viciously back to reality. “Shit!”

I race around the island, but luckily it’s the toast and not the eggs giving off warning smells. The eggs are close behind, though.

I turn off the stove, slide the eggs onto plates. One I devour in a few quick minutes, standing beside the stove. Too anxious to sit, or even to taste what I’ve cooked.

The second . . .

“Syd?” I rap my ugly knuckles against her door. “I know you’re up.”

No answer.

I jiggle the doorknob, but unsurprisingly, she’s locked it. Irritation thrums under my skin—I’ve asked her not to do that. “Sydney.”

My knuckles rap the wood again, harder this time, so she knows I’m serious. “C’mon, Syd. I know how to pick a lock.”

“Course you do,” she snorts, low enough I don’t think I was meant to hear it. When she lifts her voice, it further affirms my suspicions. “I’m doing homework. Leave me alone. ”

Homework at nine in the morning on a Saturday. Right. “I have breakfast.”

“Not hungry.”

“Syd.” I sigh, tilt a shoulder against the doorframe. “I know you’re still mad at me. Can we talk about it?”

“No.”

“Can we talk later?” I stare down at the plate in my hand. “After work, maybe?”

“Sure. Yeah. Whatever.”

Love that answer. I hold in the groan building in my chest—and the desire to throw the plate on the floor so I have both hands available for breaking down her door. “Sydney.”

Without warning, the door whips open, and there stands Syd. In sweatpants and an oversized Day River High hoodie, her hair drawn into a rumpled bun atop her head—her face drawn in hard, angry lines.

“You wanna talk?” she snarls, the vehemence in her voice almost making me draw back. “Fine. Let’s talk. I had a big opportunity, and you took it away from me. You always say you want me to do better and get out and blah blah blah bullshit, but when I actually try to do it, you throw it in my face and treat me like a kid. Why? ’Cause what, you’re jealous of your brother?”

The words land like physical hits. My fingers grip the plate too tight, and all I can do is stare . I don’t even know if I’m breathing through the shock.

“You ever think maybe it’s time to let the fuck go and move the fuck on ?” Sydney growls, still glaring, and I have no words, nothing to say, nothing to rebut anything she’s just said. “You’re so scared of the past, you’re going to ruin my future. Fuck you.”

She slams the door in my face.

It’s only after, with her words echoing in my head and that wall of white in front of me that I realize my hands are shaking. I don’t even know if I’m angry or wounded or bitter or chastised, but there’s nothing I can say or do that wouldn’t end badly .

“Eggs will be on the counter,” I murmur, and I march back into the kitchen. Throw the plate on the countertop without stopping. Don’t stop as I snatch up my coat and keys.

Simply head right through the door before I break something I’ll regret later.

I try to lose myself in work.

Not that there’s much work to be lost in at a failing rink on a Saturday morning, but I do my best. The Dingoes don’t have practice this morning—thanks to the evening tourney—and the high school’s been cancelled today as well.

Again, thanks to the Ice Out.

I cut the ice for a men’s league. Clean out locker rooms, mop. Cut the ice for a group of figure skaters. Start wiping down surfaces in the break room and Zam room. Cut the ice for open skate.

That offers some distraction, as a wash of people flood the rink—children as young as two or three, older kids, teens, adults—everyone looking to get on the ice ahead of the big event.

I don’t think I’ve seen this many people for an open skate in years. Maybe ever.

Shit.

I tilt my forehead against the glass. Breathe in the cold air, watch those whirling skaters. This is because of Olli. Because of Syd . Hell, it’s even because of Jesse. And here I am . . . trying to stop them, even as I tell myself I want to save this rink.

Syd says I’m scared of the past—but the reality is, I’m stuck in it.

And I’m keeping everyone around me stuck in it too. Holding everyone back because I’m afraid to move forward. Afraid to upset the delicate balance I’ve struck with my world .

So . . . what do I do? Skate in this fucking tournament? Let the world see me for what I truly am—just like Olli said? Let Syd see me? And Avery, Olli, all the people who now know me as this grumpy, taciturn has-been?

I sigh, my breath fogging the glass.

I don’t know. I really don’t.

So I watch the skaters. Watch the adults laugh as they struggle to stay on their feet—their years of childhood debauchery on the ponds clearly left in the past—the kids whizzing around, racing and chasing each other. Watch the toddlers sit and eat snow off their mittens.

I smile, remembering how Syd used to do that. I put her on the ice as soon as she could walk, and she never wanted to get off. So I signed her up for league after league, took her to early morning practices and late night games. Brought her to the ponds, to open skates, stick and puck, open hockey.

Anything for my baby girl.

I watched her grow, watched her blossom, watched her learn to love the game as I once had. Loved that she loved it, loved that she had what I couldn’t. But it was always different for her, wasn’t it? When you’re a five-foot female, even surrounded by boys you know you can beat, it’s different.

Syd’s dream has always been different from mine.

Just like it is now.

So why do I care so much about this tournament? About Jess?

I turn away from the glass, head to the Zam to cut the ice as the skate draws to a close. The machine hums to life beneath me, dark and comforting, a low rumble that’s accompanied me through many years of cold mornings and black nights.

There’s still four hours before the tournament starts, but with nothing else scheduled in between, this is the last cut before the big showdown. Dingoes players will start arriving soon. And I’m sure Olli will be the first through that door. If he’s not already here.

As if on cue, my phone chimes with a text, and I look down .

Olli: Ready, Mouse?

My stomach churns at the sight of his name, but I’m not sure why.

I’d be pissed if a stranger who used to be my brother took my kid. But if he knew how I’d dragged Syd away from Jesse, away from her future, would he still have supported me?

I shove my phone back into my pocket and grab the shovel to scrape off the excess snow. I’ll head to the back room after, stay sequestered while the players arrive and I decide whether I’m skating.

I’m just hauling off the last of the ice when my phone buzzes. Ringing.

I freeze. Wouldn’t be JB, because he knows I’m working today. Brenda does too. Syd’s mad, Avery’s never called, Olli . . .

I rip my phone from my pocket.

Syd’s name flashes, and my stomach drops faster than a rocket in freefall, like gravity’s suddenly wrapped its cold fingers around my insides.

“Syd.” My voice is a croak as I jam the earpiece against my cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“Dad.” Her voice shakes. I can’t tell if it’s fear or anger or injury, but there’s so much emotion laced through that one word, my entire body goes cold as ice. “Dad, I—”

She chokes on a sob.

“Sydney.” I’m already heading for the door. Doesn’t matter that I’m at work, that the tournament is coming, that Olli will be here soon, that I haven’t decided—everything else fades to fucking black. “Syd. Talk to me.”

I race out back into the staff parking lot.

“Dad—it’s Avery.” The words come out in a high-pitched, panicked tremble. “He won’t let me take him to a hospital.”

I wrench open the door to the Lexus. “Tell me where you are.”