Page 22

20

LIAM

In ice hockey, pivoting is a basic move to quickly and strategically change direction without losing momentum. In other words, the player doesn’t have to stop to recalibrate.

But for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m running out of steam. Like I might need to break the boards and leave the rink.

Yesterday, Coach Badaszek had us run pivot drills, which made me feel ten years old. No, five years old. According to family lore, I was practically an infant when Dad strapped skates on me for the first time.

He played for Winnipeg after Germany. Hendrix plays for the Titans, another Canadian home team. I’m the family outlier.

My first memory of skating is when I was four—just a little older than the kid. These drills are juvenile, and I can’t stop thinking about them. Why did Coach waste valuable time when we could’ve been practicing advanced plays?

As captain, I should know the answer to that question.

Instead, my mind plays on a loop, like a record’s needle stuck in the groove.

Pivot , pivot, pivot .

Records make me think of Jessica mentioning she left her record collection behind when she left California, was it?

I suddenly need to know. What kinds of records did she listen to? Jazz? Classical? Vintage rock? Joni Mitchell?

I only know that name because my sister went through a brief phase in high school and listened to “Both Sides Now” on repeat.

When I enter the loft, the scent of baked goods wraps me in a hug. It’s almost, but not quite, like coming home to Jessica’s embrace.

I scrub my hand down my face. What has gotten into me?

Pivot , pivot, pivot .

My entire career, I’ve been heading in one trajectory: domination. Hall of Fame. Ultimate success with Stanley Cup wins. Yes. Plural. I’ve wanted to break every record.

Not vinyl records, but hockey stats, figures, and top achievements. I want to see my father beam with pride rather than that look he gave me the night that changed my life—multiple lives. I’ll never forget it as long as I live … because I know he’ll never forgive me for taking away someone’s opportunity to go big.

Now, here I am, blundering along as captain and generally failing as a father.

I spot a swirly Bundt cake on the counter and am about to help myself to a slice when the door flies open.

The kid toddles in behind Jessica who still holds the cake she’d intended for Mrs. Kirby. They both look rather forlorn. I am too, when it comes to dealing with my downstairs neighbor.

“She wasn’t there?” I ask.

Jessica lets out a sigh. “She didn’t want it. Said she’s allergic.”

“To what?”

Jessica shrugs. “Nuts? Kindness?”

“You don’t put nuts in your spiced Bundt, do you?”

“I told her that.” Jessica sets down the cake and leans against the counter.

Grannie Bell and Aunt Goldie would love her. That’s a good thing. No, a great thing. But not for me. I can’t let myself travel farther down this road because it’ll only take me away from my goal of being a hockey giant.

The kid takes off his shoes and plops down to play with his blocks. Looks like he’s building a reproduction of Cobbiton if the town’s founders had consumed too much corn cider.

Jessica lifts her gaze to mine, big brown eyes shining. “I meant it as an act of goodwill. Being neighborly.”

“Even though she accused you of being a harlot.”

Jessica gasps, then tilts her head. “Well, yeah.”

“Better than a witch bride.”

Her lips crinkle. “Is it?”

I nudge Jessica with my elbow. “Hey, don’t let Mrs. Kirby get you down. Who cares what she thinks.”

Eyes plaintive, she says, “The rejection stings.”

“Mrs. Kirby doesn’t trust us after the whole incident with Elizabeth.”

“The dog?”

“And lipstick.” I eye the kid who has exhibited much better behavior since Jessica entered our lives.

“Oof.”

“Shortly after that, our childcare arrangement came to an abrupt and sticky end.”

“I don’t want to know, but look at you, giving encouraging words.”

I snort. “Yeah, if I’d only been so successful at practice yesterday.”

Pivot , pivot, pivot .

I wring my hand on the back of my neck. “I’ve never, not in my entire career, dreaded the idea of going to practice.” I cannot believe I just said that out loud.

Jessica looks at me thoughtfully. “Any particular reason?”

“I know I’m not living up to expectations as team captain.”

“You could bake the guys a cake.”

I groan but reach for the Bundt she brought back.

Jessica says, “Keep your hands where I can see them. I’m bringing that to Grandma Dolly.”

“I thought she was away at an ASL conference.”

“She got back last night. We have an appointment this afternoon.”

“We do?” I mentally scan through the agenda she creates for me each day on colorful paper with bullet points and perfect penmanship. She often decorates them with stickers. I’d planned on hitting the gym in my spare time.

“KJ and I do, but you’re coming with. We’re going to help you start captaining like a captain.”

My brow lowers. “How do you recommend you’re going to do that? The kid doesn’t know how to tie his shoes. Are you even qualified? You don’t know a puck from a biscuit.”

“I don’t need to. It’s time for you to learn a new language.”

At that, Jessica, the kid, and I leave the deathtrap on wheels in my parking lot and spend the bulk of the rest of the day with Grandma Dolly, with me in the remedial ASL class, and my nanny and son winning gold stars for achievement.

By the time we conclude, half the Bundt cake is gone—Grandma Dolly recognized that I can be treat motivated—and I know ten new signs. She assured me that if I set a goal to learn a new one each day, or ten, or twenty, soon I’ll be fluent.

Not going to lie, the kid lights up when I talk to him with my hands. We have a breakthrough and for that reason, I take everyone out to Spaglietti’s for pizza.

When we return to Grandma Dolly’s house, she signs that she’s turning in for the night and will see us in the morning.

I pump the air. “Success. I understood.” Also, I had some context clues. But still. This is progress.

Jessica, the master of my schedule, turns to me with a questioning tilt to her head. “Ready for class number two?”

I check the kid’s seatbelt and crank the heat. “I asked Dolly to look after the kid for a few hours. Tomorrow you and I have an appointment. I’ll pick you up around ten—after my workout and dry land training.”

“See you then, boss.” She starts to walk away, hips swinging, but before she reaches the door, I call her back.

“Jessica, how did that help me start captaining like a captain?”

“You’re learning a new language, right?”

“The kid has a better vocabulary than me and he’s three.”

She twists her lips to one side as if reluctant to explain. “Since you didn’t figure it out on your own, I’ll give you a hint. Sometimes, in life, we get so used to doing things one way, we don’t realize there’s another. Like a scenic route rather than the most direct path. Or communicating with our hands rather than our mouths.”

My eyes lock on hers. That whooshing feeling races through me. My lips part, but no words come out.

Jessica grins as if pleased.

Pivot , pivot, pivot .

Maybe she’s right. The way I’ve been doing things isn’t the only way, especially when it comes to the team. Perhaps that’s Coach Badaszek’s lesson as well. He saw I was in a rut and instead of throwing me a rope, he made it deeper so I could see where I was at for myself.

Perhaps it’s time to change.

I sign Thanks and then pull away. My thoughts linger on the woman with the full, peachy lips, expressive eyes, and magnetic smile.

The next morning, since we went in my car to Dolly’s and Jessica left her hunk of junk on wheels at my place, it takes me almost five minutes to get the thing started. I wonder if the battery is dead and look in the trunk to see if she has jumper cables. Instead, I find the witch bride wedding gown she wore that first day we met.

Perhaps she has to say an incantation to get the engine to turn over.

The kid asks where we’re going and I want to tell him to see Jessica, but realize I don’t know how. I give him the one-minute signal and try turning the key again. Thankfully, this time the car starts, but it’s sketchy business getting to Silver Queen Street.

I’m at once frustrated by the ordeal and miffed that she tolerates this. The Knights must pay her a decent salary to work as a personal assistant, and now I’ve added to that for her taking on the role of nanny.

The whole thing is pretty fluid, I realize, because she was already spending a lot of time with the kid. She practically lives in the loft. I don’t mind much. The least I can do is provide her with safe and reliable transport.

Also, she’d look hot in a truck. Or a sports car. Even a sedan. A minivan?

I stop abruptly at a pregnant yellow light, wondering where that thought came from. I want to tell the kid we’re okay, but the words die on my tongue. He won’t understand me, anyway. Can he read lips or will he be able to like Dolly? Can he hear any sound at all?

All at once, the death grip I’d had on my life and the control I tried to assert by focusing on hockey to the exclusion of everything else hits me like a semi. Thankfully, not actually because we’re on Dolly’s quiet, residential street.

Jessica greets us at the door.

Panic building, I blurt, “We have to get the kid to a specialist. I have to research hearing assistance and find out what we can do for him.”

Meanwhile, unaware, he rushes into the cozy house and Dolly’s outstretched arms. She signs and he smiles with glee. Relief tries to wash through me but gets stuck somewhere between my head and chest.

As her eyebrows creep toward her hairline, Jessica pumps her hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down.”

“What have I been doing? I’m the worst father.”

Jessica sandwiches my hand in hers. “You’re not the worst father. I hope I didn’t overstep, but with Grandma Dolly’s help, I’ve been researching and using the resources we have to get him to the top specialists in the state, along with looking at childcare centers. I was just waiting to ask for your permission.”

I stagger back. “You did that?”

Old me would’ve been mad and felt undermined, but I want to scoop her into my arms and spin her around. I’ve never felt so—supported. But then the argument comes with its fists lifted. I’m a man, I don’t need support. Do I?

I have the sudden and stark realization that I’ve pushed away any and all help. That could be yet another reason Coach named me captain. He recognized my leadership capacity but knew that I’d only be as good as the team. I let out a long breath.

“Once we understand what we’re working with when it comes to KJ’s hearing, we’ll match him with a place he can go where they can help develop his communication skills while also being around his peers.”

“So you don’t want to be his nanny anymore?” It almost sounds like I said, Mommy . But I didn’t, only Jessica very much seems like one with the way she openly accepts him, nurtures him, loves him.

When she doesn’t respond, my nose twitches and my eyes prickle a bit. It’s windy today. Maybe she didn’t hear me. Throat scratchy and not sure what else to say, I figure we should head over to the car dealership.

“Do you still want to go?” More importantly, I think I realize just how much I want her to stay … with us.

She replies, “Sure.”

Holding the door open, I say a simple “Thanks,” I gesture goodbye to the kid and Dolly.

Jessica buttons her coat and pulls on her hat. “I see you brought Shy Eye Good Guy.”

“That’s the name of your car?”

With a little bounce in her step, she says, “Shy eye because the left headlight doesn’t work—I’ve even had it replaced, but it’s perpetually dark. Good Guy because I want to send it positive vibes.”

“That’s not how vehicles operate, but I can see why it doesn’t always want to cooperate.”

“I see you fine-tuned your meanness meter this morning.”

“I wasn’t being mean. Just honest. The kid and I are lucky we made it here alive.”

“That’s because you drive like a Formula One racer.”

“I do not.” I accelerate, smoking the tires.

Jessica looks at me with alarm.

“Hey, Shy Eye Good Guy has to live a little before he heads out to pasture.”

“Shh. He’ll hear you.” But she giggles and my heart does a funny little leap.

We cruise down Main Street as we leave Cobbiton and Jessica abruptly says, “Stop. I’m having a funding crisis.”

I’m about to explain that I’m buying her the car when she points at the Busy Bee Bakery.

“Ah. You need coffee. Didn’t sleep well last night? Browsing social media? Scrolling #MrDarcysAbs, perchance?” I tease.

“Pfft. You wish.”

Is it weird that I kind of do?

The on-street parking directly in front of the coffee shop is occupied, so I spin around the block and start to maneuver the Nissan into a parallel parking spot. My hand grips the back of Jessica’s headrest as I look over my shoulder.

I become keenly aware of our proximity. Could be because the saggy felt roof lining brushes the top of my head. I slide skillfully into the slot.

“You could just use the camera on the dash.” She points to the radio.

This car was built before that kind of technology was a twinkle in a computer programmer’s eye. I don’t take mine off Miss Sunny Sassy Pants. My arm is practically around her shoulders. I could pull her across the bench seat and into me. Then what?

The look turns into a moment that lengthens between us, twists and changes shape. My breath turns shallow and everything falls out of focus except Jessica. Her gaze warms me, silences my thoughts.

Her cheeks flood with color.

I lick my lips.

She whispers, “I need coffee.”

Like a rubber band, the moment snaps and then goes slack.

While we’re in line at the bakery, I stretch my arms, wondering if I could get away with lacing one over her shoulders now. What would she do? Collapse under the weight? Toss it off, shrieking that I’m manhandling her? Or sink into it?

Hold up, bro. Why am I thinking about this?

The thought resurfaces while we’re waiting to test-drive several vehicles. Jessica insists on getting another Nissan compact.

When she gets the keys, I literally have to shoehorn my way into the backseat. Head hitting the ceiling and neck cramping, the saleswoman on the passenger side raves about the gas economy.

“I love it,” Jessica says when we return to the dealership.

“No,” I say, stretching again and loosening my neck.

“Okay. I understand. He changed his mind. I can still get some miles out of Shy Eye.” She smiles at her car, homely compared to the other shiny vehicles on the lot.

Bypassing the suggestions the saleswoman made for a replacement, I stride over to the luxury section, including Nissan’s Infiniti model SUVs.

Pointing, I say, “I was thinking of something more like this.”

She tries to argue, but the saleswoman, seeing a better commission, goes all in, convincing her it’s one of their top-rated options.

Jessica finally relents and declares, “Well, the blue-gray color of this one does match Liam’s eyes.”

I roll mine.

While we wait at the finance desk for the loan officer to return from his lunch break, I rock back in the chair and drape my arm over the back of hers.

She doesn’t move a muscle.

Perhaps she doesn’t notice.

However, we both startle when Larry Hamilton enters the room.

“The one. The only! It’s Liam Ellis! It’s lovely to meet you as well, Mrs. Ellis.” We both try to correct him but the man plows on. “I cannot tell you what a pleasure and honor it is to do business with you today. I’m a big fan. Huge. Go, Knights!”

When I’m finally able to get a word in, I tell Larry, “Despite car shopping seeming very domestic, we’re not?—”

He’s already moved on to trade-in value and percentage points.

Jessica and I are not a couple, but do I want to be?