Page 12 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

ERIC

As much as I want to follow Rhett into the library the next morning, I don’t even shift my truck into park as we pull up to the curb.

What the hell is wrong with me that a morning at the library feels like getting tickets to the Stanley Cup finals when it means spending time with Taylor? That’s fucking pathetic.

I can't explain the strange effect she has on me but also won’t deny it.

Even if I hadn’t promised my sister no dating while Rhett is in my care, soft-spoken librarians with big innocent eyes aren’t my type.

No matter how much my hands itch to touch her delectable curves.

Based on the fact that the guy she's lusting after is a slack-jawed tool, I'm not her type either. And I don’t want something quick and dirty with her, or any woman for that matter.

Rhett isn’t nearly as hyped about his morning plans or the fact that I’m making him face children’s hour on his own. “I don’t want to read to a bunch of dumb kids,” he announces as he opens the passenger door, as if his slouchy shoulders and non-stop sighing hasn’t made that clear.

“You’re going to help Ms. Maxwell in whatever way she needs you to,” I remind him .

“She told me to call her Taylor.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “What are you gonna do this morning?”

I wink. “I’m gonna get a donut then head to the rink and check out the hockey team.”

“Bruh,” he says, dragging out the syllable.

It’s amazing how many ways he can wield that one word. “Bruh” when he’s happy with me and a longer “bruuuuh” when he’s angry. Sometimes he throws in a well-timed “dude” to mix things up. But teenage boys have their own language, and I’m becoming weirdly fluent in it.

“Maybe two donuts,” I add just for the fun of it.

“Dude.” He huffs out a sullen breath. “This sucks so bad.”

Sucks is another favorite.

“Sucks to be you,” I agree conversationally. You won’t find that comeback in any parenting manuals, but it works for me. “Think about this moment the next time you want to pop off and hurl a book—or anything else—at someone.”

Rhett groans. “I didn’t mean to hit her.”

“You meant to scare Mr. Connor.” I hold up a hand when he starts to argue. “I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, buddy. But you have to find a different way to deal with assholes. There are too many in the world to fight every one.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles, then slams the door and stomps toward the library. Wide stone steps lead up to the entrance, and I watch Rhett disappear behind a pair of heavy wooden doors adorned with black iron handles and hinges.

I bet Tinkerbell loves it here. It’s the kind of place I avoided like the plague when I was younger.

The exterior is a mix of faded red bricks and tall, arched windows, their panes slightly fogged with age.

Above the grand entrance, a carved stone plaque bears the year of its founding, 1906, and marks the building’s designation on the National Register of Historic Places.

My sister was a reader, at least until hormones took over and she found other ways to occupy her time. Would it have made a difference if we'd grown up in a community like this? Would they have rallied around us and our mother when things went off the rails?

Toby Maxwell partied like it was his major in college, but I know he never saw the things my sister and I did. His life was a damn fairy tale in comparison. Just having parents who set boundaries might have helped, but that’s all water under the bridge for Jen and me.

I want to believe it isn't too late for Rhett—or for my sister—to turn things around.

I grab a half dozen donuts from the local bakery and enjoy a chocolate frosted one on the short drive to the ice rink.

The corrugated metal building sits on the outskirts of town in an industrial area that doesn't have the charm of Skylark's main drag.

But it's still picturesque with the bright blue winter sky above and snow-covered peaks in the distance.

Growing up in Northern Minnesota near the Canadian border, I’m used to cold and snow, but the regular sunshine Colorado is known for makes a real difference. I like to think the beauty of it drew my sister here, but I’d bet money she followed a man to Denver.

Jen grew up believing in true love, even though we didn't see anything close to that at home. And she’s about as bad at picking guys as our mother was.

It killed me when she opened the door a few weeks ago and I realized how low my sister had been brought by life and her shitty choices. She was a shell of the sweet, sassy girl I love.

I brush aside the constant refrain of should-haves and regret from my mind as I grab my duffel bag from the back seat and head into the rink. I can't change the past, and the future isn't my problem yet. My best bet is to focus on the parts of life I can control.

Toby's invitation to stop by practice is exactly what I need. Nothing grounds me to the present moment more than the sound of skates cruising over fresh ice and the frosty rink air on my face.

I've been in a lot of skating rinks over the years.

They all smell the same, a unique mix of sweaty gear, musty air, and stale popcorn.

The locker room here isn't anything special, but it's functional.

There are close to two dozen boys of varying sizes whizzing around the rink.

Toby stands near the entrance to the ice in a dark gray hoodie and a maroon beanie with the letters SHS on the front—Skylark High School, I assume.

He blows a whistle as I approach, and the boys move in, eyeing me warily from under their helmets.

Toby introduces me and mentions that I’m a two-time All American and one of the best players in the German league. I smile at the resounding courses of appreciative murmurs, interspersed with a few respectful “bruhs”. Is there any emotion bruh can’t communicate?

“Eric’s going to be skating with you hooligans this morning,” Toby announces then pulls out his wallet. “I’ve got a crisp fifty for anyone who can get past him or win a board battle.”

I cough out a laugh. “Dude. Why not put a target on my back?”

“Cash is a better incentive,” he says, elbowing me in the ribs.

Turns out a target is just what I need to clear my head.

Hockey is my job, and I'm good at it—one of the best defensemen in the German league, maybe most of Europe, despite my advanced age of thirty four.

But being on the ice with these boys and their excitement, adrenaline, and, let's face it, the advantage of youth and living at altitude, gives me a run for my money.

By the end of the hour, I'm hot, sweaty, sore, and happy as hell.

Every player thanks me for coming out today, and half of them call me coach, which, I have to admit, warms the cockles in a way I didn't expect.

Toby's paid out only one crisp fifty to a tall, lanky kid named Hudson Kircher who skates like a dream and has enviable control of the puck for a high schooler. I pat Hudson on the shoulder as the boys exit the ice and head to the locker room.

“You want to play in college?” I ask him.. “Because you should.”

He shrugs. “I've got a couple of D2 offers, and I'm talking to some D1 programs, but I might head to Juniors after graduation.”

I see Toby's lips thin, and he gives me a pointed look.

This is a tough decision for an eighteen-year-old to make—whether to start his professional career now and have a chance of getting pulled up to the big show, or head to college and potentially miss out on becoming the star he dreams of being.

There isn't one hockey kid I know who wouldn't pop a chubby at the thought of someday lifting the Stanley Cup above his head in a ticker tape parade.

The reality is only a very few elite players make it to that level. Not that many even manage to get out of the minors.

I don't fully regret my decision to turn pro before graduation, but sometimes I wish I'd stuck it out. Especially now that my body has decided its days on the ice are numbered.

“I'm sure whatever you choose, you'll do great. A few years playing for a top-notch collegiate program is going to get you not only some quality ice time, but set you up for a future after hockey.”

Toby holds up a hand when the boy looks like he's going to argue. “There's always after hockey , Hudson, even if you can't see it now.”

“Yes, Coach,” the kid agrees and starts to walk past.

“Hey.” Toby stops him. “Coach Eric's nephew just transferred to Skylark. He's a freshman, and the film I’ve seen is impressive.”

I blink. Rhett has film? I can't imagine Jen coordinating that.

“He couldn't make it this morning, but any chance you could get about half a dozen guys back here at five? I want to take a look at him before we start conference play. ”

“Sure, Coach.”

“And keep an eye on him at school. Make sure he gets connected with the right guys.”

“Got it, Coach.” The kid pushes his mop of blonde hair out of his eyes and offers me a respectful nod. “I’ll take care of him.”

“I appreciate that, Hudson. Juniors might seem like the right decision now, but consider your options. You have the talent and maybe the drive, but it's a long road between here and making a living on the ice.”

“There’s always Europe. You’ve made a living there, right?” His blue eyes are so hopeful. I remember that kind of hope staring back at me in the mirror.

“Yeah, although I don't know for how much longer.” I lean in like I’m imparting some deep wisdom. “There’s always after hockey .”

“Yes, Coach. Got it.” With a Bieber-worthy hair toss, he moves away.

“That was awesome, man,” I tell Toby.

He gives me an assessing look. “Is the king of the puck bunnies really considering hanging up his skates?”

“Enough with the manwhore comments.” Irritation grates along my skin like sandpaper. “I swear to God, your sister looks at me like she could contract something just by standing too close.”