Page 25

I got the impression that most of the adults were parents and not paid caregivers. It would have been nice to have Lars here when I wasn’t mad at him, but until then, I was determined to enjoy the sight of Mabel wriggling about on the large Turkish rug with several other kids her age.

A heavily pregnant Miss Emmy led the group in a rousing rendition of Row Row Row Your Boat on a lovely Epiphone Masterbilt Texan guitar. The older kids joined in while the wigglers crawled, planked, and rolled their way through it.

“Now isn’t she the cutest,” the woman next to me said after the song had ended. “What’s her name?”

“This tiny dancer is Mabel.”

A crawling Mabel thrust out her hand at the mention of her name, which caused her to lose her balance and fall on the side of her face.

Before I could intervene, she’d repositioned her palm on the rug for support and resumed her headbutting attack on a nearby child. A future hockey player, for sure.

“She’s a clever girl,” my neighbor observed. “Already knows the charmers.”

I assumed she was referring to the Little Lord Fauntleroy lookalike, currently absorbing Mabel’s assault with a solemn grace beyond his months. “Is he yours?”

The woman smiled proudly. “Yes, that’s Tristan. Which preschool is yours signed up for?”

“Oh, none yet.” Tilly had just started at Goddard in Riverbrook, and now that I thought of it, Mom and Dad had signed her up as soon as she was born.

Another thing I should tell Lars, though it was hard to plan that far ahead when the mother’s whereabouts were a mystery. “We’re keeping our options open.”

The woman regarded me with a suspicious smile before scooping up her little princeling. Best not to contaminate him with Mabel’s sorry lack of ambition.

Miss Emmy launched into The Wheels on the Bus , while my mind strayed to that kiss and Lars’s reaction.

He was right. Nothing could happen between us. But to have him tell me I was a sweet toxin that he needed to work out of his system through exercise, that I was bad for his mental health—I was all for honesty but sometimes there was too honest.

I took out my phone and sent a text.

If Lars was so determined to work me out of his system, then I needed to do the same.

It wasn’t until I witnessed Lars at the Kershaw dinner table that I finally understood how embedded he’d become in my family’s life.

It could have been the glow attached to Mabel that had everyone in a good mood, but there was more to it.

Aurora presented him with a martini before anyone else, the infamous Scandi Noir.

My mom made sure he had a serving of chicken parm larger than Wisconsin, even bigger than the one she gave her husband.

Meanwhile, Dad and Lars were deep in a discussion about some prank Peyton Bell had pulled on one of the other rookies (a jock strap took a starring role) and my dad had spent the entire time chuckling away at Lars’s minimalist, dry commentary. Another uber-fan.

Even Tilly loved him. She insisted she sit on Duckman’s lap after dinner, a vacant spot because Mabel was spending all her time being shuttled between Aurora, my mom, and my dad.

(My father’s comment that maybe he and Mom should give parenthood another shot, get it right this time, earned an apt glare from the woman herself.)

The only person who wasn’t fully on board the Lars Fanclub Train was Hatch. My brother was friendly enough, but he also spent most of dinner watching me to see if I was watching Lars. After narrowing my eyes at him for the third time, he finally shrugged and gave up the surveillance.

Don’t worry, bro. Lars Nyquist is no longer on my radar.

What a relief to be free of it. Seeing Lars so close to everyone, especially my dad, reminded me of the bullet I’d dodged.

If something more than a kiss had happened between us, there would be hell to pay.

My father might be the best man I know, but he would go ballistic if he knew I’d messed around with a teammate and friend.

The moment of madness had passed. Hooray for sanity!

After dinner, Tilly abandoned her new fave and found me.

“I want a song!”

“You do? Well, maybe H-man can sing for you.”

Tilly shook her head in disgust. “Hatch is a terrrrrible singer!”

Hatch grinned. “She’s got my number.”

My guitar appeared courtesy of my father. It looked a little different. Shinier.

“You got it restrung for me?”

“Sure I did. Oiled, too. You’ve been so busy, stepping up and helping us all out.” He meant Lars, and I didn’t dare look in his direction. “This is the least I could do.”

“Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it.”

Hatch scooped up a giggling Tilly and set her in his lap on the sofa beside me. “What song do you want, Tilly-Billy?” he asked.

Don’t say it. “Duckman!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lars turn his head. The faint scent of linseed oil, used to condition the guitar, tickled my nostrils.

“I only have one verse for that one.”

“You wrote a song about Lars?” Aurora asked, eying me over her martini glass. Hatch was staring, too, so I busied myself with finding a guitar pick in my pocket.

“Just a throwaway ditty. A couple of lines because Tilly is so obsessed.” Unable to avoid him any longer, I made a face at Lars to make it clear the obsession was Tilly’s and Tilly’s alone.

His raspy chuckle poured water and sunlight on the withering roots of my crush.

“I want the Duckman song!”

“Okay, you got it.” Tilly lay her head against Hatch’s chest, waiting patiently for me to start. “Remember it’s the Twinkle Twinkle Little Star tune.”

I strummed a C chord, enjoying the resonant sound produced by the new strings.

“Duckman, Duckman, on the ice … Skating faster than the … mice.” Everyone chuckled at that.

“With your silly beard so …”

“Thick,” Tilly chimed in.

“How you move about so …”

My clever girl had no problem recalling the rhyme. “Quick!”

I didn’t dare look at Lars, lest he think songs about his beard and speed might be further evidence of my why-won’t-you-die-already crush.

“Duckmaaaan …”

I strummed and waited until Tilly joined in, “Duckmaaaan!”

“On the ice,” I continued. “Skating faster than the …”

I sustained that final C chord, until Tilly and the rest of the room yelled, “Mice!”

We all exploded in laughter, but of course I was interested in only one person’s reaction.

Which was why I avoided looking at him and instead launched into a song about Eggsbee’s farts.