Page 37

37

Jeremiah Blake

“Is the little man home yet?”

I’m slightly out of breath, courtesy of my hurry to get here. I only fell into a deep sleep in the early hours of the morning and had a hard time waking up, so I’m at Ben’s later than usual, and I’m worried I’ve missed Luca’s arrival.

“Not yet. Amy texted to say they’d be here in a few minutes.”

No sooner has he uttered the words than Amy’s SUV comes hunkering around the bend, slowing as it turns onto Thickwood Drive.

Ben’s on his feet right away and Luca is nothing more than a streak of blurred color as he makes his way out of the vehicle and throws himself into Ben’s arms. As soon as he gets to him, he leaps up and wraps his arms and legs around him like a monkey. Ben’s eyes close as he cradles his son to his chest, enveloping him in strong arms and big hands. “Missed you,” he whispers. “Missed you so much.”

Luca clings to him tightly for a few seconds and then spots me on the swing.

“Dad!” he exclaims. “Put me down. I’m big.”

Ben chuckles and sets him down on his feet.

Luca hotfoots it over to me and, after a quick hug, says, “Are you coming with us to the rink, Jelly?”

“Yeah,” says Ben, “you should come, Jelly. Camp starts next week, but the organizers said we could come by today to check out the facility and get some ice time.”

“O-okay,” I say.

I mean, sure. Why not. I love hockey. I’ve been to a game, and I had a great time. I’d love to see the facility.

“I’ll get the gear you need,” says Ben, looking down at my feet. “My skates won’t fit you, but we can rent some for you.”

Wait. What now?

I follow at pace as Ben heads upstairs and begins sorting through various boxes in one of the guest rooms.

“Um, excuse me, Ben, just checking what you meant by getting gear for me because I already have a Blackeyes cap, a scarf, and one of those big hand things, so I think I’m all set.”

Ben straightens, a hockey jersey in one hand and ominous-looking safety equipment in the other. Best I can tell, they’re the pads hockey players put on their knees or elbows to stop them from skinning themselves when they fall.

“You can skate, right?” he asks.

“Of course.” I shake my head as though it’s a ridiculous question. “I mean, I haven’t skated for, um, about ten years, but—”

“Perfect,” says Ben. “It’s like riding a bike.”

I watch as he pulls out more and more safety equipment. He moves quickly, with a strong air of I know what I’m doing .

That makes one of us.

He stacks a whole lot of things into a neat pile. Seriously, there are so many things. Gloves. A neck guard. Shin pads, shoulder pads, a chest protector.

He’s saying things like, “This goes under that, and that goes over this.”

A lot of what he’s saying doesn’t make total sense because, despite the complete insanity of it, he and Luca both seem under the impression I’m going to be playing hockey with them. On ice. With sticks and pucks flying at my head.

“Found it,” he says triumphantly as he pulls a helmet out of a box.

When he and Luca go to their rooms to get ready, I’m left with no option but to put all this shit on. Ben’s a pro-fucking-fessional hockey player. A legend. One of the best, most brutal players in history. And Luca is six and thus a loose cannon. I don’t have a death wish, so I need all the safety equipment I can get my hands on.

They’re waiting for me downstairs by the time I’ve worked out where everything goes. I can barely move. Most of my joints feel restricted, and I take up at least twice the usual amount of space as I waddle down the stairs. I think I might have the knee pads on the wrong way around because they’re extremely tight under my knee and a little loose on my thigh, but all things considered, it could be worse.

At least I look cute in Ben’s jersey.

Ben’s mouth drops fractionally when he sees me. “Oh. You’re dressed already.”

He and Luca are still in their plain clothes, and Ben is toting a large, very full duffel on his shoulder.

“We usually get changed at the rink,” Luca explains helpfully.

Once Luca is in his booster seat, strapped in securely, he stretches a little hand in my direction, attempting to pull me into the car while Ben simultaneously shoves me in from behind. The decision has been made for me to sit in the back seat with Luca on account of the fact I can’t fit into the front with all this shit on.

When we get to the rink, Ben and Luca head to the locker room while I attempt to find my skating legs. I’m wobbly as fuck, but to my amazement, I find Ben’s right. It is like riding a bike, especially if you are the kind of person who was never very good at riding a bike in the first place.

Luca’s mood can only be described as jubilant when he hits the ice. The words duck and water come to mind instantly. There’s no hesitation in him, no pause, no consideration for things like staying alive, only breakneck speed.

I watch, heart in throat, as I wait for Ben to tell him to slow down. He doesn’t. To my surprise, Ben doesn’t seem to think the fact that Luca is dashing left and right, whipping around the entire rink in the time it takes me to get one-third of the way, is of any concern. Instead, he’s calmly getting ready to hit the ice.

His stick is propped against the bench and his helmet is tucked under one arm. His water bottle is in his other hand. He tilts his head back, eyes on me, as he raises the bottle to his lips. He squeezes it hard. My insides squeeze too. Water leaves the nozzle in a steady, high-pressure stream, entering Ben’s body without touching his lips.

I have my helmet on, strap pulled as tight as I could get it, and I’m so grateful I have the stick Ben lent me in my hands. It’s coming in super handy as a makeshift walker.

Ben sets his bottle down and puts his helmet on in an offhand, unconscious way. The way you do things you’ve done thousands of times, so many times, you don’t need to think about it.

It’s hot.

When he pushes off, the air around him changes. Hot and cold collide. Water vapor forms and solidifies. Tiny glittering crystals swirl in broad streaks behind him. He looks like a mythical creature somehow generating its own wind. And honestly, I take back everything I said before about hockey uniforms. The baggy shorts are just fine. The jersey is fine. The long socks are fine.

Ben’s fine.

Ben’s fine as fuck.

I blink hard and try to shake it off. I need to get my head in the game—and there’s something I never thought I’d hear myself think.

Ben swoops past me with an easy agility that makes my stomach swoop too. Luca hits the puck to him a little harder than I think is necessary, and Ben stops it dead. He does it like it’s easy. Like the stick is part of him. He skates two paces, puck glued to his stick, and then taps it very, very softly to me. By some miracle, I manage to stop it, control it, and hit it back to Ben without falling over.

It’s a relief mingled with abject fear as I can tell I still have a lot of time on the ice to survive before these people will take me home.

I’m concentrating so hard that it takes me a second to notice the hush that’s befallen the arena. A blanket of reverent silence cloaks the stands, broken only by the odd cry of, “I-is that Ben Stirling? ”

Bystanders come to a stop. Parents who were watching their kids gather closer. Staff stop what they’re doing and move to the boards. For his part, Ben gives an easy wave to acknowledge the attention, then skates to the center of the rink with Luca and me in tow.

I find myself in the last position I could ever have imagined finding myself in, and I’m kind of an imagination guy, so I’ve spent a lifetime picturing myself in unlikely positions. Still, even in my wildest dreams, I’ve never had the gall to insert myself into such a scene.

Ben, that’s Ben Stirling, my beautiful, famous ex-hockey player neighbor, who happens to be the hottest—unconfirmed but possibly bisexual—man I’ve ever laid eyes on, comes to a sudden stop in front of me. Fine shards of ice fly into the air from the movement.

Ben grins at me and widens his stance. I do the same, losing my balance slightly as I crouch.

Ben’s face looks different framed by his helmet. With less hair visible, I’m forced to focus more on his eyes, and I’m not sure that’s something that will prove conducive to good hockey. They’re bright and focused but not narrowed. They’re more alive than I’ve ever seen them, including all the nights I’ve watched him on my TV screen. There’s a lightness in them. A mirth that makes me draw a sharp breath even though, technically, I’m supposed to be breathing out.

I splutter and give a dry cough.

“Are you going to drop the puck for us, buddy?” Ben asks Luca.

“Okay.” Luca nods with grim resolve. He looks at Ben and then he looks at me. “But don’t hit him hard, Dad. He can’t handle it.”

“Ex cu se you!” I exclaim.

Ben’s laughter is a soft, warm thing that sinks to the ice, liquefying, before entering my body through the blades on my skates.

I drop my gaze to the center dot. I’m ridiculously nervous. There are people watching us, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Add to that, I can feel Ben looking at me. He’s not looking at me the way he looks at opposing players on TV. He’s laughing softly, and there’s no menace in him. No hint of anything threatening.

I can’t tell if I’m about to faint or combust.

Luca drops the puck gingerly, all but placing it on the hook of my stick and giving it a little nudge in my direction for good measure.

My reactions are fire. I swing my stick like a cat. Like lightning.

It’s neither here nor there. Ben slams into me, snatching the puck and sending it careening toward goal—and by “slams into me,” I mean he barely touches me but knocks me over all the same. My skates fly out from under me. I see a slab of pure white, a flash of boards, and a vast field of spotlights and cables above me.

I slam my eyes shut and brace for impact.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, I’m weightless. Spinning through the air. Tumbled and turned. Roughed up and rolled over.

My fall is broken by a big, beautiful brute of a man. He’s flat on his back on the ice, body stretched out under mine. I’ve been snatched out of the air and saved in a single fluid movement.

His arms surround me, and he’s still laughing when I land.

“Th-thanks,” I splutter.

“Did you think I’d let you fall?” he whispers, face inches from mine.

My entire body erupts in heat.

“I told you to take it easy on him, Dad,” Luca scolds as Ben helps me up.

We play for ten or fifteen minutes, and by that, I mean Luca and Ben tear the ice up, and I try my best to keep up with them. They’re so sweet to me though. Both of them severely limit their pace, power, and skill to make me feel better. They include me the whole time, tapping the puck to me ever so softly and praising me to the hilt when I return it without falling over.

To my surprise, I enjoy it, playing hockey that is, and that’s something else I never thought I’d hear myself think. It’s a lot more fun than I thought it would be, and not just because of how Ben looks on the ice. Not because of the way he’s breathing, or the way his hair is peeking out and curling up under his helmet when he moves. Not even because he smells like the grit, the pulp, of masculinity if it was somehow extracted and pressed through a sieve.

It’s fun because I’m with Ben and Luca.

When my legs turn to jelly, I head to the bench. Ben follows closely, no doubt to keep me from accidentally falling to my death at the last minute. Once I’m settled, he skates over to the gathered crowd and asks if any of the kids want to play with him. There are screams of delight and a tiny stampede as he’s taken up on the offer.

I expect it to be chaos. There are overexcited kids all around him, but it isn’t. He calms them with quiet words I can’t hear from here. In a matter of minutes, he has them set up at different stations, each working on a different drill or skill. He moves from group to group, praising where praise is earned and offering advice where needed. Parents watch, rapt, eyes damp and hands clenched to their chests. One mother sobs quietly and whispers, “Sammie’s playing with Ben Stirling,” as she dabs a balled-up tissue to the corners of her eyes.

I wish I had it in me to judge her. I really do. But I don’t. Ben is amazing with kids. He’s amazing with people in general. He has so much leadership in him it literally oozes out of his pores.

When he’s worked his way around the group and spent time with each child, he skates over to me, unfastening his helmet and taking it off with the same effortless grace he used to put it on.

All I can think is how grateful I am that I accidentally left my phone at Ben’s house. Otherwise, I know there’s nothing on Earth that would stop me from texting Ness and telling her I was right and she was wrong. Ben Stirling is, in fact, a perfect human being.

“D’you have fun?” he asks, plopping down next to me.

“Mm, fun,” I say.

Jesus, he smells good.

Clean, sporty sweat? Bottle that shit up, and you’ve got yourself a next-level aphrodisiac. That’s all I’m saying.

“What about you? Did you have fun?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He sounds surprised by the admission. “I did. I had a really good time. Did you see that kid over there, the one with the blond hair? I showed him how to adjust his grip on his stick, and his form changed completely. It was…like magic.”

We sit in companionable silence for a while and watch the kids play. Some of them are a few years older than Luca, a good head or two taller than he is, but that doesn’t deter him. It doesn’t seem to affect him at all. His little face is pinched with determination, eyes narrowed in concentration, a flash of his mouthpiece showing when he attacks.

“Gosh, he’s good,” I say after watching for a while. “My God, Luca is damn good…Wait, holy shit, is it just me, or is he amazing ?”

Beside me, Ben’s chest rumbles.

“No, I mean it.” Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it. Luca is good. Very, very good. The way he moves isn’t like the other kids. His center of gravity is low. His balance is sure and his talent far exceeds anything I’ve seen today. “He’s the best one!” I cry. “He’s better than all the other kids.”

“No, no,” Ben explains quietly. “We don’t compare children at this age. They’re all learning and having fun. They play at different levels.”

“Bullshit,” I hiss in his ear. “He’s the best kid here by a linear mile.”

It’s true. Luca is skating rings around every other child on the ice. He’s leaving little piles of them in his wake. Crumpled little bundles that crash into each other when they try to get close to him. I don’t even know how many times he’s put the puck in the net, I haven’t been counting, I only know that every adult here is watching him with slack jaws.

I look at Ben in amazement. He’s told me so much about Luca since we met. He’s told me about his food preferences and the soft toy he sleeps with. He’s told me cute things Luca used to say when he started talking and things he does that get on Ben’s nerves. He’s told me that the surprise flowers we planted made Luca sad because they reminded him of Liz, and we’ve talked for hours about the school he’s chosen for Luca and whether it will be a good fit for him. He’s told me so much about him, this seems like a glaring omission.

“Ben,” I say accusingly. “Is Luca a prodigy?”

“Shhh.” Ben starts to giggle, looking around to see if anyone heard me. “I don’t know,” he whispers, butting his shoulder against mine. “I don’t know what the technical measurement of a prodigy is.”

“It’s being the best,” I whisper back. “It’s being the best at something, or being like, ridiculously, unnaturally talented.”

“Oh,” says Ben with a broad grin on his face. “Well, um, yeah. In that case, Luca’s a prodigy.”

I shake my head at him in mock disgust and say, “I’m telling Ness about this the next time I see her. Don’t think I won’t. I’m telling Marcus too, and I’m calling Lissa and telling her as well.”

Ben’s chest rumbles again, a deep, rolling sound. Rainwater moving through river rocks. To my surprise, he drapes a heavy arm around me and pulls me close to him. I sit frozen in total amazement. There are people everywhere. People who know who Ben is. For a second, I wonder if I should warn him or tell him people might talk.

Before I’m able to do it, he levels me with his eyes. There’s a seriousness I haven’t seen there before. A wall. A brick wall. A principle. A deep-seated belief.

He leans in close, mouth no more than a breath from my neck, and says, “Fuck ’em if they don’t like it.”

I can’t tell if I’m hot or cold or if I’m going to laugh or cry. Either way, I’m vibrating with shock and euphoria from being close to Ben, and on top of everything else, Luca’s a prodigy, and I think the endorphins from playing hockey have kicked in and are making me drunk.

My laugh starts as a snort but quickly devolves.

“D’you know what Luca told me the day we met?” I say when I can. Ben shakes his head, still smiling. Still perfect. “The first day, the day you arrived in Seattle. The movers were inside carrying boxes in, and he wandered into the back yard and spotted me at my wheel through the fence. He had a lot of questions for me, as you can imagine. He covered everything from my name to my age to my third-favorite color in a matter of minutes, and when I asked him who he was, he said, ‘I’m Luca Stirling, and someday, I’m going to be a better hockey player than my dad.’”

Ben barks a loud, rough laugh that comes from his core. “Little shit,” he mutters.

On the ice, Luca wins the puck and runs with it. Players drop in his wake. He gets around a much bigger boy with ease, raising his stick and unleashing a backhand that sings on its way to the back of the net. The play is so quick and explosive that several kids look around, bewildered and unsure of what happened or where the puck got to.

“You know what the crazy thing is?” Ben turns to me, eyes soft with pride. “He’s not wrong.”

My mood is beyond buoyant by the time we get in the car. Unfortunately, Luca is showing signs of unraveling.

“A couple of the big kids asked if I could play on their team when the season starts, and I said yes,” he says in a cutting tone.

“Hmm,” says Ben.

“Yup, they said I should be playing in the ten- to twelve-year-old group.”

“Absolutely not.” Ben’s voice is calm but infinitely steady. “That’s not happening.”

“ Whyyy not?” I can tell from the way Luca says it that it’s not the first time they’ve had the conversation.

“Because you’re six.”

“I’m almost seven, Dad. I have a wiggly tooth.”

“I know. That’s why you’re playing in the six- to seven-year-old group. And next, you’re going to play eights and nines.”

I look back to see Luca with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s looking out the window with his bottom lip jutting out like a sulky cartoon character. He looks so cute and upset I’m sorely tempted to plead with Ben on his behalf. The only reason I don’t is because I know damn well if Ben uses his firm voice on me, I’m toast.

“I’m almost seven ,” Luca says again. “In dog years…” His arms uncross and his fingers work as he counts them. “In dog years, that’s like…more than forty .”

Ben and I glance at each other in confusion.

“But, Luca,” Ben says evenly, “you’re not a dog.”

Luca flings his head back and blows a frothy, pained raspberry designed to let Ben know exactly what he thinks of that answer.

I think next time we play hockey, I might bring along some snacks for Luca. Might bring a seed bar or something like that. A little hit of protein might be what he needs.

God.

I should probably look into what you’re supposed to feed tiny, highly unreasonable hockey prodigies. There might be a recommended diet or something like that.

I’ll google it when I get home.