Page 9 of You, Again
“Oh, yeah? Any relation to Kirby Williams?”
“He’s my dad,” she squeaked.
Holy crap.How was that possible? Was I really old enough that my peers had teenage kids? Yeah, okay. Math wasn’t my thing, but I knew the answer to that one.
“No kidding?” I scratched my nape. “I played hockey on the juniors team with your dad.”
Her smile softened to something less manic. “He might have mentioned that…four or five hundred times.”
I chuckled. “Tell him I said hi.”
Erica nodded like a puppet. “I will. Um, I c-can escort you inside if you’d like.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I know the way,” I assured her. “Have a good one.”
“You too, Mr. Kimin—Vinnie.”
I gave her a thumbs-up and turned toward the visitors’ entrance to the rink, my fingers looped around the strap of my bag.
The delicious blast of artificial ice was the truest welcome yet. I sucked in a lungful of refrigerated air as I made my way to the players’ bench, where a familiar figure sat with his head bent over a whiteboard, drawing out plays with a teenage boy.
“Yo, is that Ronnie Mo?” I called out.
Ronnie started, snapping his head in my direction. A wicked grin split his face in two a moment later. “Well, look who’s here.”
I dropped my bag on the bench and opened my arms wide. “Bring it in, man.”
He shoved the whiteboard at the teenager and flew at me, wrapping me in a tight Moore-style bear hug.
The Moores were the most effusively affectionate people I’d ever known. Their door was always open, their fridge and pantry always stocked for stray friends. So different than the quiet, drafty house where Dad and I had lived a few blocks away. Ours was bigger and our neighborhood was nicer, but I’d liked the Moores’ house better.
Mr. and Mrs. Moore had always made me feel as though I were an honorary family member. They’d made room for me at their table, shared their food, their old skates and cold weather gear, invited me fishing, camping, to the movies… No doubt they’d felt sorry for me, but I didn’t care. I’d gladly accepted their wholesome brand of charity. It had been chaotic and noisy but a hell of a lot cheerier than my house.
“God, it is great to see you,” Ronnie enthused, blinking back tears as he stepped aside. My smile dipped then slipped into place again when he introduced the wide-eyed young man with a thick shock of auburn hair next to him. “Vin Kiminski, this is Gavin Lockey. He’s my assistant this summer. He’s playing for Holy Cross in the fall.”
“No kidding? Holy Cross has a great program. Congrats,” I replied, shaking Gavin’s hand.
The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed theatrically. “Thank you. Um…it’s really great to meet you. I was required at birth to root for the Bruins, but I’ve secretly been a Slammers fan for years.”
I shoved my hand into my pocket. “Thanks. I appreciate that. What position do you play?”
“Right wing, sometimes center.”
Ronnie clapped Gavin’s shoulder proudly. “He’s a natural. Best the Eagles have had in years.”
“Since you?” I teased.
“Pretty much,” Ronnie countered, rocking on his heels.
Gavin cocked his head thoughtfully. “Huh. I thought Nolan led the old-timer best record by a forward in the league.”
Ronnie gave a mock scowl. “Didn’t you have somewhere to go?”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Gavin handed over the whiteboard, grabbed his bag from the bench, and waved. “See ya tomorrow, Coach.”
I waited for him to leave, my gaze fixed on the ice, weaving patterns and plays in my head in an effort to stay present. It would be far too easy to lose myself here.
“Nice kid,” I commented, tilting my chin as I snatched the board from Ronnie’s grasp.