Chapter 9-Ezra
Have we met?
Being swarmed by middle-schoolers was not on my bingo card this morning. But, I promised Emmy I’d come to her grandson’s practice today to make up for keeping her waiting at the bar that night.
It was necessary to keep her waiting a little longer as I had to duck into the men’s room after Callie left to get a grip. Literally. I’m surprised my right hand isn’t blistered. Every night since, I’ve been fucking my goddamn hand in a pitiful attempt to eradicate that kiss from my brain.
She only wants us to be civil and she has every reason to despise me. Plus, there will always be Chase between us. It’s best if I leave her alone with only a kiss to remember her by. Well, not just the kiss.
On the ice at a homey little rink like this, I’m okay. I don’t have much experience with children beyond once being one but they’re natural, they speak their minds and they want to tell me as much about themselves as they expect me to say. They’re also a good deal shorter than me.
Once it’s time for their practice to begin though, my palms start to sweat when their parents surround me the second I step off the ice. I hate this anxiety and the weakness I struggle with. The worst part is I never know exactly what will trigger it. Not a single person here could pin me down if I ran through those doors to escape but I can’t do that.
“Apologies, it’s my father,” I say, holding up my phone as proof. I have never been happier to take a call as I slip away from the crowd.
“Ezra, what are we going to do now?”
By we, he means me. Chase left treatment this morning, returning to the comforts of his mansion, the mansion he was only able to afford because I talked him into investing at least some of his earnings his first season in the league. Since then? God knows where the money’s gone. Nowhere wise, I’m sure.
“He has to complete the program and stay out of the papers to play for my team, Dad. That’s the deal. I’ll remind him of that. That’s the best I can do,” I say, hanging up.
Taking a deep breath, I compose a text, delete it, compose and delete again. I’m so tired of chasing down Chase and feeling guilty for feeling that way. He was so angry over the phone last time we spoke. It’s like he blames me for all his problems when all I’ve ever tried to do is help him.
Distracting myself from the text and my regrets, I check out my surroundings. I’ve never been here but skating rinks like this are intimately familiar to me. From the age of four, I was strapping on ice skates on a wooden bench just like that one. There’s a smell, not all together pleasant but comforting, here. Dusty hall, musty rafters, mildewy padded floors, sweaty socks and feet, old wooden boards and the ice. The high countertop to rent skates and the matching one to buy hot chocolate.
There’s two full-sized rinks visible through the enormous window; one with the players I just spoke to and one with a group of smaller children on the side. Peewee league. They can barely stay upright on their skates and most look more fascinated by the Zamboni smoothing the ice than whatever their coach says. He’s not much more than a kid himself from the looks of him.
“One hot chocolate, please.”
No fucking way.
But, there’s no mistaking the melodious voice of my little hummingbird now that I’m familiar with it again. What is she doing here?
As stealthily as I can manage, I retreat to a space where I can observe her without catching her eye. She gets her hot chocolate and heads back to the second rink, pushing through the heavy door. She shivers from the colder air. I remember the way she shivered in my arms when we danced. She looks gorgeous in jeans and a creamy sweater with her soft ebony hair, flat-ironed and down from its usual bun. She wore her hair like that at the club along with a tight little red dress. So fucking hot.
I wanted to crush that man who was touching her at the bar. There was history between them, I could tell. There’s history between us, too, but I’d like to rewrite it. If she’d ever allow.
Preoccupied with her, I barely register the children we’re approaching. The peewee players are readying to take to the ice for what I’m guessing will be a first practice.
Callie passes her cup of hot chocolate to a young boy, four or five. He’s in profile as he takes a sip, declares it too hot and passes it back, reaching for his water bottle. He says something to Callie which makes her smile. And then he smiles at her. Their smiles, they match.
My heart pounds steadily faster as the oxygen seems to whoosh from my lungs and time ticks to a stop. I’m completely transfixed by them both and stunned by the realization – Callie’s a mother. He’s her son. Who…
He turns to reach for the helmet he’s dropped and looks my way. His hair is dark brown springy coils. His skin is several shades lighter than Callie’s. His face, his features. Familiar and unquestionable. I see Chase as a child in him. But, his eyes are green. My eyes. Staring right back at me.
“Did you know some frogs can go for eight months without peeing, Mama? Did you? I did. Who’s that man? He’s tall. Do we know him?”
His little brow crinkles as he looks to his mother, not sure if knowing me would be a good thing or not. Callie turns to see who he means and she gasps just as the coach blows a whistle. The boy turns away, no longer interested in me, and clumsily hobbles toward the ice with the rest of his group.
My attention focuses on her, on the beautiful woman who disappeared from my life over five years ago after she broke up with my brother, accused him of academic misconduct and after we fought.
She storms toward me with fire in her eyes, hissing one word. “No.”