19. Ice Visions
19
ICE VISIONS
Miles
One day down…however many more to go.
To celebrate keeping my promise to resist Leighton yesterday, I rewarded myself with a new book. After the evening class I’ve been taking at the local university ended, I stopped by An Open Book and picked up Villain Era , a sci-fi spoof with a dastardly looking tabby cat on the cover. It’s an allegory about resistance in the face of a tyrannical leader—not the cat; the cat leads the rebellion—and the irreverence of the storyline sealed the deal. Last night at home, it was just me, that book, and my mom’s dogs crawling onto my lap and sleeping on my head.
In the morning, I return the little stinkers on my way to the arena, bounding up the steps to her home near Dolores Park with a quartet of little yappers on a long braided leash for four. Whoever said Chihuahuas aren’t spicy never met a Chihuahua .
Mom swings open the door, greeting her dog children with open arms.
“How was The Last Single Guy in New York ?” I ask over the chaos. Tawny Bippity yips at Mom, Boppity, the long-haired cinnamon mix wags her tail, and the blond hellion, Boo, howls his greeting. The black-and-white harlequin, Cindy, licks Mom’s ankles like she’s been starved for affection, even though I gave her heaps of love. Drama queen.
“It was amazing,” Mom says, drawing out the last word. “The songs were so good. Thank you again for watching my unholy terrors.” Then she tilts her head, eyeing me slyly. “Did you take them to the bookstore to meet women? You know you can use them for that. Think of them as an opening act.”
I roll my eyes. “You too, Mom? As if I don’t get enough from Birdie.”
“They’re both relentless,” Harvey calls out from the kitchen, where I can see he’s brewing coffee. “Best to give in.”
“Thanks, love,” she says to him with affection in her tone.
“I’m always on your side, dear.”
“Smart man,” I yell down the hall, laughing.
“So,” Mom says, like a dog with a bone, “it’s been a while since Joanne. Surely, you’re ready to date again.”
That’s not even the issue. But now’s not the time to get into it. “I’m fine with dating,” I say, hoping to leave the convo at that.
“It’s the apps, right? They’re getting you down. That makes sense,” she says, not even waiting for me to answer her apps question. She scoops up Boo and Cindy, alternating in petting the demanding pups. “And you know…I’ve been listening to some podcasts and hearing more an d more about this hotshot new matchmaker that some singles are using. Her name is Isla Marlowe and she’s supposedly got the Midas touch.”
Are we really having this conversation right now? “Mom,” I begin, a touch of warning in my tone.
Harvey snickers from the kitchen. “Good luck, Miles,” he mutters.
Mom barrels on. “It’s apparently a wise approach to dating apps fatigue. That’s a real thing these days. I heard all about it on another podcast,” she says, since my mother is the queen of show tunes and podcasts. “And with all the dating apps fatigue, there’s sort of a revival in traditional ways of meeting. And non-traditional. One man even put up a billboard touting himself.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom, I’m not putting up a billboard.”
“Of course you aren’t. I’m just saying—it’d be nice to see you out there again. You weren’t in a great place at the end with Joanne. And that was understandable. But you moved on and learned, and now look at you,” she says.
And she’s not wrong, but I can’t get into it with her now. Or really at any time. The words “There’s only one woman I’m interested in and she’s the coach’s daughter” would open up a can of worms that’s best kept closed.
I check the time on my watch. “I need to go hit the ice.”
“But you’ll think about it?”
Ah hell. I hate to be a dick to Mom. Years ago, I swore I’d look out for her and my siblings. I held to that promise and in a lot of ways I still do. Now that I’m older I like to think that promise also means I won’t lead her on. But I can have a little fun. “Mom, maybe save the matchmaker for Tyler when he’s ready to date again,” I say, fighting off a smile as I throw my brother under the bus .
“Oh, good idea! And don’t forget to pick him up on your way to the arena,” she says, reminding me in that same mom tone she used when I was a kid and she’d ask me to walk Tyler to school while she went to her real estate job, pounding the pavement, trying to sell as many homes as she could and pay for our lives since Dad was having none of that. Or us.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t forget Little Ty-Ty,” I tease, using a name my big, burly defenseman of a brother would hate. I bend down to scoop up Cindy, who licks my face right on cue and whimpers like she’ll miss me. Yup. Drama queen. “See you soon,” I tell her, and I’m off.
After hopping back in my electric car, I swing by Tyler’s rental home in Pacific Heights, and he’s already on the front porch, giving his daughter, Luna, a goodbye hug at the sky-blue door, then his son, Parker. Their nanny, Agatha, waves to me from the foyer, her eyes crinkling in a smile. Tyler jogs down the steps and slides into the passenger seat.
“You ready for me to school you in skills today?” he taunts, smirking.
“Why am I driving you?”
“Because you never stopped being our extra parent after Dad took off,” he replies, his tone half-teasing but pointed.
“Ouch. Way to psychoanalyze me.”
He shrugs. “You were always the helper. Into cooking, making sure our homework got done, dragging us to sports…”
No kidding. “Excuse me for being supportive,” I mutter as we merge into traffic.
“Not a criticism,” he says lightly. “I appreciated the fuck out of it. And you know you liked it,” he adds. “Being the man of the house. That’s your thing.”
I tense. Man of the house. Those were Dad’s words to me, right before he left. But I’ve never told that to Tyler. No need to dig that up now.
I change the subject. “Anyway, nice to see you too. How do you like being a Sea Dog?”
“It’s definitely nicer than playing on a team with Fletcher Bane. That guy’s a dick,” he says of his former teammate, one of the league’s supreme fuckfaces.
I still remember the fight Bane started with our goalie Max the season I joined the team. I’d wanted to punch him myself, and I had. The whole team piled onto the ice to defend Max. Along the way today, Tyler and I shoot the breeze about past fights as I pull into the players’ lot. “Sure is. So, who’s the big dick here?” I ask, curious to know what he thinks of the guys I’ve gotten to know over my three years with the Sea Dogs.
“No dicks yet, but the day’s young,” he says as I park. Then he shoots me a smirk. “Maybe it’s you.”
“And I don’t feel guilty at all for telling Mom to intervene in your dating life.”
His smirk vanishes. “Dude.”
I just shrug. “I’m not always the responsible one.”
“Sometimes you’re the troublemaker,” he mutters, as we head toward the players’ entrance, where I catch a glimpse of a city bus pulling up a few blocks away. Leighton’s a bus person. I bet she’s on it.
Impulsively, I clap my brother on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you inside,” I say, already turning toward the bus stop.
Tyler raises a brow, looking curious, but I shrug it off. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do .
I jog across the parking lot and up to the arena entrance, timing it perfectly as she steps onto the sidewalk. No sign of her dad, which is good, though I feel a flicker of guilt. We’re friends, or trying to be, anyway. This is part of building our new relationship, I tell myself. I’m not pursuing a romance with her. This is fine.
Her gaze lands on me as she heads toward the entrance, slowing down, and I fall into step beside her. She doesn’t reach for her phone or fiddle with her headphones, like most people do, making me wonder if she’s the rare person who doesn’t listen to anything on her commute. Someday, I’ll ask since someday I’ll know everything about her.
No, you won’t. You’re just going to be friends with her.
“Morning,” I say, keeping it casual. “How was yesterday? First day in the big leagues?”
She gives me a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Not too bad,” she says, then sighs. “But you know…first-day nerves. I probably looked like a total rookie.”
I shake my head. “Didn’t notice,” I tell her honestly.
She laughs, raising a brow skeptically. “Really? I felt like I was trying way too hard.”
“Nah, it’s normal. There’s a lot of pressure to get it right.”
She nods, then lets out a breath. “And everyone sees me one way—as ‘Mini Mac,’ the coach’s daughter.”
I can’t argue with her there. “Yeah…I guess that started because your dad would mention his daughters sometimes. He never used your names though. Always called you Mini Mac One and Two.”
She cringes but smiles. “That’s disgustingly adorable and completely mortifying.”
“And my mom practically gave me a lunch pail and told me to get along nicely with my brother today,” I say. “Parents can be a little embarrassing.”
She grins. “Truer words.”
I shift back to her as we walk across the concourse toward the main entrance. “But honestly, you did great yesterday. You’ll post the shots this morning?”
“Definitely. After I get some on-ice shots of the team doing drills and stuff,” she says as we near a statue of a fierce dog—our mascot. “Fans don’t just want workout shots. They want the real thing—players on the ice. Ice is what makes hockey…hockey. It’s hard and unforgiving. Cold. Cruel.”
I give her a sidelong look. “Sounds like you’re talking about a bad relationship.”
She laughs. “Maybe. And honestly, I could be.”
I growl. “Who is he and when do I kill him?”
She laughs again. “There’s no need to commit light murder, Miles.”
“I didn’t say it’d be light,” I say, clenching my fists.
She shoots me an approving glance. “The good news is exes are exes for a reason, you know? Anyone who was awful is in the past.”
“Good,” I say, then circle back to her earlier comment. “All right, so we’re talking about ice, not romance.”
“Exactly. Because ice is what separates hockey from most other sports. Just lacing up is symbolic. My dad took me skating for the first time when I was little,” she says. “Helped me lace up for the first time. He told me how his heart was racing before his first NHL game, like it was going to explode. I thought he was so tough, you know?”
“And?”
A fondness passes over her expression. “And he is. But he choked up. He told me, ‘Real men tear up. Real men get emotional. Real men don’t hide behind macho personas.’”
That’s another reason I need to focus just on this budding friendship. Because I want Coach to be proud of me too. “That’s…that’s pretty incredible.”
“At the time, I didn’t totally understand, but I liked it when he tied my skates, patted my head, and said, ‘Let’s go for a spin.’”
“How’d you do?” I ask, picturing her on the ice—fierce, and determined.
“I stood up, wobbling like a foal, but after an hour, I was gliding around, my cheeks cold, my heart racing.”
We’re quiet for a beat, her words hanging between us, then she adds, “I understand why it means so much to the fans too. Seeing their favorite players lace up again gives them this sense of resilience. Every season, it’s hope. Hope forged from ice. And hope isn’t some soft thing—it’s a blade. It’s a stick. It’s hard won, and worked for. I want to do it justice.”
I swallow past a surge of emotion. “You’re a poet.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “No. I just think about ice a lot.”
“Me too.”
Before we go inside, I glance around. Hardly anyone’s here yet. I tell myself this is just a friendly gift, and maybe, maybe , I believe that as I reach into my pocket and pull out a small brown paper bag and offer it to her. “Actually, I got you something,” I say. Her brows lift in surprise, and she takes it, opening the bag carefully. It’s a gift I picked up at the jewelry shop near An Open Book. The same one where I bought her earrings a year ago—flower earrings she’s wearing today, like she was yesterday, like she did the day before .
Inside the bag is a delicate ankle bracelet with a tiny camera charm. Her expression softens as she stares at it. “It’s beautiful,” Leighton murmurs, her fingers brushing over the charm. “I…I didn’t expect this.”
“I didn’t either. It’s…a friendship bracelet,” I say, making that up on the fly, keeping my voice low, as anticipation bounces around in my chest. It’s just a friendly gift, it’s just a friendly gift .
“Oh, it is?” She gives me a look like she’ll play along.
“Of course.”
“I love it,” she says, a little spark in her eyes as she closes the bag. “Thank you. I’ll put it on later.”
“I could put it on you,” I offer, impulsively. The image of hooking this onto her slender ankle is lodged in my brain and won’t go away. The idea of finding an excuse to touch her is too hard to resist.
Her smile fades, and she’s serious now. “Miles, is that such a good idea?”
“No,” I say, and I’m not the impulsive guy. I’m the guy who thinks through things. Who weighs pros and cons. Who makes measured decisions for my life. Except, when I’m on the ice—then I think fast, react, and simply do . I feel like I’m skating down the rink right now, hell-bent. “But so what?”
She laughs softly, a little unsure. “Maybe later?”
I’ll take that maybe and hold it tight in my hand. I’m glad, too, I’m not one of those exes who is awful. I’m glad, too, I have this new chance with her.
“I’ll be looking forward to that later.”
She seems to fight off a smile that tells me she is as well, and we go inside.