Chapter 25 Harlan
TWENTY-FIVE
HARLAN
MARCH
Off my stick. Off my blocker. Dumping it behind me so they could try to sneak around the other side, like I didn’t anticipate that.
Somebody must have pissed in Colorado’s Wheaties.
It felt like they were shooting constantly.
Where were my guys? Twenty-three shots on goal in the first period was not a small number.
Behind me, commotion broke out and I peered around just in time to catch Leroy slamming his stick down on one of Colorado’s forward’s arms.
Great. Two minutes for slashing. Meaning good old Daddy Royce was back in the hot seat.
My teammates set up for the puck drop to the right of my net, and Owen looked back at me while they milled around.
“Alright, Royce?”
“Better than ever,” I said, setting up at the top of the crease. It was second nature to me: knees tucked, on the balls of my feet, stick forward, glove out, and for good measure, I tapped the end of my stick’s shaft to the post to make sure I was in the right spot. Bring it on, assholes.
Our penalty kill was on fire. Why couldn’t they play like that during regular play?
Either that, or Colorado’s power play was terrible about turning the puck over.
Every time they did, which was three times, our guys dumped it down to the other end, making Colorado start from scratch.
I was thirty seconds from having the pressure off.
A guy from Colorado fired a shot off my leg pad, and I swept the rebound away with my stick.
Beaver taps slammed in Colorado’s goal, signifying the end of the power play. Play was stopped for a TV timeout, and I was more than ready for the water break.
When I turned to spray some water over my face, there she was.
“Hi, Chef,” I mouthed. She did that goofy thing of looking on both sides of her before pointing at herself.
“Yeah, you.” I pulled off my helmet and set it on top of the net. I splashed a stream of water toward the glass where she stood. She flinched, but she and Miguel laughed.
Owen coasted into view, giving me a curious look. “Chef?” he mouthed at me.
I shook my head before flipping my hair back and sliding my helmet back on. When I oriented myself again, Owen was right in front of me. “You guys are actually friends now?”
“She’s my teacher. We see each other a fair amount for lessons.”
Owen let me off with a “hmph” before skating off.
“Keep your strokes low. Slow ovals. Good.”
Emma stood next to me at my kitchen island as we worked on my pasta skills. These were some of the moments of our lessons I enjoyed best: just her and me, a quiet task, our hands making nothing into something.
“Now, as it mixes in, slowly incorporate the next layer of flour, like the rings of a tree.”
“And we’re not using the press? I have one,” I said.
She shook her head. “I want you to understand how to do it by hand. Then, when you do use the press again, you’ll be that much sharper.”
“Right.”
Her phone rang on the kitchen island with a Sabrina Carpenter song.
“What kind of millennial bullshit is that?” I laughed. “A song ringtone? Who even lets their phone ring?”
She planted me with a sharp look. “Moms with teenagers who drive. That’s Liam’s ringtone.”
“Big ‘Espresso’ fan, huh?”
“Hey, Li.” Emma’s lips popped open, a stricken expression taking over her face. “Where are you?”
She tucked the phone into her shoulder and started washing her hands at the sink. “What mile marker? It’s the things in the middle of the road, yeah. That. Were you going north or south?”
Her hands shook as she dug for her keys in her tote bag.
“What’s wrong?” I mouthed.
“And you’re off the road? Far enough that no one will hit you? Are your flashers on?”
“Where is he?” I asked. “Did you ever change his oil?”
Emma’s eyes were watery. Something was wrong with Liam’s car and she was freaking out. I rinsed off my hands. I wasn’t letting her go alone.
“Stay in the car, okay? With your seatbelt on. I’ll call a tow truck and come get you. It’ll be alright, baby. I love you.”
I followed on her heels as she made it through the front door. It was the first really pleasant spring evening, in the upper sixties. Em left her jacket on the hook and ran out in her cooking clogs.
“Emma!” I jogged after her into the street. “Let me drive you.”
“I got it,” she said, but she was fumbling with her car keys.
I put my hand over hers. “Hey. Let me help. You’re shaken up.” Emma had that deer-in-headlights look, her lower lip trembling. She nodded feebly and I pulled her to my chest for a quick squeeze. “It’ll be okay. Let’s take my car. I keep some tools in there.”
Once we were in my car and headed for the highway, I reached over for Emma’s thigh, but she grabbed my hand and held it. Our fingers laced together.
“He’s okay,” I said. “We’ll be there soon.”
“Anybody could hit him,” she whispered. “People drive so crazy around here. He had to pull into the median instead of the shoulder.”
Her face had paled, her lower lip pinched between her teeth.
I decided to talk her through the facts. “What was happening when his car broke down?”
She blew out a shaky breath. “He said it flashed the battery lights and then just turned itself off. He barely got to the median. Probably the—”
“Alternator,” we both said at the same time.
“I know the basics of cars, Harlan.”
“I know,” I said. “I don’t doubt you.”
She looked like she was trying so hard not to scowl. I was trying to be nice to her but old habits die hard. Once a know-it-all, always a know-it-all.
I tried to soften things. “I’m here to support you. If you need me to be here while you take care of stuff, I will. If you want me to take care of the stuff, I will.”
Emma opened a browser on her phone and I knew without a doubt that she was looking up how much an alternator costs. I put my hand back on her thigh. “Don’t worry about that part. Let’s just get Liam.”
“Harlan,” she tried, but her voice cracked.
“What’s the point of having a rich secret boyfriend if he doesn’t pay for a car repair or two?”
“This is what I was afraid of,” she said. “I can run my own life. I was a mom without you for twelve years before this.”
“Twelve?”
“Jeff and I split when Liam was five.”
“Ah.” A tense silence hung in the air. “I’m not trying to overstep.”
Emma sighed. “I know.” Her gaze fixed on the median when we got within a few miles of Liam’s car. “I should have called his dad to take care of this.”
“I feel like Liam called you because he wants you.”
“Moms always know best,” she mused, then took a deep inhale. “I don’t want you to regret giving me things later or hold it over me. And I know you probably don’t think you would, but other people have. When things turn sour . . .”
I snorted softly. “I know plenty about when things go sour. Things were sour outside my house the other night.”
“That’s true.” She rested her hand on top of mine, just above her knee. I already had my signal on when she pointed out the windshield. “There he is!”
Once we got stopped, Emma hurried to Liam and I popped my trunk in case I needed my tools.
Emma hugged Liam, and it was weird seeing the contrast between the two of them.
Liam was a head taller than Emma, and their hug was kind of awkward between his lean frame and her curves.
I never thought Emma looked old, but seeing her next to her teenage son made the difference more stark.
It reminded me of hugging my mom at that age, but Emma was younger than my mom was when I was a teenager.
Thoughts of high school graduations and hockey celebrations flashed through my mind.
My parents sacrificed so much to get me where I was, and seeing Emma do the same for Liam put a new lens on it.
When did I go from the kid to the adult?
It didn’t bother me that I was about halfway between my girlfriend’s age and her son’s age, but it was a mindfuck.
I headed for the two of them, shouting to be heard over the road noise. “It just quit?”
“Yeah,” Liam said, his hesitation to deal with me clear.
“Let me see your keys.”
I got in, tried all my tricks, and ended up calling for a tow. Then, I joined Emma and Liam standing in the median. “Anybody hungry?”