5. Dean
DEAN
There was a time in my life when some would say that I was kind of a dick.
If I’m being honest, I’d have to say that I mostly enjoyed that time in my life.
It was fun being a twenty-one-year-old pro-hockey winger who didn’t care how women all over North America felt after a one-night stand.
They wanted to spend the night with me, and I gave them what they wanted.
I gave them more than most guys had ever given them in one night.
If they were hurt because I didn’t stay in touch, that wasn’t my problem.
We all got what we said we wanted. That’s how I saw it back then.
Am I now being punished by the universe for forgetting some of their names?
Maybe.
But it also somehow doesn’t feel like punishment exactly, to see Soleil every day, even if she doesn’t remember anything about me.
However, I have not enjoyed being a dick to Soleil Barrett.
At least it feels like I’ve been a dick to her, but neither of us have been getting what we want.
I’m not getting what I want in the short term anyway.
I want Soleil. I want to spend as much of my off-season with her as possible.
Naked. In as many positions as possible, so I can demonstrate my hip-thrusting abilities.
The abilities she’s forgotten I told her about.
The big-picture long-term goal is that I want to be head coach for one of the top junior hockey teams in Canada and then I want to move up to coaching an NHL team.
Fastest way to do that is to stick with the Comets and keep my stick away from Steve Barrett’s daughter.
That’s what I thought the big-picture goal was anyway.
It’s starting to feel like the picture needs to get a little bigger.
Big enough to include a life with a woman I really care about in it.
The only woman who has ever gotten under my skin and in record time.
On the ice, in the arena, I control what I can control and release what I can’t.
I know how to do that because it’s in my brain and my blood and my bones.
But my dick and my heart are convinced that while I might not be able to change who Soleil’s father is or what happened to her brain, releasing her is not the right thing to do. Wrong—it just feels wrong.
I’ve been at the outdoor rink every morning for the past three days.
Stretching first at home and then skating.
Part of my ongoing hip rehab. Am I certain every morning I go there that Soleil will show up?
No. I thought for sure she would when we had a date, but she didn’t.
I didn’t know she’d walk by the next time I went.
I certainly didn’t wave to her or try to talk to her.
But she came over to watch me skate. She looked longingly at the ice.
And at my ass. She waited around by the entrance and chatted me up, asked me if I’d be interested in teaching her how to skate.
I told her I was too busy. Then I said I had to get to an appointment and walked off.
She was quiet and probably insulted, and it broke my fucking heart.
I didn’t expect her to come by the next day too.
I hoped she would. Just as much as I hoped she wouldn’t.
When she asked if I’d teach her how to skate, I was a dick again.
Cruel to be kind and all that. That time she sassed it up as hard as she did when I saw her at the grocery store.
The girl knows her worth. I like it. But I didn’t give in.
This morning, though… Maybe it was because I tossed and turned all night, trying to figure out a loophole.
Maybe she just happened to wear more of that perfume today than on the other days and I couldn’t ignore what that scent was doing to me.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to say no to her again when she asked.
And she did ask. This time she came over to the bench when I was taking off my skates.
She was in a really good mood, it seemed, and it just didn’t feel right to be cold with her.
So I said maybe and told her if she comes by tomorrow morning with skates I’ll give her a lesson.
And she smiled. She wiggled around on the bench and raised her hands in the air and said “Yay!” in such a fucking cute way that I didn’t want to leave.
So I told her I’d heard there were murals painted around town and I wanted to check them out.
Her juicy lips formed a little O, and she told me that she was commissioned to paint one about ten minutes away near the Walmart parking lot.
She’d mentioned it the first day I met her.
I asked her if she’d show me, and she twisted her lips to one side, then said, “Well. You aren’t charismatic enough to be a serial killer, so I guess I can walk with you. ”
I made it a point to be extra charming on the walk, but that didn’t scare her.
And when I saw the mural she’d painted, I just…
it moved me. It was on a retaining wall made of concrete blocks, at the edge of a big parking lot.
Totally nondescript area, but her painting made it stunning.
It was an abstract representation of the view from the beach where we stood a few days earlier, the morning I first met her.
Of the lake and the mountains and a few boats.
The colors were gorgeous, but it was the title of the mural that got to me. She called it Today’s the Day.
I asked her why, and she said it was her mom’s favorite view and that right before her mother got sick, she had asked her to go for a walk to the park with her.
But Soleil didn’t feel like it so she stayed home to watch TV instead.
And that was the last time her mom ever walked to the park.
“Today’s the only day we have, really,” she said.
And it fucking killed me because I couldn’t tell if she knew or not. If she knew that today is the only day she has too. And I couldn’t ask her.
So that’s why I’m sitting here in Coach Barrett’s office and he’s seated behind his desk, drumming his fingers and sighing as he waits for me to say something.
“If you’re gonna quit, just get it over with so I can start looking for someone to replace you.
” He still has a bit of a Texan drawl that takes the edge off of everything he says.
“I’m not quitting, Coach. I really want to keep this job.” I also want to keep my genitals, so I have to phrase this very carefully… “I wanted to talk to you about another matter.” I pause, because my brain is about as frozen as the ice on the rink.
He adjusts his Comets baseball cap and drags a palm down his face. “You planning to talk to me about this matter now, or are you here to schedule another meeting?”
“I’m gonna be straight with you, Coach. I’ve met your daughter several times around town.”
His expression quickly changes from annoyance to Ima kill you with my Papa Bear hands if you say one wrong thing as he leans forward in his chair.
“I met her on March twenty-fourth, when she approached me at Whisk It Good, and then she invited me to go for a walk with her at Waterfront Park afterward,” I say.
“We went for a walk. I had told her that I’m the new assistant coach of the Comets, but she only told me her first name.
When we passed by the outdoor rink, she told me she didn’t know how to skate.
I offered to give her skating lessons, and she agreed to meet me at the rink the next morning.
She didn’t. But then I ran into her at the diner.
She didn’t remember me. That’s when my buddy Dave very carefully and quietly explained the situation to me.
“First of all, let me say that I was and am very sorry to hear about what happened,” I continue.
“I can’t imagine how distraught you must be.
I understand how special Soleil is. In so many ways.
I understand the special circumstances. I just want to say that I’ve been going to the outdoor rink every morning the past few days to skate.
Just to keep moving. And she’s shown up every time.
Every time, I see her watching everyone else skate.
With this longing. She wants to learn. Every time, she comes over and asks me if I’ll teach her.
Every time, I tell her I can’t because I’m too busy.
” I pause, eying him. “I’m not too busy.
And I understand that you don’t want her out on the ice, Coach, but it seems to me that it would be beneficial to her in a number of ways if she does learn to skate. ”
“Absolutely not,” he growls. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here and telling me what’s good for my daughter.”
“I’m not trying to tell you—”
“Out.” He doesn’t even raise a finger, but his tone tells me exactly which finger he’d be raising if he did.
I get up, but I think it’s important to convey that I’m respectful, not afraid of him. “I’m around if you change your mind, Coach. Thanks for your time.”
When I leave, I go back to my apartment and make a glass of fresh orange juice. By the time I’ve finished it, my phone’s ringing with a call from Coach Barrett.
“Come back to my office,” he says as soon as I answer. “Now.”
I do. I return to his office immediately. His door is open, and he’s staring out the window when I knock two times.
“Come on in,” he grumbles without turning around.
I take a seat and wait for him to say something this time.
It takes him a minute before he finally utters, “I’ve been thinking about it. I have a lot of feelings about all of this.”
“I’m sure you do, Coach. And I don’t want to pry or get involved in any way that you’re not comfortable with.”