Chapter 11 Knighty Night
KNIGHTY NIGHT
CORBIN
I should feel bad that my daughter sees herself as my manager. But I don’t. She took it upon herself, just like she’s taking it upon herself right now to review our calendars as we walk from her middle school toward The Embarcadero.
“Let’s see,” she says, studying her phone as we wait at a light.
The bay glitters on the other side of the waterfront, with shadows from the Bay Bridge shimmering across the calm waters.
“There’s an afternoon practice today. I’ll work on my homework with Jessica and Violet at the arena.
But I also took the liberty of making a punch list for everything you need to accomplish over the next five weeks. ”
I stifle a smile as I reach for her hand when the crosswalk light changes.
The Cozy Valley Middle School was an option, but the STEM program at this school in the city is unbeatable, and Charlotte’s already decided she wants to be a veterinarian.
She’s eager to take as many science classes as possible.
Since she’s a few blocks from the arena, that also means it’s “bring your daughter to work day” pretty often, and you won’t see me complaining.
“Okay, what’s on this list?” I ask, hoisting her backpack higher on my shoulder as we walk along the waterfront, the salty air floating past us as we near the Ferry Building.
She sticks her tongue out in concentration, scrolling through some app on her phone that I don’t even recognize. She stops at a color-coded schedule labeled Timeline. Bars stretch across the screen, but they blur together, mostly looking like blue and mustard to me.
“Oh, wait, let me switch.” She changes the bars to patterns instead of colors, like diagonal stripes and cross-hatches. It’s thoughtful, the way she’s figured out tips so that I can see things better, but I don’t want her to feel like she has to take care of me. It’s my job to look out for her.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I can read the words on each bar. See? Painting, display cases, menus—”
“You can read, Dad. Well done.” Charlotte shoots me a look. “But I can change them to make it easier for you. So why wouldn’t I?”
A kernel of guilt wiggles through me that she’s done this on her own.
Sure, I’m organized, so on the one hand, it’s like father, like daughter.
But is she growing up too fast? It’s one thing for her to use her chip-off-the-old-block organizational skills to manage her homework; it’s another to use them to manage me. And evidently, the bakery.
“You made a timeline for the bakery?” I ask as I get a good look at her screen.
She gives me a stare that I translate as Obviously. “How else would you know what you need to do and when you need to do it? I keep our calendar. It’s good training for me. Organization is important for any scientist.”
She’s not wrong, and I suppose I don’t need to feel guilty. Independence is a good thing, right? Right.
“Okay, hit me,” I say as we pass the Ferry Building. I force my gaze away from it and my thoughts away from last week’s white-hot kiss there with my best friend’s sister. The woman who has now—it’s still a little surreal—become my new business partner.
I’m still wrapping my head around how she went from being my friend’s little sister to a woman I impulsively kissed one afternoon, contemplated dating during the brief span of a hockey game, then somehow went into business with the very next day.
I haven’t seen Mabel since Sunday. I was out of town for a quick road trip—won one, lost one—but we have texted, sometimes even intentionally. Maybe when I see her tomorrow to go over the plans and the name and the menu, I’ll have forgotten how she felt in my arms.
I kick the thoughts from my mind and focus on my kid, who reviews the schedule as we walk past the statue of a giant, fearsome fox outside our arena.
“And then the garage doors will be installed,” she says.
The sound of sneakers slapping against stone grows louder.
Miller jogs up beside us, barreling right into the conversation like he belongs there—that’s the goalie’s style.
He’s a Golden Retriever off the ice, a Pit Bull on it.
“You getting a new garage? Please tell me we’re gonna put a home theater in it, with a big screen and a popcorn machine.
” He grins at Charlotte, giving a hopeful thumbs-up. He’s like a big kid himself.
She scrunches her brow, no doubt picturing the suggestion. “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe we should do our garage too, Dad? A movie theater would be fun for my documentaries.”
Miller chuckles. “Of course that’s what you want to watch.”
I ruffle Charlotte’s hair. “And we like that.”
“I know. Trust me, I wish Hayden wanted to watch, I dunno, science docs,” Miller adds, a note of longing in his voice as he talks about the teenage brother he’s been raising.
As we near the main doors to the arena, Charlotte turns to my teammate, waggling her phone. “You can tell Hayden to text me if he needs any help organizing his sessions with his band.”
Miller gives her a don’t go there look. “You are not gonna encourage my little brother to spend even more time shredding his guitar.”
“Come on,” I say to Miller, smacking his arm. “What’s the big deal? He’s in high school.”
“And I need him to focus on homework, not being a rock star in his mind.” Miller turns to Charlotte and rubs his hands. “So, is it a movie theater? I might come over and catch up on some thrillers.”
“By all means, make yourself at home,” I say dryly, though of course Miller needs no encouragement on that front. He’s like Seven. Sometimes he appears on my doorstep at mealtime. Or snack time. Or movie time.
Charlotte laughs, shaking her head. “No, the garage is for the bakery my dad is opening.”
It’s as if someone muted the soundtrack of our day. Miller jerks his gaze to me, eyes wide and full of questions. “Well, this just got real interesting.”
I wince, scratching my jaw. Yeah, I haven’t told my friends.
Not sure why. Maybe because it still feels personal?
Because there’s a part of me that wonders if they can detect that I have a thing for Mabel?
Or because I worry they’ll say I’m sucking up to the acting GM by helping his sister? It could be all of the above.
Charlotte purses her lips. “Oops. You haven’t told your teammates yet? You’re going to have to let me know about these things for my task management list, Dad. I have them down to help us with the display case set-up and moving furniture and tables in.”
Miller’s stare sharpens. “Spill.”
Thankfully, Coach Ahmed is working us hard on skating drills.
Explosive starts, quick turns, and never-ending sprints.
You can’t talk during drills this intense or, honestly, think about much either.
That’s good, since I don’t want to do a damn thing but play at the top of my game while I still can, and that means I need to do better this year than I ever have before.
I race past the blue line, stick in hand, legs burning, blades scraping across the ice.
The clatter of sticks on the slick surface rebounds from the boards as we fly again and again till Coach blows the whistle.
Everyone snaps their gazes to the commanding man leaning against the glass, who’s been our coach for the last several years.
Coach Ahmed played in the pros too, all the more impressive since he was born in Egypt, which isn’t exactly a hotbed for hockey.
But his family moved to Canada when he was six or seven, so he took up the Canadian national pastime, and the rest is history.
“All right, men. Anyone in the mood to score some goals?”
Not sure if he’s being ironic, since we’ve been struggling in that area, or just trying to keep things light. Either way, Miller grunts from the net, “Like I’d let them.”
“It’s shooting practice, Lockwood,” Coach calls out to Miller. No one ever uses first names on the ice.
Miller just shrugs as he guards the net, helmet covering his face, that smile long gone.
He’s stone now as he shifts back and forth in front of the net—he’d consider it rude to ever let a goal in.
But we set up in two lines, taking turns passing and then shooting.
Miller’s good, one of the top goalies in the game, and I’d really like to make his job easier by putting more points on the board when we play against opponents, but right now I’d like to score on him.
I try to fake him out, feinting to the left, but he tracks me with those unflinching eyes, and when I flick a wrist shot toward an opening, he lunges and sends it right back out.
He does it again and again and fucking yet again.
But the next time I’m ferrying the puck down the ice, I move to the left like I’m going to snap in another wrist shot, only I switch it up at the last second…with a backhand.
And, yes!
It slides past him, lodging in the twine. I can actually hear him growl, then curse himself.
It’s just a goal in practice.
It’s meaningless, ultimately.
But it’s a fucking ray of hope compared to how the last few games have gone.
Maybe it’s a reminder, too, that sometimes I need to do things a little differently.
We head down the tunnel when practice ends. Charlotte will still be working diligently in the kids’ lounge, which is what she and some of the other players’ kids have dubbed the players’ lounge. That means I guess I’d better tell the guys about my…gulp…bakery.
Why the fuck am I so nervous about this?
Miller already knows, since I had to tell him the details after Charlotte spilled the beans.
And my friends know I kick ass in the baking department.
Hell, I’ve gone to their homes and saved them when they needed to make pies for Thanksgiving, cakes for Mother’s Day, or Valentine’s Day goodies for their spouses or partners.
But maybe that’s how to approach this—I’ve helped others with my whisk-and-apron skills. Now I’m actually doing this for myself. Marketing myself.