Chapter 23 Briar
Briar
“I spy, with my little eye, something blue,” Harley says around a mouthful of cotton candy.
“Your face.” I point at the blue ring around his lips.
He shakes his head, grinning. His teeth are blue, too, and I make a mental note to have him double-brush tonight before bed, while simultaneously giving myself credit for the vegetables I got him to eat before his one sweet treat of the night.
“No fair. There must be a million things in here that are blue.” I hold my hands out, gesturing to the entire arena, which is a sea of Blizzard baby blue.
We’re not sitting on the center glass tonight, but rather, halfway up the lower bowl, not that Harley has minded a bit.
Truth be told, I think he’s slightly more interested in the junk food selection than the action on the ice, though he’s been watching that as closely as he has the wandering snack vendors.
Getting in on the fun, Penny says, “Your mom’s jersey.”
I meet her eyes, seeing the teasing light dancing in their brown depths as she points at my shirt, which is indeed a Dominic Lee jersey that I paired with red pom-pom earrings to match my tennis shoes.
Dominic’s sister is sitting with us tonight as the Blizzard takes on the Hawks, which means Dom is playing against his old team, teammates, and most especially, his “brother from another mother” Griffin.
This has the makings of a Shakespearean tragedy, but so far, the game has been pretty evenly matched with a score of 0–0 at the end of the first period. The teams are playing hard, but clean.
Meeting Penny tonight had made my entire belly flip-flop with nerves, but she’d instantly set me at ease by running up and hugging me like we were long-lost sisters.
A second after that, she’d become friends with Harley by giving him a signed Griffin Mahoney card, though she’d also required him to raise his right hand and vow to tell Dominic that Honey is the best defenseman in the league, which he’d laughingly done but he’d also held up crossed fingers.
Then, as we went to find our seats, she accidentally tumbled up the metal stairs—yes, going up them—and we’d bonded over my handy-dandy, mom-approved Band-Aids, which I’d whipped out of my bag.
She’s now sporting one on each knee, neon orange on the left and neon green on the right, neither of which match her hunter-green Hawks jersey or black tennis skirt.
In short, we’re basically besties now.
“Nope, not a jersey,” Harley answers. “Want a hint?”
Yes, definitely. But before I can answer, Penny does. “Not yet. What about the logo on the ice?”
Harley looks down to where she’s pointing but shakes his head again. “No, but that was a good guess. You’re warmer.”
He’s giving hints anyway, realizing he really has set forth an impossible task. But it takes several more rounds before we finally figure out that the something blue is the top lip of the wall surrounding the ice.
As the second period starts and Harley loses interest in I Spy in favor of locking in on the game, Penny sits back in her seat and leans my way. “On a scale of one to ten, how much of an asshole has my brother been since moving out here?”
“Is ten a complete asshole or not at all?” I clarify.
“Complete.” She winces, one eye closed like she’s afraid to hear the answer.
“Then, I’d say . . . a one?”
“What?” she balks. Then she waves a hand, like she’s negating what I just said. “You’ve got it backward. One is not at all.”
I nod, sticking by my rating. “I’m sure the guys would feel differently, but he’s been great with me.
Patient and kind and sweet. He’s really thoughtful and has helped me figure some stuff out that I should’ve seen a long time ago.
” I hope I don’t sound too psycho-chick obsessed, but the truth is, I’ve fallen hard for Dom.
Her brows knit together, and she smiles wonderingly.
“Dominic Lee. Number sixteen. That guy?” She points at the ice like I might be confused.
“He’s not all grunty and bossy, telling you what to do and what not to do all the time like you’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached?
” She taps her temple, obviously talking about herself.
“No,” I laugh, shaking my head. “That must be just you.”
“Well, don’t I feel special?” she says dryly. But she instantly perks up. “You should hear the things he says about you.”
“He talks about me?” It’s none of my business, but a girl can’t help but be nosy when she’s dangling the intel out so enticingly.
“Oh yeah,” she says, her smile wide. “Nonstop. Well—” She pauses, tilting her head, reconsidering. “When he’s not complaining about the guys, his apartment, or his new coach. That’s your dad, right?”
Nifty little sidestep there, I think. I see where Dom gets his verbal skills from.
“Yeah. He takes some getting used to,” I say diplomatically.
“Dom called him a pickle juice enema,” she confides.
Harley hasn’t been paying us any attention, but of course he hears that. “Mom, what’s an enema?”
“Uh—”
“Enemy,” Penny rushes to say, fixing her fuckup as smoothly as she can.
“Pickle juice enemy. You know, makes you pucker like this.” She purses her lips and squints her eyes like she’s tasting something sour and Harley nods with a quiet “oh” before turning his focus back to the game.
To me, Penny wipes her brow and mouths, Whoo, close one. Sorry.
I can’t help but laugh. Penny has been welcoming and witty, and I feel like even if we’d met under different circumstances, we would’ve been friends.
She hasn’t tried to make me feel like I don’t belong with her brother—because of my past, my son, or because I’m not one of the puck bunny types.
In fact, she stuck her tongue out at one woman who was wearing a Mahoney jersey and not much else, informing me that she “licked it so it’s mine,” which I’d thought was hilarious.
“By the way,” she tells me, “he says you’re—and I quote, because I have literally never heard my brother wax poetic before—” She shakes her head like she’s still baffled by the concept.
“Walking sunshine in a smoking hot body.” She drops glee-filled eyes over me, looking like she agrees, even though I’m just wearing jeans and a jersey tonight, nothing particularly hot.
Though I did take the ten extra minutes to curl my hair in honor of meeting Penny.
That’s what Dominic said about me? How he described me to his own flesh and blood? I feel heat starting to rush to my face and I press my cool hands to my cheeks, feeling how puffed up they are from the size of my smile.
“Oh, and he said that when he makes you nervous, you start spouting out animal facts, which he thinks is adorable. Apparently, he’s your albatross?
” She peers at me questioningly. “I told him that’s a bad thing.
” She lays her head over and sticks her tongue out, miming a heavy albatross hanging around her neck like the old story. “But he said it’s a good thing?”
I press my lips together but can’t hide my grin. “A very good thing,” I tell her, and she shrugs.
“Hey, you two be weird birds together if you want to be. I’m just glad Dom isn’t trying to run my life from afar the way I expected him to.
I’ve already got Griffin doing that, up close and personal.
” She lowers her voice to a false baritone, in what I’m guessing is an approximation of Griffin Mahoney, “Don’t go on a hike by yourself.
Don’t dance with the soldering gun in your hand.
No mafia boss lunches.” She rolls her eyes in annoyance, though those sound like somewhat reasonable requests to me, especially the last one.
I have so many questions about that, but I decide to save them for Dominic.
“Does he usually try to run your life?”
That doesn’t sound like the Dominic I know. Sure, he’s told me some hard truths, but in the same breath, he’s let me decide what I want to do—with him, with Tyler, with my dad.
Penny scoffs. “Uh, yeah. You could say that. Basically, he’s spent my whole life trying to protect me.
From what? Literally everything.” She rolls her eyes like he’s ridiculous, but then, seeing my face, she backpedals.
“In his defense, I kinda needed it. I’m a bit .
. . accident-prone.” She gestures vaguely toward her knees like that’s a normal occurrence.
“He handed responsibility for me over to Griffin, and I take special delight in making his life as difficult as I can.” She winks playfully.
“Mom?” Harley says, tapping me on the knee. When I glance at him, he points toward the Blizzard defensive zone. “Are Dom and Kipson okay?”
Brows furrowed, I look at them. They’re in position, eyes locked on the play, and all seems to be fine. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”
Harley frowns. “They’re not being as aggressive with blocks. Not how they usually are. Anderson is fielding a bunch more shots than usual.”
“Maybe Dom’s taking it easy on his old teammates?” Penny suggests.
I meet her eyes, both of us saying simultaneously, “Naaah.”
We go quiet, all watching closely, and I begin to see exactly what Harley is talking about.
It’s not that they’re missing the action.
They’re where they need to be, doing what they should be, but the tension that typically threads through their every move is missing.
There’s no fight in their play. If I didn’t know better, I would actually think they’re taking it easy on the Hawks.
The next play has Jack Off beelining down the ice. He makes a quick pass to Krivosky and, working together, they send the puck forward. Dominic meets Jacofovich, and they scuffle, vying for control of the puck.
“Get it out of there,” I mutter under my breath as they get closer and closer to the crease.
But Dom is barely fighting and he’s giving up inches of ice too easily.
Suddenly, Jacofovich shoots. Anderson drops, legs butterfly split to protect as much net as possible, but the puck gets through.
The red light comes on and the horn sounds as the crowd goes wild.
“Score, Jacofovich! Hawks 1, Blizzard 0!” the announcer calls.
“Uh-oh,” I whisper.
“See?” Harley says. “What are they doing?”
“You don’t think . . . ?” I trail off, not wanting to give breath to what I’m thinking.
Dom is a pro, but maybe in some twisty-turny universe, he’s feeling conflicted about playing his old team?
He didn’t say anything. In fact, he was downright excited to see everyone, claiming he was going to wipe the ice with them and show Coach Leverson what he lost, which sounds more like the Dom I know.
“Okay, wait,” Penny says, her palm held out. Leaning into me and lowering her voice, she says, “Considering Dom possesses exactly 0.0 percent sentimentality, let’s go the other way. If they’re not playing like that because of the Hawks, could it be because of the Blizzard?”
I blink, thinking that through. If Dominic and Kipson aren’t playing to give the Hawks an advantage, that would mean they’re playing to put the Blizzard at a disadvantage? Which also makes no sense, but then I scan the ice again.
Another puck goes sailing toward Anderson. And then, another one.
“He’s under siege,” Penny states.
Harley corrects her. “They’re putting him under siege.”
I see it. That’s exactly what Dominic and Kipson are doing, but why? Why in the world would they let the Hawks make that many shots on goal, when each one is a potential score?
When the clock sounds the end of the second period, the teams disappear into the locker rooms and the Zamboni drives out.
Harley is normally rapt with attention anytime the Zamboni appears, but tonight, he’s glancing from me to Penny with eyes wide with confusion.
But we don’t have answers about what’s going on either.