Chapter 7
PATTON
The puck slams against the boards with a satisfying crack, and I’m in position to intercept it during practice with the rec league. My skates carve into the ice as I pivot around Austin’s attempt to body-check me and I race down the ice toward the goal.
He shouts, “Come on, old man! My grandmother moves faster!”
“Your grandmother is seventy-three and runs marathons,” I fire back, sending the puck sailing past him toward the net.
It goes wide by six inches. Reese, our goalie, boos loudly.
Scotty retrieves it with a grunt that echoes across the outdoor rink.
Aside from escaping into the mountains for some solitude, Thursday night hockey practice at Huckleberry Hill’s tiny community rink—complete with flimsy boards and lighting that flickers when the wind picks up—is the highlight of my week.
Out here, nobody expects me to smile or make small talk. In fact, we mostly trash talk.
We play hard, win harder.
“Did you catch the Rebels game last night?” James calls from the blue line, already winded. He needs to lay off the pasta at Sunday dinners with his in-laws. Or maybe he’s stress-eating. From what I’ve noticed lately, his marriage has more cracks than this ice.
“Caught the third period,” I say, easily stealing the puck from Hayes and sending it back toward center ice.
Reese whoops loudly, presumably cheering about our very own local hockey hero who plays for the NHL. “Welter worked to save the puck in overtime.”
“The man is a legend. We should catch a game in Reno soon. The Nebraska Knights are coming to town next month.” Austin snags the puck.
“I’m in,” Scotty says.
Hayes—still learning to skate backward without looking like a newborn giraffe—nearly takes out James. “Me too! I’ve never been to an NHL game.”
My dad used to take me to see the Rebels when I was a kid.
We’d travel to Reno, get absurdly expensive hot dogs, and he’d explain every play like I would someday be out there with a chance to win the Stanley Cup.
I still remember the smell of the arena—ice, stale popcorn, and the old man who always had an air of woodsmoke around him. Me too, now, I guess.
The memory twists the dense muscle in my chest. I body-check Austin harder than necessary when he high-sticks me while savagely stealing the puck.
We reset for another drill. The cold air burns my lungs and I like it.
Out here, everything makes a certain kind of sense.
There are rules, positions, and strategies.
No guesswork. No unpredictable fires. No sticky notes plastered on every surface like a preschool art project.
No warm brown eyes belonging to a woman who looks at me like I’m a problem she’s determined to fix.
I’m definitely not thinking about her.
We break for water and Austin slides next to me. “How is progress on the Fireman’s Ball coming?”
I shoot him a look that could freeze the air, never mind the surface beneath us. I instantly recognize this is revenge for being a total goon to my own teammate. “It’s not.”
“What do you mean by ‘It’s not’? I’ve been looking forward to getting dressed up.” His eyes light with amusement. “Mayor Barbie assigned you the role of co-planning it.”
“I’m aware.”
“With Winnie.”
“Also aware.”
“It’s obvious Patton here thinks she plays for a rival team,” James adds most unhelpfully, skating over with a grin that’s way too wide for someone who’s supposedly my friend.
“Like an enemy?” Reese asks.
I take a long drink from my water bottle. “She’s not my enemy.”
“You were literally disqualified from trivia together,” Austin points out.
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“You both cheated,” Hayes says.
I glower, letting the rookie know he should keep his mouth shut.
“We didn’t cheat. We made questionable judgment calls under pressure.”
Austin snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“I’m calling it ancient history.” I toss my water bottle toward the bench. “And the Ball planning will be fine. Professional. Under control.”
“I’m worried you two might set the building on fire.” James’s eyes twinkle with mischief.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Austin smirks. “There are definite sparks between you.”
“More like fire and ice,” Scotty adds.
I glare at all of them. “There are no sparks. She’s annoying. I’m busy. We’ll plan the Ball, execute it flawlessly, and move on with our lives.”
“You could barely handle trivia night,” Austin says.
“That was one incident.”
“A very public incident.”
“With witnesses,” Hayes adds, because apparently he’s committed to toilet detail for the rest of the year.
They fill in Reese on the saga while I coax them to line up for the next drill, determined to end this conversation with aggressive skating, stick handling, and a goal. But my authority as a lieutenant doesn’t follow me onto the ice.
After Austin wraps up the story that has the guys chuckling, he says, “Good luck, Maverick.”
The nickname mocks who I used to be—the kid who’d try anything, risk everything, and laugh at danger.
Now I’m the guy who triple-checks equipment and studies incident reports in case we missed something.
The most exciting thing I’ve done in months is refuse to share nachos with a woman who drives me completely insane.
We run another drill. Hayes manages not to fall. Progress.
During the next break, the conversation shifts to Austin’s childhood best friend visiting. He’s weirdly twitchy about it, checking his phone every thirty seconds.
“Emery’s flight lands Saturday. She’s staying with me since the Timber’s Edge Inn is booked.”
“She?” Hayes perks up. “Single?”
“Off-limits,” Austin says quickly.
Scotty and I exchange looks. Interesting.
“I’ve known her since we were kids,” Austin continues. “She’s like a sister.”
“Uh-huh,” James says. “That’s what they all say before the wedding.”
Austin cross-checks him for that comment.
When we’re finishing up, doing cool down laps, James skates up beside me. Brow pinched, he wears the expression we’ve all identified as the one before he says something he thinks is profound.
“You know,” he starts, “Captain Kendrick wasn’t married when he died.”
I already see where this is going. “Your point?”
“He chose us as his family. The station and the crew. But he was alone.”
“He wasn’t alone. He had us,” I reiterate.
“At night? When he went home to that empty house? After rough calls when he needed—” James shakes his head. “I’m not sure having us was enough.”
“It’s enough for me.”
“Is it?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because the truth is, I don’t know anymore.
The job, the crew, the routine, and the adrenaline used to be enough.
However, lately, I feel the slow creep of an itch that’s so deep under my gear that I know I won’t be able to scratch it.
It’s the kind that refuses to go away, no matter how much I ignore it.
It’s like I’m waiting for something I can’t name.
Not Vincenza, though. Definitely not her.
Feeling defensive, but not able to get away with questionable penalties, I say, “Captain Kendrick was married once. His wife died young. He never dated anyone after that.”
“Spent the rest of his life alone, maybe lonely.”
“Or he spent it focused on what mattered. The work. Saving lives.”
“And who saved him?”
The question is like a brick of ice between us. I don’t have an answer for that either.
We finish practice and head our separate ways. I’m halfway to my truck when my phone buzzes.
Vincenza Sorrentino: Just sending a friendly reminder about our meeting tomorrow at 8 a.m. to discuss the Fireman’s Ball timeline. Conference Room B.
I grimace.
Me: Can’t make it at 8 a.m. Department meeting in Carson City.
Three dots appear immediately, indicating she’s replying.
Vincenza Sorrentino: I’ve been trying to schedule this all week.
Me: Work priority.
Vincenza Sorrentino: When are you available?
Me: Monday?
Vincenza Sorrentino: That’s four days away.
Me: I’m aware of how calendars work.
The dots appear again. Vanish. Don’t come back.
Realizing that my comment was a little harsh, I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and head home.
Alone.
I’m on duty for an overnight shift. Oreo meets me at the door, tail wagging like I’ve been gone for years instead of hours.
“Hey, boy.” I scratch behind his ears. “Did you have a good day?”
He follows me to the kitchen, where I pull out ingredients for tonight’s meal prep. Cooking calms me—has ever since I was twelve and learned that feeding Mom was easier than watching her forget to eat.
Thankfully, she’s doing much better and, after a couple of decades, is finally seeing a therapist. We meet for breakfast at least twice a month. It’s like getting to know a new person.
Tonight’s meal is a chicken, rice, and vegetable casserole. While it cooks, I flip on the TV. There’s a hockey game on—not the Reno Rebels, but I’ll take it.
However, I can’t focus.
My mind repeatedly drifts back to a certain Parks & Rec employee.
Starting with the flash of hurt when I refused her a Crush Cake, which she immediately covered with a bright smile.
To her in the parking lot with a dead battery, trying so hard to seem like she had everything under control when she clearly didn’t.
The moment our hands brushed when she gave me her number on a sticky note—sending dangerous volts of electricity pulsing through me.
How I notice her perfume in the cold air even when she isn’t in my proximity.
It smells expensive, Italian—I’m sure of it—given her name.
Not overwhelming like the stuff some women practically bathe in.
Pleasant. Like walking past a rosebush in the spring.
It’s annoying that I noticed.
More annoying that I’m still thinking about it.
I should dislike Vincenza. She makes everything complicated. She asks too many questions, waves too enthusiastically, and decorated the office like Valentine’s Day threw up in there. She’s everything I avoid—erratic, emotional, and aggressively optimistic.
So why do I keep replaying the way she looked at me when I jumped her car?
Like I’d done something surprising instead of showing basic human decency?
I saw her walking to the parking lot in the dark.
Peeked outside to make sure she was safe.
Heard the distinct whine of the engine. It’s not entirely out of the purview of my job.
My phone buzzes again.
Vincenza Sorrentino: For the bakery, I need site measurements for the accessible entrance permit. Can we walk over tomorrow at six-thirty? That would be before you have to leave for the meeting in Carson City.
She’s relentless.
Me: Sure.
Vincenza Sorrentino: Perfect! See you then.
She sends me a smiling face emoji.
I send a thumbs up emoji, which I belatedly realize she’ll probably think is smug, but what does she expect, a heart with an arrow through it like on the Valentine’s Day décor that continues to multiply, Gremlin style, in the municipal building?
I set my phone down to try to focus on the game and the onions burning in the frying pan.
However, all I can think about is tomorrow morning.
Oreo whines at my feet.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter. “It doesn’t mean anything.
” Just like it didn’t mean anything when I saw her for the first time last summer and felt a wild lurch in my chest. Thinking back to my hotshot crew days, I designated her as a trigger point and vowed to myself that she was off-limits.
A no-go area completely beyond my reach.
Oreo tilts his head, skeptical.
I tell myself not to think about how smart and intuitive dogs are.