Chapter 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Ella

"Fourteen dollars for a beer is an absolute crime," Todd grumbles as we make our way down the long flight of concrete stairs.

"Our seats are in row ten," I say, ignoring his grumbling.

Riggs got us club-level seats, which means that fourteen-dollar beer could have been directly delivered to our seats (and I bet Riggs already covered the cost for the night…even though his dad doesn't deserve the courtesy).

"Row ten ," he sniffs.

I roll my eyes. "It's my favorite place to sit."

He pauses mid-step, glances over at me, eyes and tone sharp when he asks, "Why?"

"It's high enough up to be able to see all of the ice, but still close enough to hear and keep track of the small plays."

He starts walking again. "Like what?"

I shrug, keep my pace beside him. "Digging the puck out along the boards, finishing checks, who's screening who in front of the net." I shrug. "All of the things that make a game a game, aside from scoring, of course." I nod at the row, start making our way over to our seats. "Which you can see well from here also."

Todd follows me across the row, sitting down in the seat next to me with a grunt. "Maybe," he says, eyes on the ice. The overhead lights are slowly brightening as the maintenance crew finishes setting the nets, getting the rink ready for warm-ups.

"It's dark in here," he grumbles.

"It'll be bright soon enough."

A grunt as he takes a sip of his beer. "Ugh."

I lift an eyebrow.

"All foam," he mutters.

I roll my eyes, settle in and enjoy my fourteen-dollar beer. That's not all foam.

He sighs.

"What?" I ask, amused as I wonder what his next complaint will be.

"Just wondering if Riggs is going to pull his weight tonight."

That sends my brows shooting up almost to my hairline. "Excuse me?" I ask setting my beer in the cupholder and shifting in my seat to stare at Todd.

"Lake and Knox are producing. They're top forwards in the league." He shakes his head and takes a sip of the beer, apparently tasty enough now that he's complaining about something else. "I keep telling Riggs that he needs to step up. He needs to work as hard as your brother does."

"Have you watched any of the games this season?"

Todd scowls. "Of course I have."

"And did you miss the part where Riggs is the second leading scorer on the team?" I flick my eyebrows up again. "Even higher than my hardworking brother?"

"I—"

"You do realize the hours Riggs puts in right? The extra time and workouts?"

"It's not enough," Todd snaps. "He's not a good outlet on the breakout and his passes are shit and?—"

I sigh. "And you like to point out everything that goes wrong instead of any of the good things. You like to tear him down instead of zeroing in on the parts that will build him up, will build on each other and make him play better."

"This isn't a kids' sports team where everyone gets a participation trophy."

"No," I agree. "It's just what your son has chosen to make of his life, and I don't discount that likely he's made it this far because you helped him a lot along the way. But here's the thing, Todd-o-Rama, your brand of help "—I hold his eyes—"it's not something that Riggs is going to keep around forever. He's tired and sad and hurt , and sooner or later you're going to cut too deep, create a wound that won't be able to heal"—my dad's face flashes through my mind—"and when that happens, you'll lose him forever."

"Excuse—"

"You have a chance to do better." I lean back in my seat, lift my beer toward him in salute. "So make sure you don't squander it."

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Then scowls again. "What are you?" he mutters. "A fucking fortune cookie?"

"Nope," I tell him cheerfully, "just a woman with a dad who's not in my life." I sip my beer, the cool liquid soothing the burn that truth elicits.

"Why isn't?—"

"Ella!"

I crane my neck to the left and see Evie waving at me, her shock of red hair so bright it's almost fluorescent.

Saved by the child.

"I'll be right back, Todd-o-Rama."

"Who's that?"

"Evie," I wave back and push to my feet. "She's the daughter of the Sierra's trainer, Ivy."

Ivy is…well, I've only met her a handful of times in person since she's a single mom who's busy with her job and her kiddo, but she's…scary.

And coming from me?

That's fucking scary .

Evie, on the other hand, is a bright spot of sweet exuberance.

"A woman as a trainer," Todd sniffs. "The world nowadays doesn't make any sense. Now, even though you're far too outspoken, at least you do something that befits the female race."

I freeze, rage skating down my spine.

But when I look at him, I see it in his eyes.

He's fucking with me.

I pat his arm. "Nice try, Todd-o-Rama," I say. "But you know as well as I do that men can make excellent hairstylists too."

He grins, and shaking my head I leave him, I cross the rest of the way through the row and make my way down to Evie. "Hey, good lookin'," I say, smoothing a hand over her hair and immediately getting to work with the part. "The same as usual?" I ask.

Wide brown eyes, so much like her mom's, come to mine. "Can you do two braids today?"

"Sure thing, Evie girl," I say, pulling a couple of hair ties out of my pocket (because what kind of hairstylist would I be without extra hair ties on hand at all times). I make quick work of her hair, plaiting it into two pigtails and securing the ends, and then because I'm me and I knew that Evie would be here tonight, I reach into my jacket and extract the bows I ordered for her.

Navy, forest green, and Tahoe blue, they're accented with plenty of sparkles.

"Whoa," she whispers.

"They're epic, right?"

She grins. "Totally epic! Can I have glitter too?"

"What's the world without glitter?"

"Boring!" she declared, making me laugh.

"Exactly," I tell her, spraying a bit in her hair before capping the container.

"Can you do mine next?" a little boy with shoulder-length locks asks.

"If your grown-up says it's okay."

"Dad?" he calls. "Can I get my hair braided?"

The handsome man sporting a Sierra jersey a row back smiles. "If it's okay with the nice lady."

"Two or one braid?" I ask.

"Two!"

"Done." I set to work, corralling the kiddo's hair into two sleek braids. "I don't have any bows though."

"That's okay," he says, wiggling with excitement as I finish the second one.

"Glitter?"

An eager nod.

Sparkles placed, we fist-bump and then he's running off to show his dad.

"Braids? Me?" a girl who's maybe four and adorable in her tiny Sierra jersey asks.

I find the grown-up who belongs to her and she nods, and then I'm the braid master—pigtails for the little girl in front of me and then shifting course to wrangle tiny ones into a boy's short hair before I secure his sister's longer locks into a single plait that hangs down her back.

I've just run out of hair ties—oh the humanity—when I hear?—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I look up, see that the guys have come out onto the ice. Knox is running through his usual routine near the bench, Lake is stretching while the ladies drool on, and Riggs—my heart flutters, absolutely fucking flutters in my chest—is right in front of me.

He holds up a puck, and the flutters go again.

But I shake my head and point to the kids around me.

His mouth twitches, but he bends and grabs a different puck, tossing it up and over the boards, and then repeating the same until the kids all around us have them.

"You're going to run out," I mouth.

He just winks, holds one last puck up, and mouths, "Yours."

I inhale, look around as though that will calm the nerves, and when it doesn't, I embrace the inevitable and hold out my hands for the puck.

He tosses it over the glass, and it lands unerringly in my palms with a quiet smack .

I pretend like I'm going to shove it in my pocket?—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Lips twitching, I meet his gaze through the glass, watch as he mimes looking down at an invisible puck in his gloved hand.

Mischief brewing, I glance down at the puck in my hand then back up and shrug.

He rolls his eyes, repeats the movement.

I hold up my hand, show him the puck in my palm.

I've positioned it with the Sierra logo facing up, hiding whatever spicy message my man has no doubt written on it.

Another tap, tap, tap.

He flips over the invisible puck in his hand.

"I think Mr. Riggs wants you to turn the puck over," Evie whispers—or tries to, anyway, because whispering in kids her age always ends up sounding like shouting.

"You may be right, Evie girl," I tease lightly.

Tap. Tap. TAP.

I widen my eyes at Riggs, but he just mimes flipping the puck over again.

And so, rolling my eyes, I mirror his actions, flipping the real puck over in my hand, greedily devouring the words on the black, vulcanized rubber, pulse picking up, knees almost giving way.

Because Riggs Ashford— my Riggs Ashford, had written that?