3. CONOR

CHAPTER 3

CONOR

I ce has its own particular smell. I didn't notice it while I was a kid, skating before I could even walk properly. I certainly didn't pay any attention to it when I was a teenager or in college, rushing toward my dreams of a professional hockey career. I was too distracted by the smell of sweat and Icy Hot, body odor from a bunch of dudes, the distinctive stench of old equipment, or the glorious smell of new plastic gear.

I didn't notice ice's own scent until after the accident. In the year following it, the only thing that could get me out of bed was coming to this very rink. I'd sit on the stands on my own for hours, just sniffing the stuff like an addict.

Eventually, when I was able to pull my head out of my ass, I got a part time job here—which wasn't hard since I know the owner very well. I still spend my evenings and weekends either teaching kids, or leveling the ice, or cleaning the place. I don't care what, but I know I have to stay close to the ice to stay sane.

I open my eyes. The rink is empty except for me. It's Thanksgiving and every normal person is home with their family. Gramps and I worked all day prepping a meal that will feed us for two weeks, but we both had important plans after supper.

His, a little nap. Mine, a little skate.

He happens to be the owner of the rink, so I have VIP access twenty-four seven.

Pucks lay scattered around the surface. I bounce one with the end of my stick, the smacking sound echoing in the quiet around me. My skates slice the ice with a steady swooshing sound, harsher when I change direction abruptly just for fun. How many times did I do skating drills like this? Just skating around obstacles, pumping my muscles until they burn. It feels colder since I'm alone and my breath puffs faint clouds into the air. I don't drop the puck even as I zigzag across the expanse, just balancing the disc with my stick like a party trick. I bat it in once I'm close enough to the goal, baseball style.

The momentum takes me around the goal. I shoot a nearby puck into the back of the net in what would've been a wraparound goal. The crowd would be roaring right about now.

Taking a deep breath, I pump my legs even harder. That's the best medicine against the blues I get every time I viscerally miss playing. That and a little prescription pill I always carry in my backpack.

I repeat the drill from the top. This time I drop the puck once but I pick it up in a smooth swing and keep going. Ain't that the moral of the story? No matter what happens, you pick your ass up and keep going. At least, that's what I tell myself every morning.

"Knew you'd be here."

I brake hard enough to spray a frozen shower around me. "Hey, Gramps. I thought you'd nap all the way until tomorrow."

He grunts as he slides onto the ice. "Believe it or not, I was too full to fall asleep. Is that how pregnant women feel? "

"I wouldn't know." I snort and watch him as he finds his legs on the ice. He's the one I got the hockey obsession from. I swear that at his ripe age of seventy-nine-years-old, he's steadier on ice than on dryland.

"Now, let's see if you're still any good, kid." His stick is an extension of his body and he uses it to skate a wide arch that takes him right to a faceoff circle.

I sigh loudly. "When are you going to stop calling me kid? I'm twenty six."

"You'll always be a kid to me." He bends forward. "Are you going to keep an old man waiting?"

"Fine, you grump." I grin.

I glide over to face him and drop the puck with little warning. A better grandson would slow down and let him win, except that would piss Gramps off. He smacks the shit out of my stick and one of my legs, trying to get away with the puck. I'm faster and my body moves on muscle memory alone, even though everything on my left is mostly a blur.

Gramps takes off after me. His huffing and puffing follows me as I break away and fire the puck at the empty net so hard that my stick bends in the air.

"Damn, son. You still got it." He wheezes as he catches up.

"Never lost that, at least." I lift the corner of my mouth. "I just lost half of one sense, that's all."

His bony hand grabs my shoulder tight. "But I still have you, that's all that matters."

I groan. "Ah, shit, Gramps. Didn't we say we wouldn't get cheesy today?"

He ignores my every word. "I'm thankful that you didn't hit your head at a different angle three years ago, or there'd be no one to take me to my doctor's appointments now."

My face twitches. Too many things roil in my gut to possibly name them. I don't laugh or cry or scream. Instead, I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. They're wet and I'm going to pretend it's because of the sheen of sweat covering my skin.

"Is this your way of asking me to drive you somewhere?" I ask, trying for levity because I really can't take it when he gets sappy.

"Maybe." He lifts his white, bushy eyebrows. "I may or may not have pissed off my dentist and may or may not need a new one."

"I have no words for you, old man." I sweep a puck towards me and pass it over to him.

"What can I say? He disrespected me." He dangles the puck as if he hadn't stopped playing hockey way before I was even born. "Not everyone had a great grandparent like you to raise them well."

I shut my mouth because there's no point setting him straight. Him getting disrespected is code for he wasn't told what he wanted to hear. When Gramps gets something in his head, there's almost nothing in this planet that can pluck it out—and I have a bigger issue to focus on.

Namely, his decision to sell this place.

I already tried the route of convincing him against it with words. And for all of a dork I am, I'm actually pretty damn convincing. It's why I got a marketing degree. The problem is, that doesn't work against this stubborn oaf—especially not when he showed me a balance sheet I couldn't argue against.

However, coming home with a hefty bonus for Christmas will surely convince him otherwise.

I keep the conversation away from that elephant in the room. "We've basically burned through every medical practice on the west side of Connecticut. Can we keep it to a radius where I don't have to take PTO to drive you?"

"I worked so hard to raise you right and this is how you pay me?" He clicks his tongue and shakes his head in an exaggerated way .

I roll my eyes. "When's your appointment?"

"Monday at noon. That should work with your fancy job, right?"

"Sure," I say right away, even though it technically doesn't work. Sierra and I used most of yesterday brainstorming—separately. The idea is that on Monday we'll have some sort of armistice to pick one idea or mesh them, I don't know. I'm sure she won't be happy if I have to cut it short.

Or… on contrary, she'll be very happy to spend less time with me and this news will totally make her day.

"Great. And treat me to some pie after."

I cut a glare to him that makes him chuckle. He takes a puck and makes a big show of skating a circle around me and shooting at the goal.

"That's right, baby! I got it too." He throws his hands in the air and hoots.

I won't tell him because I'm not half as strong as I pretend, but I'm thankful to have him in my life too. I don't know what I'd have done without him, and it's high time I finally do something good for him.

I'll save this place, his legacy, if it's the last damn thing I ever do.