Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Niko

"Dad!" Ayana shouts as she staggers on her skates over the rubber floor toward me. She trips at the last second, but I easily catch her, making her giggle. "Did you see me out there?"

"You are almost ready to try out for the Storm Chasers," I say, unbuckling her helmet and pulling it from her head. In reality, the kids all spent more time falling than skating, but there were no tears, so I assume Chloe would consider that a win.

"Bathtime when we get home," Peyton says from beside me. "You're a sweaty mess."

"I know." Our daughter grins in delight, showing off the new gap in her teeth. The tooth mouse came to visit last week when she was with Chloe and me, and Ayana relished the opportunity to introduce her nanny to the tradition. The look on Chloe's face when Ayana said she needed to leave her tooth under the bathtub had both of us laughing.

"Are you ready for your first day of school tomorrow?" I ask, ruffling her hair so it releases from its sweat-matted form. It is hard to believe she is starting second grade already.

"Yup. I'm wearing my Storm Chasers jersey."

"No, you're not," Peyton interjects, taking Ayana's helmet from my hands as if I were about to smuggle it out of the facility. "I got you that cute purple sundress, remember?"

Ayana frowns up at her. "But now that I'm a hockey player, I gotta dress the part," my daughter protests.

Peyton glares at me as if I forced Ayana to prefer a jersey over a dress. I vowed long ago to stop trying to understand the woman. She showed up today severely overdressed for a hockey arena in a dress and heels and proceeded to talk my ear off the entire practice. Topics ranged from her latest modeling job for a local flooring company to her disdain for men who wear cargo shorts but are not, in fact, carpenters. I did my best to tune her out, which was not all that hard when I had Chloe's ass to stare at and my daughter's skating to watch. Not to mention keeping an eye on this new coach, Matt something or other. His hand lingered a bit too long on Chloe's arm than was strictly necessary to get her attention earlier.

I should not have kissed Chloe in the laundry room this morning, but it is difficult to regret. I realize now that we need to set some strict boundaries and adhere to them.

As if reading my mind, Peyton's eyes shift to the rink door where Chloe stands on skates, chatting with Benny's Little, Eli, and a woman who must be his mother.

Ayana's gaze follows Peyton's, and she pushes off me to pick her way toward Chloe on her blades. "I'm gonna say bye to Chloe. Be right back."

Peyton releases a beleaguered sigh. "The famous Chloe . I don't know, but I imagined her somehow being...skinnier."

A headache starts behind my eyes, and it is not from the puck I took to the head during today's training. I wear a helmet for a reason. Peyton is full of shit. Although she and Chloe did not formally meet at the courthouse, Peyton got an eyeful of her that day. Unless she was glaring too hard to focus.

Peyton has always been overly occupied with her body and looks, often making negative comments about herself in a bid to win my protestations and subsequent compliments. I do not know how much of her insecurity is manufactured for attention, but she incessantly complained about her height and was resentful that she could never be a "real" model at five feet and four inches. Cursed by Mother Nature to be beautiful but not tall.

And she is beautiful. But not as beautiful as Chloe. I keep that thought to myself.

Since hanging around here listening to Peyton's passive-aggressive chatter ranks on my list of hated pastimes just above sticking my dick in a beehive, I say goodbye to my daughter and wish her good luck at school in the morning. I do not speak to Chloe, but she catches the heated look I send her way, if her blush is anything to go by. It takes concerted effort not to picture her naked body beneath me in bed last night. This is not the time or place for a boner. But there are so many things I still want to do with that body.

When I notice Eli's mother glancing back and forth between a blushing Chloe and me, however, I realize my mistake. I need to be careful. Time for that boundaries conversation.

On my way home, I stop at the home goods store to buy six new sets of sheets, telling myself it is only due to my sense of practicality. To distract myself from the lie, I sit in my parked car and call Safiya back in Kazakhstan, even though it is late for her.

"I might have been asleep, you know," she greets in Russian.

"When have you ever gone to bed before midnight?"

"Last month. I had a cold." She pauses. "What is wrong? You never call. You only text."

She does not say it to make me feel guilty, she is merely stating a fact. I have never been one for talking unless there is a clear purpose. I do not understand the concept of small talk. In fact, I find it utterly exhausting trying to think up words just to fill some silence. What is wrong with silence?

I tap my hand on the steering wheel and squint out at the sunny afternoon sky. "Nothing. How is the weather there?"

"You called to talk to me about the weather?" Her tone is incredulous. See, I told you I was worthless at small talk.

"How are Mother and Father?" I ask instead. Our parents do not believe in burdening other people with their problems, so it is worthless to ask them directly. When my father had a heart attack three years ago, I did not find out until two months later. Similarly, my mother once broke her foot and did not speak a word of it to anyone for over a week. Our father assumed she had had a rock in her shoe. For a week.

Safiya is the only person who will be straight with me. Sometimes I think she even enjoys delivering bad news. She has always been a drama queen.

"The same as always. I went over for dinner the other night. They told me not to bring anything, so when I showed up with a bottle of decent wine, I lied and said I found it on the sidewalk." She laughs, and I cannot decide if she is joking or not. "Mikhail stopped by, and you should have heard Father waxing on about you and the name you have made for yourself. Blah, blah, blah. I might have thrown up a little."

I shake my head to myself and pull my sunglasses from the visor. Mikhail is the nearest neighbor, and he prides himself on making every conversation a competition.

"They should have talked about their daughter, the artist," I reply. Safiya is an accomplished painter, even if her audience is very niche. Not everyone appreciates paintings of men dressed and made up to look like Cher or Diana Ross. But she has exhibited in several countries across Europe and been commissioned to do portraits. She earns enough to pay most of her bills, although her taste tends not to align with her income very often, which is where I come in. But Safiya looks after our loved ones while I play hockey on the other side of the world, so it is no sacrifice to send money to them. It is my duty, and I am happy to do it.

"Oh, Mother did. Do not worry, Niko. But, of course, Mikhail made a smart comment saying anyone can be an artist when their brother pays for the best school on the continent."

I frown at the nearly empty parking lot. "The man is full of shit. Mikhail is neither fish nor meat," I tell her, knowing our neighbor has few skills of his own to brag of.

"You think I care what Mikhail thinks?" my sister chirps. I can picture the smirk on her face. Safiya is my opposite in many ways, but we both share a healthy degree of confidence earned by our mutual inability to give up on anything. "How is my adorable niece?" she asks.

I have not shared about the latest custody progress, worried I might jinx it if I celebrate before the judge's official order comes through. Nor have I shared about my impending retirement. Some things are better communicated in person. When Peyton and I divorced, I flew home to break the news face-to-face, knowing my parents would be devastated and disappointed. They do not approve of divorce as a concept, so I shouldered a considerable degree of shame, even if I knew divorce was the only option at that point.

So, I tell my sister about Ayana's lost teeth and her new hockey program. She is delighted when I share Ayana's planned outfit for the morning.

Safiya knows me well enough not to ask about any prospective relationships on my end, but she lets it slip that she is seeing someone new. She caught her last boyfriend cheating on her and broke up with him. The only thing that kept me from flying home to punch the asshole in the face was Safiya flying here to see me immediately after the breakup. I did not want to miss her visit, so I stayed put. That does not mean I did not call an old teammate from my youth league and ask him to drive the hour to the boyfriend's apartment to pay him a visit. Safiya never needs to know that. Instead, she can keep believing the cheating asswipe ran into a door.

"Does this one treat you with respect? Does he hold doors for you and pay for dinner?" I force myself to loosen my grip on the steering wheel when I realize my knuckles have gone white.

"Yes, big brother," she answers with an exasperated sigh. "Do not worry. I can take care of myself." I want to tell her she should not have to, but she is likely to lecture me if I do. Instead, I tell her I am wiring her money to buy her and our mother plane tickets to see our aunt in Spain.

Once I have received Safiya's assurance that Katya is doing well, we say our goodbyes. I drive home and lug the heavy shopping bag of bedding into the house before attending to Paul. Chloe is not here yet, and I remind myself that she will soon be back in her duplex and it will be only me in this big house once again. I used to relish the privacy and silence. Now, I fear a return to it might just suffocate me.