23. Away Games

TWENTY-THREE

AWAY GAMES

Nalani

I squeal when my phone rings. Savannah mimics me from her highchair, which came from one of the dozen packages that have arrived in the last two days, and Claire laughs.

I hit accept as I head to the back wall of windows. “Have I ever told you you’re my favorite guy in the entire world?”

“Gonna guess the chickens arrived.” He chuckles.

“They’re hens,” I correct. “And cock.”

“We really need to give him a different name.”

“I love you for doing this.” I smile, looking out the glass doors as three men put the fence around the henhouse they have already put together today.

“Didn’t have a choice.” He chuckles.

“You’re having a henhouse built for?—”

“Not sure how long they’ll be removing the asbestos. It’s getting cold. It can easily be taken down.”

I whisper into the phone, “It adorable that you think so.”

He sighs. “Mmhmm.”

“So, tonight’s game, the girls are coming over to cheer for you again.”

“So they’ve left?” he jokes.

“They have jobs, ya know.” I smile.

“Have you told them about?—”

“Nothing yet.”

“Any big plans for the rest of the day?” He yawns.

“Tired?” I ask.

“I’m good.”

“Truth?”

“It’s always rough playing out of town when you fly in on a game day. One more game, and then back to you.”

“And twelve games.”

“Twelve more game,” he agrees.

“A couple games later, you have a long home game stretch.”

“And I can’t wait.”

Claire and I cook dinner for the girls and we invited Paul to join us because neither of us like the idea of him being alone even for a day. At first, he said no, but I insisted he come over and check out the henhouse to make sure they’ll be safe and warm and not able to escape and end up in the Hudson.

Noelle and Sofie picked him up, and when he arrived, Claire and I had just made what we hoped were the perfect perogies and minced meat. He got a bit emotional, too. He laughed at the henhouse, saying his flock would never want to come back to Greenwich, and we stayed out on the back patio, watching them for a good half hour after dinner, and then, well, we convinced him to stay for the game.

As much as I miss Koa, and I may never admit this to him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been more entertained at a hockey game than I am listening to Paul’s commentary from the oversized recliner, next to the sectional that we girls are all cozied up on, me with Savannah on my chest.

“Look at that!” he barks, waving his cane at the TV. “This guy’s crying to the ref because someone nudged him into the boards. Pathetic! Back in my day, the refs would have told us to suck it up. You took your hits like a man, or you didn’t, and they scraped you off the ice.”

I pull my shirt up to hide my grin.

“Helmets with all this fancy padding,” Paul scoffs. “You’d think these boys were getting ready for war, not a hockey game. We had helmets so thin you could fold them up and put ’em in your back pocket. Elbow pads? Forget about it. And when you took a puck to the face, you spat your teeth out and finished the damn play.”

I’m trying so hard not to laugh, but it’s impossible, especially when Noelle snorts, which completely eggs him on.

The more he rants, the funnier it gets. The best part is, he’s dead serious and probably absolutely right. And he just keeps going, eyes narrowing at the screen as if he’s right there on the bench with them.

“Look at ’em, prancing around in shoulder pads so thick you could crash a car into them, and they wouldn’t feel a thing. Back then, we had gear that barely covered your bones. Took a stick to the ribs? Good luck, kid; see you back on the ice in two minutes, or you’ll be cut from the roster.”

Laughter bursts out of me, and he turns his head, one bushy gray eyebrow lifting in my direction.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, kid?” he says, his voice all gruff but with a sparkle in his eye. “Those players would be crying for their mommy if they had to wear the garbage they gave us back then. But no, these pretty boys are out there in bubble wrap and helmets that cost more than my first car.”

Sophie asks, “They’re faster now, right? The game’s faster. Players are fitter.”

“Faster my ass!” He chuckles. “And if they are, it’s because they’ve got rinks smoother than glass, skates made out of goddamn space-age materials, and trainers feeding them organic kale smoothies every morning. We were fueled by coffee, Camel cigarettes—the ones with no filters—and whatever booze we could sneak past the coach.”

“Yeah, ’cause alcohol makes everything better,” she murmurs.

“And don’t even get me started on the money.” He waves his hand around for emphasis. “You know what I made my first year?”

“No, tell us.” Noelle smiles.

“Six thousand bucks. Six grand! And I was lucky to get it. Today, these rookies are signing deals with more zeroes than I can count before they’ve even grown chest hair. And for what? To sit on the bench and cry when they break a nail?”

All of us, even Sophie, crack up at that.

“If I’d been paid in today’s dollars, I’d own a house like this, maybe two.” He chuckles. “Tough game; tell those boys to put away money for their knee and hip replacements now.”

In the last period, the Bears’ two goal lead is down to one when Johnson—fucking Johnson—gets a penalty and Dash is sent to the box on his behalf.

“That son of a bitch is working for the other team!” Paul shakes his head.

“Certainly seems so, doesn’t it?” I agree.

“No, kid, I’m telling you that he’s either getting paid off to play like that, or he’s begging to get traded. That Costello kid paid way too much money for what he’s getting out of him.”

“How do you feel about the other goalies?” Claire asks.

“I think when Deacon Moretti finally stopped pouting, that girl coach played him more and gave him his balls back. And that kid they keep pulling up, he’s as good as Moretti was at his age. I’d cut my losses and put that little shit on the bench—permanently.”

A five-minute penalty means they’re playing the rest of the game a man down.

“Defend the damn goal!” Paul yells when we can see that one of the Utah players has a clear shot.

Rivera and Koa end up somehow saving it, but they’re all over them. Koa finds a hole and rails it to Alex Kilovak, aka The Killer.

“Don’t do it, Killer,” Paul says, seeing something before the players on the ice even do.

Killer winds back and slaps the puck from center ice, making a goal and giving the Bears a two-point lead.

“Another goal!” Sophie shouts.

The whole team surrounds him, celebrating a victory, even before the game is called.

I grab my phone and send Koa a text, knowing he won’t get it until later, but sending so he knows I’m watching.

“Looks like you’ll have a very happy fiancé coming home to you,” Claire says, nudging me.

“It sure does.”

For the remainder of the game, they bust their asses keeping the puck far away from their goal. Koa is on fire—that determined set of his jaw, that focus in his eyes, and it doesn’t waiver as the clock ticks down through the final seconds.

When the buzzer finally sounds, the cameraperson catches the perfect shot of him—sweat glistening on his forehead, his eyes locked and narrowed at Johnson, and I can almost feel the anger rolling off him, even from hundreds of miles away. He’s pissed, as he and the rest of the Bears should be.

The day Koa returned, I was disappointed for the first time since arriving in New York City.

I shared the news via text.

Me:

I got my period.

Koa:

I like a challenge.

Me:

Are you saying you think I won’t be able to get pregnant?

Koa:

You had two things that were off-limits before—anal and period sex.

Me:

Still off limits.

Koa:

We’ll se e.

“Are you sure you want to walk?” Claire nods to the Jeep parked outside the infamous Puck Pad where we just dropped off a few meals for Paul as the Bears left town again.

I glance at her in question as she sets Savannah’s what I can only describe as the Rolls Royce of baby buggies down. The thing has more positions than the Kama Sutra book Noelle gave me as an engagement gift. My man has a baby gear addiction, which Claire expressed was appreciated but unnecessary. He told her whatever she didn’t want she could leave behind when she moved back into her place, so it was here when she was ready to go do things for herself once in a while.

She giggles. “I’ll rephrase: are you sure you can?”

“Oh, hush. We have”—I glance at the map app on my phone—“three point three miles to get to Pembrooke Books, and if my legs turn to mush, I’ll just climb in with Savannah, and you can push us both.”

On our walk, we drop pins at the places we want to stop at on our way back or return to when we get our first paychecks: Chelsea Market, The High Line, The Flat Iron Building, Madison Square Park, No Mad, and Park. When she mentions bringing Savannah to The Plaza and jogging in Central Park with her, I get a warm feeling in my chest, as it’s further confirmation that she’s going to make this their home.

We make plans to hit museum mile together and take a little extra time window shopping on Madison Ave.

“Is that it?” she asks.

When I see Sophie’s car pull up in front of it, I laugh. “I guess it is.”

“I thought she said she couldn’t make it. Didn’t she have some important meeting with her dad?”

“Looks like she rearranged her schedule.”

She does a double-take before crossing the road. “Oh my God.” She busts up laughing. “He is out of control!” She taps on the glass, and her driver, James, who I’ve also learned is the same James who bartends in the box at hockey games, rolls down the window. “They’re going to park the Aston Marton next to the SUV. Can you keep an eye out?”

“Of course.” He opens the door and gets out.

“Park it here”—she points to the sidewalk—“and let’s roll.”

So we do just that.

Outside, it looks just like every other shop up and down the street, but when I touch the brass handle and hold the door open for Claire and Sophie, and the slight jingle of bells rings above, I am hit with the smell that I can imagine Noelle is addicted to. It’s a warm, intoxicating blend of old books and rich coffee mixed with something faintly floral, like lavender, and I pause just inside the threshold, taking it all in. This place is totally Noelle.

Its big windows allow in just enough natural light that soft light from vintage sconces makes everything feel cozy. The tall shelves stretch all the way to the ceiling, their dark wood polished and crammed with books of every imaginable size and color. The worn floorboards creak softly under our feet, a sound that somehow feels like shhh, but a gentle kind as I walk further in. The space may be twenty-five or thirty feet wide, but it’s two, maybe three times the length.

In the back, there’s a collection of mismatched velvet armchairs, where a couple of people are sitting and reading beside the stairway with a wrought iron and wood baluster. Under the stairs is a cute little coffee and tea bar setup in self-service style, where mugs and tiny teapots are displayed and for sale.

Claire is standing in front of what is clearly the children’s section, and Sophie is sliding open a door that reads, “ Powder Room .”

One of the women, maybe in her mid-sixties, looks up from a historical romance novel and, in a thick New York accent, asks, “Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“We should talk NoNo into charging for the use of the restroom,” the other woman jokes … loudly. “She may start making some money.”

“We’re actually here to see Noelle.”

“Kind of got that when the mouthy blonde walked in.”

“I heard that, Karen.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it. And my name is not Karen; it’s Jen.”

The door slides open, and Sophie steps out, drying her hands on a paper towel. “Then stop acting like a Karen.”

She waves her off. “Oh, hush.”

“She upstairs?” Sophie asks.

“She’s feeling inspired today—don’t go ebbing her flow,” the other woman states firmly.

“Pfft, I inspire her muses,” Sophie calls back.

I hear what sounds like a chair being pushed from a table, and the clack , clack , clacking sound stops.

“Is that you, Sophie?” Noelle calls from somewhere above.

“We’re coming up.”

“No, no, no. Hold on; give me a minute. I’ll be right down.”

“Noelle”—she laughs—“we can …” She stops when Noelle starts down the stairs, hair sticking out of her messy bun, tank top under her cardigan stained with coffee, with not one stitch of makeup on to hide the obvious bags under her eyes. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

“I am inspired.” She nearly trips down the stairs when she runs down the rest of them and laughs. “I just need ten more hours in the day.”

The bells jingle, and a cold breeze rushes through from the outside as a mess of red hair swirls around, hiding the face of a woman who laughs as she looks down. “Well, okay then, come right in.” When the door shuts behind her, she pushes her hair from her face and smiles as she looks around then looks down. “Why would you ever leave here?”

She bends down then stands, holding a black cat in her arms, and glances around until her eyes meet ours. “Hi, I’m Hildy, and I’m here for the job posted online.”

“You posted a help wanted add online?” Sophie whispers.

“Maybe?” She scratches her head.

“What do you mean maybe ?” Sophie whisper-hisses.

“I mean, yeah, but it was?—”

Hildy walks over and holds out her hand to Noelle. “You’re amazing.”

“She’s what?” Sophie asks, and I elbow her.

“Aspiring author, current bookshopeteer, looking for a bookworm who loves the classics. Will pay for twenty hours a week, but you’ll want to be here forty. Benefits: all the tea you can drink and reading material you can consume, but don’t dog-ear the pages. Is this your cat?”

“What the fuck is?—”

“It is now, and you are hired,” Noelle cuts Sophie off and takes the cat.