8. Robbie

"So am I playing along?" Spags yanks on the strings of his sweatshirt hood, "Because last time I was in the middle of a secret relationship, I blew it wide open after someone didn't clue me in to my duties."

He means Vic and Tristan and their elopement last season, but I'm not really sure what he means by duties. It seems like common sense to not comment on other people's life choices. If he hasn't figured that out by twenty, then there isn't much hope for him. Except when I open my mouth to say " don't tell anyone that we're pretending to date ," that doesn't feel right. And " go ahead and tell the truth so our parents know we're lying ," feels just as bad.

Except we aren't lying, we just aren't correcting. Or something like that. Honestly, this is a horrible idea. It's just prolonging the inevitable conversation when we explain that no, we aren't marching down the aisle in the foreseeable future, and it'll be even worse since we let everyone buy into the lie.

And yet I don't think I've ever agreed to anything faster. Vera Novak looked up at me with her big green eyes and my brain melted out of my ears. I'd have agreed to pretty much anything just to slide my hand along hers.

"See?" Spags says, "Not that easy to answer, now is it?"

"Is this really where you want to have this conversation?"

We're standing at center ice on the regulation-size rink just outside the town limits, while twenty-four of the areas most talented skaters run warm up laps around the edge of the bleachers. They're excited to be here for this week-long intensive before their seasons kick off in the fall. Almost all of them are smiling and chatting with each other as we start off easy. Most of these kids play AAA and have for years. This might be their second or third summers joining me on the ice to hone some of their skills during the offseason.

There are two main types of hockey camps that kids can attend during the summer months. The first are the camps with hundreds of kids crammed into a few small rinks. The camps are about ice time, about skill, about speed. It's not the camp a skater enrolls in to make connections or get noticed. That's the second kind. A camp with a smaller roster, fewer kids on the ice, and more one-on-one time with high-profile coaches.

This camp is the latter. Not every kid who steps onto the ice with me will make it to the NHL, or even the juniors. Some may never play after high school until they join a beer league with their buddies. And yet I keep an eye on my players even after the week is done. I might make a strategic call or two, put the right name in the right ears.

These kids might be laser-focused on hockey, ready and eager to hand over precious hours of their free time for my help, but they're also still teenagers. Spags and I were both recognized on sight as we walked in the front door, practically mobbed by a mass of kids who knew our stats by heart. They're little sponges, ready to soak up every iota of advice we can provide and if they slurp up any gossip with that? Well, that's just a bonus.

"I figured you didn't want me to ask over eggs this morning, but I thought we should hash out the basics before dinner tonight."

Dinner.

Right.

Because as much as I want to blame Vera for getting us into this mess—and I can't even do that—I'm the one who suggested she and her parents come over for dinner. In my mind, I thought it might be easier to put on one performance, together, for both of our families. Now it feels like we're staring down the barrel of a fully loaded weapon, playing Russian roulette, as we wait for the next round to fire or not.

"And you couldn't say something during the twenty-minute ride to the rink?"

Spags shrugs. "I planned to, but I forgot."

Aka he got distracted singing along to the music on the radio and his brain only had space for dance moves, not important conversations.

"I just need to know if I'm acting just as surprised as they are that you two are together, or am I allowed to know about the torch you've carried for years?"

"I didn't carry a torch." The response is automatic.

"Yeah, okay, and you're also not a terrible liar," Spags winks. "It's okay, you know." My teammate continues as if he can't hear the way my heart is beating its way out of my chest. "We all have someone who pushes all the right buttons. You could do a lot worse than Vera Novak. I mean, she's probably the hottest—" he clears his throat at my glare, "I meant it as a compliment."

"It's not one."

"Calling a woman attractive isn't a compliment?"

"No," I say, jamming my hands onto my hips so I won't fist them. If I fist them, I'll be tempted to punch my assistant and I don't think that would set a good example for the teens, no matter how many points I have this season. Sometimes being a role model sucks.

"So, should I say she isn't hot?"

My altruism is coming back to bite me in the ass. I took the kid in as a favor to Vic and Tristan, and now I'm going to go down on a murder charge.

"No." I growl that word as Spags tips his head back and howls. The sound reverberates off the metal beams on the ceiling and a bunch of the kids turn to give us interested glances even as they pick up their pace.

"You're so easy to rile up," Spags says, shuffling his feet in a move that reminds me of break-dancers. For a moment, I picture him losing an edge, slamming down onto his stomach. I don't want him hurt, just embarrassed. Shocked into shutting his mouth. Besides, fantasies don't count, and I'd never make him fall. On purpose.

Probably.

"Don't talk about her," I say, raising my arm to look at my watch.

"You got it, Dad," Spags winks.

I call the run to a halt.

It's only the first day, and I spend some time talking to the kids about what to expect from the week. It will not be all fun and games. This isn't summer camp. Spags and I—and the three other coaches we have on hand—are going to be running drills until they drop. We aren't teaching them basics. We are going to be honing specific skills to help them improve their speed, agility, endurance, and stick handling on the ice. These kids are going to sweat, their muscles are going to shake, they're going to be cursing my name by Friday. And when their seasons kick off this year, they'll be showing new skills on the ice.

For now, we split them into teams and assign each a basic color. They get new practice jerseys and I send them off to the locker room to gear up. From here on out, they work as a unit. They succeed and fail together. Players can be awarded points for improvement, determination, hard work. By the end of the week, one team will win the Stanley Tucci Water Bottle, aka a new practice water bottle covered in gold with their names on it—thank my mom for that one.

Out in the stands is one lone girl, reading. She has blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and tucked under a dark green hoodie and the lanky build of a high schooler. She's chewing on her thumbnail as she turns the pages of a small paperback, her eyes darting toward the ice, Spags, and me. She feels familiar somehow.

She isn't. I know that. I don't know any little blondes who would sit in the bleachers, scuffing the toes of their checker print shoes along the seat in front of them. I watch as she pushes her bangs back and starts gnawing on the other thumb. I can't figure out why my gaze keeps skating toward her, maybe because she's the only teenager I can think of that isn't glued to her phone while waiting for someone to finish a multi-hour hockey intensive. She could be a player who had to bow out for injury. I told all three they were welcome no matter what, they could watch all week, but I had too long a waiting list to not replace them with another player.

"My money's on Green making it back out first. Those kids looked like they meant business." Spags says to Brad, the varsity high school coach from the next town over.

He nods. "Marlowe will shift them into gear."

"Which one is that?" Spags asks and I try to pull up the kid's face in my mind.

It's mostly to see if I'm making progress with the kids' names, but I'm also noting the conversation so I can monitor the skater as the week unfolds.

"Tall, floppy brown hair. Came in with the Buffalo hat." Brad nods.

"They all look like that," Spags says, as if he doesn't also fit that statistic—minus the hat, of course. Spags wasn't born and raised in Central New York.

"Will Marlowe," Brad says, and Spags shrugs as I make plans to quiz him on the roster as we drive home. "The whole county breathed a sigh of relief when he opted out of varsity and focused only on travel. Although that banner would have looked pretty in my office."

Either he's that good or he's a brawler, but my money is on the first. Especially if he's here at camp.

Brad nods at the stands. "That's his girlfriend Nora. She came to every one of his games last year and I let her sit in the warm room during most practices. Not a great home life. She's a sweet girl. You won't hear a peep out of her, and Marlowe knows to keep his focus on the ice."

"He knows you'll boot his chick if he doesn't and then he'll be in the doghouse with us and her," one of the other coaches says and everyone laughs.

Not me.

"We aren't talking like that here," I tell the man with the bushy mustache. "You respect everyone in this building or you're gone. Staff, skater, or bystander. Understood?"

Both Brad and Mustache nod and I don't even bother checking in with Spags. He knows better. Vic and I have taught him better. Treat others with respect, especially when in a position of influence. Actually, Tristan taught him that one. Something about taxidermized dicks if he ever even thought about sending photos to unsuspecting models. Considering he didn't end up on TMZ again, I think her verbal beat down worked.

A roar of sound precedes the teenagers piling back onto the ice. The coaches count heads, but Spags called it right. Green team is the winner, edging out Yellow by a single player. Gavin Rimes got his jersey on backwards and was suitably ragged on by the others.

One taller boy circles away, making lazy loops that take him closer and closer to the boards. His Kelly green jersey doesn't have a name, but I know who he is even before I catch him lifting his eyes from under the cage of his helmet. In the stands, Nora's mouth shifts as she tries to hide her smile, pink climbing up her cheeks. Marlowe's face is flushed too, his grin full of mouth guard. Deep in the hollow between my ribs, my heart turns over.

Brad calls Marlowe back to the group, and he comes, sparing a second glance back at Nora. He joins the others as they bump their shoulders against his, bulky under the padding. The red hasn't faded from his cheeks, but neither has his smile.

"Head on the ice, right Marlowe?"

"Yes, Sir." The kid dips his chin in acknowledgment and I look past him to see Nora turn her gaze from the ice back to her book, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

Today we're going to start with edge work drills. Two of the teams will go with Brad and Mustache, the other two will stay here with Spags and me. We'll swap halfway through each day, but first we set the kids to skating laps to get a feel for the ice. Unlike the warm up jog, the edge of competition is in the air and the teens are trying to outpace each other. Now that they know points are on the line, they each want a chance at showing off their skills.

Marlowe is at the front of the pack. He's not cutting off his peers, or doling out the subtle bumps to the hips and shoulders that some are sharing when they think no one is looking. These kids should all be able to avoid "accidental" contact, but none of us says anything to stop it. Jostling along the boards is a regular part of the game, as is learning to avoid it. Even offensive players need to have some sense of personal defense. Either know how to get through the fight, or be sure you can win it.

The kids head down the far wall and round the corner behind the net. Marlowe's head is up, like any good skater. He's not watching his feet, but looking where he wants to go. And then his eyes shift from his path and I know what he's doing even before I lift my gaze to Nora, too. Her eyes are on the player in front, a small smile tipping the corner of her mouth.

I'm reminded of Vera against my better judgement. She used to sit in the stands when she watched me play. I'd seek her out after every goal, after every stoppage of play, whenever I could spare a second.

"Marlowe," Brad calls out. "Don't lose your focus." And the kid drops his chin in understanding, pushing off with even more speed than before and widening the gap between him and the other players.

"Young love," Brad laughs. "This is why I prefer my players don't date. Pulls their focus."

It's not an argument I haven't heard before. I was the young player in love, once. Warring with the need to ask Vera to stay away from my games so I could concentrate, and needing her there with a terrifying depth of devotion for sixteen. I had a good balance going for a bit. I used her presence to better my play, to motivate myself to be the very best. Until…

Until I had to make a choice. And so did she.

That moment of eye contact doesn't slow Marlowe down at all. No one overtakes him or trips him. No one steals the puck out from under his nose. I know Brad played in college, and spent a few years in the ECHL and the AHL. Surely he knows that even during our professional careers, we look for those connections. We want people in our corner, not just the teams. People who show up because of who we are, not the colors that we wear.

"He's fine," I say, and when Brad opens his mouth to respond I add, "He picked his moment and was smart about it. If it becomes an issue, we can address it."

Brad and Mustache—I really should learn his name—share a look that hides nothing.

"Don't we want these kids to be the best?" Mustache asks. As if he thinks I'd say no. I just don't know if Nora is the thing stopping Marlowe from meeting his potential. It's such a commonly held belief in the sports world, "dating ruining athletes," especially teenage sports. I can't help but wonder when the kid will be told he needs to choose.

And I can't help but wonder what his choice will be? Hockey or his girl.

Laps complete, the kids run through some basic stretches and I put some space between myself and Brad-Mustache. I make wide loops around the groups of kids, offering bits of advice for how to get a better stretch in the quad, or to slow down and avoid injury. It's always humbling to connect with these kids and see their eyes go wide as they nod like bobble heads, taking absolutely everything I say as fact.

Spags skates up after me, and for all my complaining about his drive and maturity, he gets the same wowed treatment from the kids as he hands out his two-cents.

"I'm just saying," Spags says as we stop near the blue line.

I let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Not now," I warn, but since when does Spags ever listen to those?

"I can play along all you want, but it's going to look a bit suspicious if your girlfriend isn't even staying with you."

I frown.

"You put me—a random teammate and virtual slave labor—up in your cozy home, and your girlfriend—the love of your life forever—has to go stay somewhere else? The math ain't mathin'. I guess you could say she'd like to spend the time with her parents so she's staying with them but—"

"She's not staying with them." I say, feeling a tightness pulling behind my eyes and temples. "They have a one bedroom. She's in a hotel."

"Now see?" Spags grins. "I'll just swap with her. Go take her nice cozy hotel room and the two of you can canoodle with witnesses for the rest of the week. No harm, no—"

"Not happening," I say. Not only is Vera's room hers, and I would never make her come stay in my home if she isn't comfortable, but I'm not unleashing Spags on a hotel full of innocent patrons when he has un-restricted access to a mini-bar. That would not be doing my job as babysitter and there's a greater than zero chance that Tristan, social media and PR Queen, would castrate me. A risk I am not willing to take.

Unfortunately, Spags is right. Vera and I aren't kids anymore. While sharing a space might not have been a possibility sixteen years ago, it would be expected now. It's a detail we should have hashed out down by the old creek. There are several things we should have gone over, especially before we have to take this show on the road at dinner tonight, but Vera looked up at me with her wide, green eyes, and I lost myself counting the specks of brown dotting her irises. I lost myself in the cadence of her voice, stroking along the back of my neck and down my spine. I lost myself just being near her again. She could have told me aliens abducted her and sent her back to Earth to spread their message of peace, and I probably would have agreed.

Maybe we can stick as close to the truth as possible. We didn't plan for this, we just couldn't avoid our connection any longer. Or I could leave Spags at my parents' and join Vera at the hotel myself. Press her into the generic coverlet as I lick my way down her stomach. Shift her hair over her shoulder as I suck on the spot where her shoulder meets her neck. Push my hips into hers as I bend her over the bureau and meet her eyes in the mirror. A shudder runs down my spine and Spags narrows his eyes at me like he can see my thoughts.

"Focus on the job, Spags," I say, and his answering grin makes me want to slew-foot him.

"Sure thing, Dad." He winks. "We can figure this out later."

Or never. Never sounds good.