33. barn burner

33

BARN BURNER

Oh, ice hockey, how I love to hate you. But what female can truly hate such a gorgeous display of masculinity? The sheer physical strength required to skate so fast, so gracefully, is astounding, as is the necessary mental acuity to keep track of a tiny, flying disc.

I haven't been to a game since Kevin and I broke up. Not even to support my brother, who offered at least ten times to kick Kevin off the team. I honestly didn't care and told him as much. It wasn't like watching the games was my favorite pastime.

Though Jameson never mentioned anything else about defending my honor, a few weeks post-breakup I did overhear him explaining to Dad the reason for his scabbed, bruised knuckles. My twin kicked some cheater-ass, almost landing Kevin in the hospital. But because men are weird, apparently the Fight Club reenactment settled the issue—Kevin still plays defense for the Ice Holes.

Jessica and I sit on the top row of bleachers outside the rink, munching on popcorn drowned in butter and wincing every time someone hits a wall. My dad can't handle being so far from the action and is pressed up against the plexiglass barrier along with a handful of other enthusiasts, alternately cheering and cussing.

"Should he be getting so worked up?" I ask as I watch him pound on the glass. He's not the only one going apeshit, but I missed whatever happened to cause the hysteria.

Jessica smiles and taps her watch. "He's not allowed to yell more than once every five minutes. If he does, we have to leave."

My eyes widen. "You're savage."

Just then, my dad turns and looks up at us. Jessica holds up five fingers. He grins sheepishly in return, then nods and turns back to the glass.

"Can we keep you?" I ask fervently.

Jessica laughs, blushing a pretty pink. "That depends on your dad, Mia. Oh! Look at Jameson go!"

My brother weaves expertly around opponents, the puck flying just ahead of his stick. Making it look effortless, he feints a few times, does an awesome spin, and slaps the puck into the goal just as the buzzer ends the second period.

"You want anything?" asks Jessica. "I'm gonna hit the ladies' room and grab a soda."

I shake my head. "I'm good, thanks."

She moves agilely down the bleachers as the teams skate off the ice for a breather. The score is 2-1 in favor of the Ice Holes. I watch my brother's teammates congregating on the bench. Three seats down from my brother, Kevin removes his helmet and squirts water into his mouth.

Oddly, seeing his face doesn't escalate my anxiety. I'm not even that nervous. For a long time, my selective memory painted Kevin as some evildoer who deserved slow dismemberment, but like Dr. Wilson is trying to teach me, things aren't usually as simple as good and bad. Yes, he cheated on me, but I had a part in our demise, too. I was pretending to be someone I wasn't, and that wasn't fair to either of us.

"Amelia!"

I look around the crowded bleachers for the source of the voice but don't see anyone looking at me.

"Over here!"

A skinny arm waves at me from the third row. Attached to the arm is a familiar—and shocking—face, currently grinning from ear to ear. Vincent . I gawk for a second, then smile and wave back. Scanning the area, I don't see Leo. Two women bracket Vincent, all of them wearing beanies and jackets. Could it be Marianne and Celia?

What the hell are they all doing here?

My gaze snaps to the opposing team's bench. Like clouds parting, two players shift and #17's jersey comes into view.

Chastain

For the love of God, seriously?

"Are you here to see my dad?"

In the lapse during which my brain half-melted, Vincent climbed the bleachers. There aren't many people on the top rows, so he perches beside my propped feet and smiles up at me.

My vocabulary finally returns. "Uh, no, actually. My brother is on the other team."

His nose scrunches. "Aw, that sucks. We're gonna whoop them in the last period."

I can't help laughing. "Is that right?"

Vincent nods confidently. "My dad almost went pro. He's the best player in the league."

My mind flashes back to one of the sessions at Oasis and Leo asking, "Do you have a weakness for hockey players?"

Wow, Universe. Just wow.

"Do you like my dad?"

Focusing on Vincent's face and the bright curiosity there, I nod. "He's pretty cool."

"Yeah. For an old guy. How old are you? Do you have a boyfriend?"

This freaking kid.

"I'm, uh, twenty-eight. And no."

To my endless gratitude, the buzzer interrupts Vincent's next, no-doubt-awkward question. The teams hit the ice, skating around the newly polished surface. I lose sight of #17, but not for long. A figure—familiar even through pads—stops at the glass opposite Vincent's abandoned seat. Through the clear visor, I see Leo's questioning look to the women.

All I can do is watch, a bystander to life's hilarity, as the women turn and point up, as Leo's gaze lifts, scanning, then lands like a blow on my face.

His eyes widen. His mouth drops open .

"There he is!" cries Vincent, standing and waving.

Leo recovers, grinning and waving at his son. My stomach does a little flip, then my ovaries join in with an irrepressible shimmy. Leo's final glance is for me, and it's so full of heat that my toes curl. All my excuses and defenses melt like smoke.

Just like that, I know—I'm getting on the train and riding it until it crashes.

The puck drops and it's instant pandemonium on the ice. Tapping Vincent on the shoulder, I ask over the noise, "Do you think you can give me your dad's phone number?"

"Sure! What for?"

I think fast. "I, um, want to talk to him about those surfing lessons."

Vincent's whole face lights up. "Awesome!"

The lie doesn't sit well, but the truth isn't an option. I only hope that when this bites me in the ass, it won't hurt too badly. And won't hurt anyone else at all.

Putting my guilt aside, I smile at Vincent as I enter Leo's number in my phone, then promise I'll do my best to convince his dad about the lessons. I doubt Leo will go for it, but at least it's a promise I can keep.