1. Bryson

"In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed." —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Tie game,third period, less than four minutes on the clock.

The entire arena was electric. Everyone was on their feet, stomping, clapping, cheering, and bellowing their lungs out with a rabid air of anticipatory excitement. The wall of sound echoed, ratcheting up a few notches at the barrage of whistles as two refs descended on a scrap-up left of Toronto's goal and sent one of their forwards to the sin bin for tripping.

Finally!The Scorpions needed this break. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood, willing our guys to score on this power play.

"Oh, crisse! What is wrong with Jeffries? He is slower than the molasses in the—" Jean-Claude snapped his fingers and wrinkled his nose, his Quebecois accent thick with frustration. "What is the saying?"

"January," I replied, my gaze locked on number twelve. "C'mon, Jake, c'mon."

JC scoffed. "Slower than January? Weird, okay."

"Slower than molasses in January." Riley elbowed his husband playfully. "You're right. He's having an off night and Jake is—oh…let's go, Jake!"

Jake had the puck. He skated like the wind with Toronto's beast of a D-man on his tail. The knot in my stomach tightened, making me woozy. There was nothing quite like watching your twenty-one-year-old son being chased like a deer trying to outrun a hungry lion. And that was exactly what was happening out there.

Damn, I was getting too old for this. The gut-wrenching stomachaches I'd remembered from watching Jake's youth hockey games were nothing compared to an AHL division playoff game with seasoned, tough-as-nails players vying for their shot to play in the championship. I'd known this was going to be a rough one, but I'd underestimated Toronto's tenacity. And I definitely hadn't considered how terrifying it would be to see my son being pursued by Smitty Paluchek, a six-foot-five force to be reckoned with.

Paluchek had garnered a reputation for being a monster on the ice. I was pretty sure he'd played a few games in the NHL too, but he hadn't played for Philly or a team I'd rooted for, so I hadn't followed his career.

All I knew was that Jake thoroughly disliked him, which I suspected had more to do with being intimidated by a veteran who pulled no punches rather than a personal issue with his character.

I clenched my jaw, willing Jake to pass to Lombardi or Newinski or anyone before he got clobbered.

Jake was quick, but Smitty was a behemoth who used his might and impressive muscle mass to clear the ice and keep pesky forwards from scoring by whatever means necessary. Holy shit. He was going to make mincemeat out of my son in front of my very eyes.

It wasn't quite that dramatic, but sure enough, Smitty cut him off, blocking Jake's errant wrist shot with ease. He delivered a wicked hip check for his troubles and dumped the puck to a teammate just as the penalty clock ran out. So much for our big break.

JC, Riley, and I, along with the other Scorpion fans in the building, let out a collective groan and commenced screaming for our defense to get their asses in gear.

My gaze flitted between our goalie preparing to fight off the attack at our end of the ice and Jake still jawing with Smitty at the scene of the previous play.

Jake, what are you doing? Don't mess with that guy. Don't say anything dumb. Don't needle him. Don't?—

"What is he doing?" I asked, popping an antacid into my mouth as my son pushed the larger man.

Jake was tall and lean like me—six three with broad shoulders and a toned frame built for speed. I preferred running, but Jake loved being on the ice, whipping around corners at dizzying clips with a stick in his hand. So why was he still there, goading the giant? Skate away, Jakey. Skate away.

Jake shoved Smitty again, which made the other man laugh. I couldn't tell if it was a good thing that Smitty seemed more amused than angry at Jake's swipe. Hmm, probably bad.

"He is poking a bear. Foolish boy. This won't end well," JC predicted with a sigh.

My paternal instincts kicked into gear. Of course, Jake knew what he was doing. He'd played hockey his whole life. Scrapping with opponents was just part of the job.

But even I knew Smitty was no ordinary player.

I almost choked on my Tums when Jake escalated the spat, skating into Smitty's space. I could practically see steam rising from under his helmet, and that alone was reason for concern.

Jake was no hothead. It took a lot to provoke him, but Smitty had obviously succeeded. And worse, he knew it. No doubt the D-man was spouting some nonsense that was chafing at Jake's skin like a nasty splinter slicing under a fingernail.

I spared a quick glance toward the scrum around the goal, willing our defense to hold and ideally shoot the puck this way. A shift in momentum might break up this squabble before it escalated with unfortunate consequences.

I turned my attention back to Jake and gulped.

Whatever he'd said had made Smitty laugh out loud. His teeth gleamed through his mouthguard, and his grin was so wide I could see his dimples from my seat. Not too proud to admit that my initial reaction was "Wow, he's kind of hot." But then he winked, and I knew the shit was about to hit the fan.

"Oh…no."

Jake dropped his stick, yanked off his glove, and threw a wild punch that grazed Smitty's chin. Smitty was still smiling as he tossed his own stick and cocked his fist, socking Jake in the jaw.

Whistles shrieked in tandem, but Jake must have been in a fury-hazed zone. He grabbed Smitty's jersey and fired off another punch or two. Honestly, he looked more like a mouse swatting a lion than a badass jock sorting out the enemy.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, my heart beating a rapid tattoo as the refs and both teams descended on the melee. Jake was still swinging when they finally pulled him off Smitty. And Smitty was still chuckling, blood dripping from the corner of his lip like a greedy vampire, hands raised in mock surrender. His teammates slapped his back, tapped their sticks to his, and cheered him on as they escorted him to the bench while Jake skated alone to the sin bin.

Twenty seconds later, Toronto scored on a power play.

One minute and ten seconds later, the season was officially over for the Syracuse Scorpions.

JC and Riley shot matching conciliatory glances my way. I smiled wanly and kept my eye on Jake's hunched shoulders. I could feel his frustration like a physical thing, and it hurt. If your kid is in pain, you're in pain. It doesn't matter how old they are.

I'd spent the last twenty-one years wishing I could shield him from disappointment and unpleasantries. We each had our own battles and they had to be faced alone, but it didn't stop me from worrying or wishing I could fix this.

"Tough break for Jake, but damn, he asked for it. Smitty is still a beast," Riley said, ripping me from my reverie.

"He is." JC patted my shoulder and motioned for me to step aside for other patrons exiting our row. "That's what fifteen years in the pros teaches you, eh? You learn to read weakness and exploit it for gain."

Riley nodded. "And if you're really good, you get away with a parting shot. Jake's going to have a nice shiner."

I didn't reply. They were probably right. Between the two of them, they had decades worth of experience. Riley Thoreau had retired from the NHL a couple of years ago after seventeen years and Jean-Claude, a.k.a. JC Bouchard, had played in the AHL for Quebec for ten years.

Nowadays, their lives looked very different. JC was a celebrated chef and part owner of two well-respected restaurants in Vermont. He was a big man in his midforties with reddish hair, an acerbic tongue, a melodic Quebecois accent, and a bit of a belly, which—in his words—proved he was good at his job.

His husband, on the other hand, was model handsome. Riley had dark hair, gray eyes, and a trim, muscular physique. He was the athletic director at Elmwood High School as well as a coach for our junior club team. And Jake was one of the lucky kids who'd benefitted from having a former NHL star with powerful connections take him under his wing.

Of course, Jake had worked hard to get where he was, and he could be proud of his season. Too bad it had just ended with a humiliating fight that was entirely his fault, but hey…lesson learned.

I hoped.

I waited with JC and Riley in the corridor outside the players' entrance, checking messages on my cell as I tuned out my friends' husband-y banter about driving on from Syracuse to Rochester to visit Riley's sister.

"The kids are dying to see us. Those munchkins love you, babe," Riley cajoled. "And it's only an hour drive."

"One hour? No way. It's longer and I love the kids too, but I don't love their parrot. We are not sleeping with the parrot who sings Star Wars songs. No, thank you. And—ah!" JC pushed away from the wall and opened his arms in greeting. "Jake Milligan, we've come from the land of Elms and wood to watch your game. It was a tough one, but you are tougher, oui?"

Jake fist-bumped JC and Riley, smiling sheepishly. "Thanks for making the trip."

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't have missed it for the world," I enthused, indulging in a one-armed hug I figured he wouldn't try to wriggle out of immediately. "Those two just tagged along."

"Sorry it turned out to be a bust. I really thought we could beat Toronto," Jake griped, pushing his longish blond hair from his forehead. "They're…old. No offense, guys."

JC rolled his eyes. "Older than twenty-one, maybe. Out of curiosity, how old is Paluchek?"

He aimed his question at Riley, but Jake jumped in first. "Thirty-five, I think. Ugh, I hate that asshole."

Riley snorted. "I get it, but not to worry…he's retiring this year. You won't ever have to play him again."

"Thank God," Jake huffed.

"Well, that doesn't mean you won't see him again. I'm trying to recruit Smitty to coach for us at Elmwood High."

Jake froze, jaw open. "What? No way."

"Yeah, he coaches off-season in Detroit. I've seen him in action, and he's inspiring," Riley continued.

"He sucks. Don't do it. Don't?—"

"Relax. He turned us down, but…I'm not giving up!" Riley squeezed Jake's shoulder and moved to JC's side. "We're Rochester bound. See you boys at home next week."

We said our good-byes and continued at a slower pace, recapping highlights from the game. I grunted and sighed when cued, but Jake's tension seemed to ease with every step and so did mine. In fact, by the time we reached the exit, he was chuckling over a play one of his teammates had boggled.

That same teammate, Rennie—a skinny guy with a huge beard—stopped for a round of high fives and reminded Jake that they were meeting up for consolation beers, stat.

Jake shook his head. "Nah, thanks. My dad's in town and?—"

"Cool. Join us. See ya at The Anchor in ten, Milligan." Rennie punched Jake's biceps, waved at me, and disappeared.

"You should go," I said, hiking my thumb toward the parking lot.

"Dad, I haven't seen you in a month and?—"

"That's okay. We have this summer, right?"

Jake frowned. "Yeah, but…are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Go on." I hugged him impulsively and sneaked a kiss on his cheek. "Hey, I love you and I'm proud of you. I think you were a rock star out there tonight…and all season."

"Thanks. Love you too." He hefted his strap over his shoulder and raised his stick. "I'll call you tomorrow."

I watched Jake walk away, bracing against the familiar tide of loneliness. It was such a normal sensation, I was surprised it registered at all. I was used to being alone.

I had two identities—real estate agent and Jake's dad. One was my job; the other was my heart. One needed my constant attention; the other…didn't.

Okay, maudlin musings were not my style. Seriously. I was cheerful, upbeat, gregarious, optimistic. Ask anyone. I didn't dwell on angst or allow myself to get sidetracked by negativity. I was a problem solver, and I liked to think having a positive outlook made me a happy person.

But maybe it was possible to be happy and lonely at the same time.

Ugh.This was what happened when I hung out with JC and Riley for too long. All that happy-couple energy was hard to take after a while, I mused, pulling the keys for my rental car from my pocket.

Twilight painted the horizon in shades of burnt orange, turning to deep shades of indigo in the early spring sky. After two years of traveling to Syracuse for Jake's games, I knew my way around the city. Well…at the very least, I could drive from the arena to my hotel without getting hopelessly lost.

I fussed with the radio, settling on a Johnny Cash classic before navigating the mostly empty lot. A few yards from the street exit, the car lurched to one side with an alarming ka-plat, ka-plop, ka-plat, ka-plop sound.

Fuck me sideways.

I smacked the steering wheel with my fist, pouring all my untapped anger at the universe into that impotent punch. And yes, now my hand hurt.

I parked in the nearest space and stepped out of the car, sighing at the flat right rear tire. Well, this sucked. I supposed I had to be grateful it hadn't popped on the main road—or worse, on the interstate.

But still…

I examined the damage like I knew fuck-all about tires. I didn't know shit, but I knew how to call for help. I scrolled for roadside assistance info, kicking the tire in frustration when I was immediately put on hold. I paced from the driver's side to the trunk and back again, raking my fingers through my hair while grumbling under my breath.

I could have hitched a ride with JC and Riley to the game and then ubered to the hotel. I didn't need a rental to drive five miles. This was a habit, like all the other stupid habits I'd incorporated into my life for no apparent reason, like…why did I eat plain toast every day? Why did I sleep on the left side of the bed if I could spread out on the whole mattress?

Bad examples. The better question was, why did I always decline the simplest invitations? No, thanks. I've got a car. I'll drive myself. No, thanks. Go to the bar without me. I'll go to the hotel…alone and order room service and watch Law and Order reruns and?—

"Good evening. How may I help you?" a friendly voice asked on the line.

I exhaled in relief. "Hi, I have a flat tire. I'm in the parking lot at?—"

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Yes, can you hear me? I'm at the arena," I said louder than necessary. "The signal is good on my end, but maybe if I walk away from the car, you can?—"

"Hello?"

"Yes, I'm here." I waved like an idiot. "I'm?—"

Click.

I clutched my cell in my hand and cocked my elbow, grinding my molars to quell the urge to chuck my phone across the lot.

"Hey, you all right?"

I pivoted toward the white truck idling beside my rental, squinting from the glare of the headlights. "Uh…I have a flat. I'm trying to call for help, but I must have a bad signal."

The driver turned off his engine and hopped out, pointing at the wonky tire. "Looks like there's a nail in the tread. Have you checked for the spare?"

"I—no. Theoretically, I know there should be one, but I wouldn't know where to look," I admitted, darting a cautious glance at the Good Samaritan. Or so I hoped. I mean, he was in the same parking lot as me after a hockey game, which narrowed the possible creep factor a little. Maybe?

Well, whoever he was, he was huge. A couple of inches taller than me and broader…everywhere—his shoulders, his chest, his hands. His dark-blond hair was shaggy and damp, as if he'd just stepped out of the shower, and when he bent to study the bolts on the tire rim, I couldn't help noticing his tattooed muscular arms straining the seams of his T-shirt.

Maybe he was a hockey player? The lack of lighting made it difficult to see him clearly, but he was certainly built like one. He had a light end-of-day beard, a jagged scar at his temple, and a fresh scrape on his lower lip. I was instantly reminded of Jake's new shiner. It hadn't looked bad, which I hoped meant no black eye. Not that Jake cared. He wore game-time bumps and bruises like badges of honor. This guy probably did too.

"Pop the trunk, and let's see what you've got," the stranger ordered, brushing his palms on his weathered Levi's.

I obeyed, pulling out my carry-on. The trunk was empty. "Shoot. I don't think I have one. Unless it's under the car?"

"On a Chevy Malibu? I don't think so," he said with a chuckle.

He pinched the edges of the mat and peeled it off, and…ta-da.

"Wow, that's pretty clever."

He gave a half laugh. "I don't see any tools here, but no worries, I've got a jack in my truck. Be right back."

He returned with a small box and immediately got to work, cranking the car off the ground, unscrewing bolts, shimmying the old tire off and sliding the new one on. I hovered nearby, far enough away in case he turned out to be a psycho yet close enough not to seem ungracious.

When the job was complete, my Good Samaritan fastened the toolbox and straightened, his gaze fixed on his handiwork.

"All set?"

He nodded. "You're good to go."

"Does that mean it's safe to drive around town?" I asked. "I'm not going far. My hotel is close, and I'm heading to the airport in the morning."

"Oh, yeah. You'll be fine."

"Well, I don't know how to thank you," I gushed, holding out my hand. "This was above and beyond. I truly appreciate it."

"No problem. You're welcome, man." He swiped his hand on his tee and flashed a lopsided grin, clasping his palm to mine.

My grip froze as recognition dawned.

I opened my mouth and left it there, gaping at him like a fish. "You're Smitty. Smitty Paluchek."

"In the flesh." His smile widened, spreading over the hard lines of his jaw and softening his gaze till he looked downright handsome. And those dimples….yeah, he was a sexy beast.

"Uh…n-nice to meet you," I stammered, still shaking his hand.

Smitty gently freed his hand and cocked his head curiously. "I'm guessing you were at the game tonight."

"Yes, yes. My son plays for the Scorpions," I said in a rush.

"Really? You don't look old enough to have a kid in the pros. Who's your son?"

You know, I was generally a pretty smooth operator. I sold real estate, for fuck's sake, so I had to be. My schmooze game was top-notch, and I prided myself on being able to talk to anyone about almost any subject. But I was suddenly at a loss.

This was Jake's nemesis, the player he despised above all others, but Smitty seemed pretty damn cool to me. I mean…he'd just gotten off the ice after a brutal, winner-takes-all game, yet he'd stopped to help a complete stranger with a flat tire.

I wondered if he'd regret his random act of kindness in three, two, one…

"Jake Milligan. The guy who punched you in the face."