8. Smitty

Elmwood High School was a state-of-the-art, modern campus abutting the forest. The architect had gone for a rustic contemporary look with locally harvested wood, glass, and steel. And it worked. Let me just tell you, the main entrance gave log cabin meets fancy Aspen lodge vibes that in no way, shape, or form resembled my alma mater. This school was incredible.

It was the first eco-friendly, sustainable structure boasting its use of renewable energy, waste reduction, and water efficiency in Elmwood according to my tour guide and temporary assistant coach, Court Henderson. It reminded me of a super nice hotel with sweeping views and cathedral ceilings. However, the classrooms and open-concept hallways lined with student lockers indicated that this was in fact, a place of learning.

And a kickass place to play hockey.

No shit.The rink at Elmwood High was beautiful. It was pristine in the way brand-new things were. The stadium seating was shiny, the scoreboard gleamed, and the ice was smooth as glass—not just Zamboni smooth. We're talking so smooth you could see your reflection. Not a nick, not a scratch anywhere.

This coming season would be the Elmwood Hawks' second one…ever. It was a brand-new team with a brand-new staff of coaches—including moi.

For now, anyway.

I nodded along to Court's spiel about the locker rooms, conference center, and coaches' offices while I gaped in awe at my surroundings.

"So…what do you think?"

"This is absolutely incredible. I've never seen anything like it," I replied dreamily.

He beamed, rocking on his heels as he followed my gaze. "I know, right?"

"I can't believe you have two rinks in such a small town."

"There's a reason for that. Elmwood Rink is always in use—between club hockey at every age group, figure skating lessons and competitions, open skate, and party events, it's become a cash cow. That's great for Ronnie and Vinnie, but it's a business first and foremost. There isn't much time or opportunity to develop new talent and as you know, it's not cheap to play hockey."

I nodded. "True. The gear and equipment adds up fast."

"Not to mention club fees that pay for the rink and the coaches," he said.

"Don't you give scholarships? That's how I got to play. My parents wouldn't ever have been able to afford club fees. And in high school, it was a fuckton of money."

Court paused to wave to a dark-haired teenager carrying a bag of pucks and a stick to the bench closest to the ice. "Yeah, but Ronnie was treading water until Vinnie moved home to Elmwood and started the summer camp. He could only sponsor a few kids, which left a lot of would-be players out of the mix. But now…Elmwood High has state and private endowment—no one gets left out."

"That's awesome."

"Yep. The goal is to eventually become a Division One program. We want to expand on the success at Elmwood Rink and widen our reach to include talent we wouldn't otherwise see." He inclined his head toward the teen strapping skates on at the far end of the rink. "Like that kid. Denny Mellon."

"What's his story?" I asked as Denny glided onto the ice, dropping the bag at the blue line before doing a lap.

"Denny's sixteen. His dad died a couple of years ago and his mom is…" Court wrinkled his nose as if looking for the right words and settled on, "bad news. His grandmother stepped in and invited him to move to Elmwood to live with her at the beginning of the year. She's a ballbuster and a half, and she's fierce as fuck. He's in a good place with Annie, but she's in her eighties and she's frail."

"Annie? I met her. She was with you last week, right?"

"Oh, yeah. More like chasing after me to verbally kick my ass," Court scoffed without heat. "Annie's worked at my family's bakery for decades. I don't remember a time she wasn't in the kitchen or running the kitchen. She's like family. You know…that crabby old aunt you love but hope doesn't sit next to you at a family gathering."

I chuckled softly. "I think I know what you mean."

"She the best…and the worst," he said fondly. "And she's from another era where if you wanted to skate, you paid fifty cents to go to the rink or you took your chances on the lake. She suggested that it was a good idea for Denny to join, but she wouldn't hear of anyone sponsoring him. No charity. We would have figured out a way to appease her pride and get the kid on a team, but this high school program evens the field. That kid will be your fucking franchise. I'm not joking. Denny sees the ice like a veteran pro and he can do it all, but you want him scoring for you."

"Nice. And he's here early, showing some initiative like a natural leader."

"Not quite. He could be eventually. Denny's just…painfully shy. I honestly don't know if he's made any friends yet, but I'm sure he'll get there." Court turned away from the ice and smiled. "So…what do you think?"

"I think it's awesome. I'm ready to get started."

"Great! I'm your assistant till we hire replacements for both of us—hopefully well before the season officially begins in November. Our first practice starts in half an hour. I need to stop by the athletic office and grab my bag. I'll meet you on the ice in fifteen minutes."

I nodded in acknowledgment and made my way toward the coach's bench. I laced up my skates, grabbed my stick, and almost sighed aloud at the glorious feel of fresh ice under sharp blades. I hadn't been on the ice in over a week. That was a total anomaly for me. I was tempted to go full board and blast onto the rink like a shot from a cannon, but my hip was twinging.

I'd jinxed myself by telling Bryson I'd never felt better the other day. It was sort of true…with a dash of exaggerated optimism. I'd wanted to impress-him-slash-tease-him into thinking he'd never get rid of me. Sue me, I liked the idea of getting under Bryson's skin. It was better than being ignored.

It was my personal quest to make it exceedingly difficult for my new neighbor to totally avoid me.

See, I'd moved in over the weekend—the day after he'd handed me the keys to the Calmezzos' house. I'd hoped we'd thawed out after our shared chuckle at my expense, but Bryson still kept his distance.

And over the past few days, he'd either ignored me completely or given a brief wave before retreating to his house or his car.

So, I'd retaliated by letting my presence be known. I'd parked on his side of the street, partially blocking his driveway, I'd left a package addressed to me on his doorstep, and yes…I'd borrowed sugar. One teaspoon only.

Bryson had leaned against his door, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he'd given me a thorough once-over. "One teaspoon of sugar?"

"That's all I need."

"May I ask why that specific amount?" he'd prodded, looking ridiculously sexy in his usual khaki and oxford shirt uniform.

I'd peered over his shoulder, hoping for a peek inside his house. Bryson's place was twice as big as the one I'd rented. And three times as nice. The lawn was well-manicured, the hedges were trimmed with military precision, and his windows sparkled. I bet the interior was equally perfect. Not that I was angling for an invite. I respected his wishes to keep things cordial, but that didn't have to mean boring and serious.

"I made oatmeal, and it's gross without sugar," I'd explained.

"Do you want brown sugar?"

"No, I like the regular processed stuff."

Bryson had frowned. "No one puts granulated sugar on oatmeal."

"Just a dab. And a smidge of peanut butter."

"You put peanut butter on oatmeal?" he'd huffed incredulously.

"Don't knock it till you try it."

"Thanks for the tip, but I'm never going to try it. Hang tight. I'll be right back." Bryson had closed the door before I could step into his foyer. He'd returned with a teaspoon literally overflowing with sugar.

"How will I get this across the street without spilling it?" I'd pondered aloud as he'd handed it over, his palm cupped under the spoon.

"No idea, but I'd like the spoon back." He'd pointed at my truck. "And please move your vehicle. I need to leave in five minutes, and you're in the way."

"No problem." I'd pulled my keys from my pocket and shuffled along the path to my truck, holding my teaspoon of sugar like I'd lose a million-dollar bet if I spilled even the smallest speck. I'd hopped in my truck, easing it a few inches forward, one hand on the steering wheel, one clutching the spoon. I'd sensed Bryson's watchful stare all the while. So when I'd stepped out of the truck and pretended to trip, throwing sugar everywhere, I'd had a front-row seat to his unfettered hilarity.

He'd howled with laughter, shaking his head ruefully as he'd closed his door, yelling, "No more sugar at the inn."

It wasn't funny. It was plain silly, but I got him. I lived for those fucking "gotcha" moments.

And that was what I loved about coaching.

It was a different kind of gotcha, though. More of an a-ha when a fundamental drill finally results in a newfound skill. Protect your lane, control the gap, start and stop—don't circle.

My summertime stints at Jimmy's program hadn't made me a coaching expert by any means, but I knew a lot about hockey and just enough about teenagers to feel comfortable that I wasn't in over my head. I skated over to the blue line and tipped my chin in greeting to the serious-looking kid lining up pucks.

"Hey, I'm Smitty. Coach Smitty. You're Denny?"

The kid snapped a glance my way. He was maybe six one and lean with dark unruly hair, pale skin, and an intense manner in the set of his shoulders and his sharp gaze.

Denny nodded brusquely before pivoting and firing a wrist shot to the upper right corner of the net. I raised a brow and opened my mouth to applaud his precision, but he was obviously in a zone. He kept his focus, adjusting his grip slightly and nailing five pucks in a row to the exact same spot.

I tapped my stick on the ice in wordless praise, then swiped the next puck out of reach and inclined my head in silent invitation. Time to get to work.

I spent ten minutes passing with Denny until Court joined us. We didn't do anything special—just warmed up and did shooting drills. We grunted, motioned, and communicated with meaningful glances—the way I had with teammates I'd sweated and bled with for years. It was a different story when the other boys arrived.

Court blew his whistle and called a quick intro meeting at center ice.

"Welcome back or welcome if you're new to the Elmwood Hawks. It's still summer out there, but we're lucky to get an early jump on the season, right?" He chuckled at the good-natured groans and gestured toward me. "We have a new head coach, Smitty Paluchek. You have no idea how fortunate you are to have a pro player here, who I have to admit, was better than me."

I nodded solemnly, snickering at Court's playful shove. The teens giggled at our antics and man, they looked like little kids to me. Overeager and overzealous with knobby knees and gangly limbs. The campers this summer seemed five years older. Weird.

"Call me Coach Smitty. I'm happy to be here. Like Court said, I played pro for over fifteen years, primarily as a D-man, but I know my offense too. Who's our goalie?" I inclined my chin at the five-foot-nothing kid with braces who raised his hand.

"I'm Adam, sir…Coach, sir," he stammered. Bryson's receptionist's kid. Great.

I gave him a thumbs-up and skated backward to study the motley crew. "Just Coach is fine. Show of hands…who played forward last year? And who played D? Gimme your names, introduce yourselves."

We had Niall, Abe, and Denny on offense, and Richie, Ewan, and Stephen on defense. No one else knew what position they played. Geesh. The team clowns were Tim and Micah. Tim, a gawky redhead who quoted Family Guy five times within an hour, said his stepmom signed him up 'cause he played too many video games. Micah, a heavyset kid who played air guitar whenever he shredded ice, claimed he was here because his dad was trying to ruin his chances to be in a band. And Harry was a fifteen-year-old whose mom signed him up for hockey to get him away from the stove. "I like to cook. So what?"

This was my team. I liked a challenge, and this definitely qualified as one. On the bright side, they were entertaining as fuck. No divas, no big egos, but…other than Denny, no real talent either.

Apparently, a few talented players had opted to stay at Pinecrest High to avoid the disruption of having to make new friends and deal with learning a new system. No doubt enrollment would pick up over the next two years, but this coming season would be a lesson in patience for the coaching staff.

There were twenty teens on the roster, and only six of them deserved to play hockey at a varsity level. The other fourteen were—how can I put this nicely?—awful.

Dropped passes, slow skating, dubious spatial awareness. I mean… Wow.

Court sat on the bench next to me, unlacing his skates after practice. "Well?"

"I think that's what you call an uphill climb," I commented wryly.

He snickered. "Yeah, they need work."

Understatement. Except…Denny. Don't get me wrong, he was unpolished and raw, but he had something you couldn't fake or buy. Coaches had said the same thing about me once upon a time.

I had a lot to think about on my walk home that afternoon. I cruised up Main Street, partially lost in thoughts ranging from new drills and the funny kids I'd met while I soaked in the wholesome vibes in the heart of Elmwood. It was hot as blazes—seemingly a perfect excuse to dip your toes in the fountain in front of Town Hall while eating popsicles and ice cream cones.

I had a stupid grin on my face as I grabbed a couple of items at the market. On impulse, I stopped by the bakery, hoping for a minute with Crabby Annie. She wasn't in, but I bought maple cookies because the teenager at the counter who introduced herself as captain of the women's hockey team said they were an Elmwood staple. I took her word for it and ordered six, then went next door for an iced coffee.

At least five people I'd never met before greeted me by name at Rise and Grind, including the goth girl behind the counter. I stopped to say hi to JC and one of the fry cooks from the diner. I couldn't tell you what we talked about, but that was Elmwood for you. Everyone was fucking smiling and everyone was happy. Weird. But also…cool.

I figured the friendly fest would calm down on Walnut Street, but no. The mailman was parked in front of the house next door to mine talking to one of my new neighbors. He waved and introduced himself. Nice guy…Charlie? I think.

Charlie moved on to deliver mail and left me in a vortex of my extremely chatty elderly neighbor, Dale, a wiry old man with wispy white hair and glasses who moved like a snail and spoke like a kid on a sugar high—nonstop and fast as fuck.

"My Gail passed away, oh…going on ten years ago now. Yessiree, you guessed it—we were Dale and Gail and yes, we liked to sail," he hooted. "Imagine our glee when our granddaughter moved to Vail, Colorado. We had to visit her. Well, of course we did and we were Dale and Gail in Vail…"

I chuckled politely, perking up as a familiar Mercedes turned onto the street. "Bryson."

Dale waved as Bryson stepped out of his car. "Oh, now that's a nice fella. I've known his wife since she was a little girl. Excuse me…his ex-wife. Piper Stewart. Don't know what her last name is now. She was friends with our Jennifer. Had my doubts about him at first. He's a homosexual, you know. I didn't know many of those when I was younger, but I'll tell you something, he's a good man."

"He is," I agreed, willing Bryson to cross the street and rescue me.

"You know, he shovels my steps and my driveway every time it snows," Dale was saying. "Even if it's just a dusting. He worries about ice. He used to send Jake over to do it before he left for college. Now he does it himself. Won't take a dime, so I pay him in plums. Got a nice tree out back. If you ever have a hankering for plums, you just help yourself."

"Thank you. I will."

"Good to meet you, Smith. I'm gonna head inside and catch up on my shows," Dale called out, shuffling up the path.

I waited till the older man was at his door, then crossed the street, holding out the bakery box to Bryson, who was gathering groceries from the passenger side of the vehicle.

"Want a maple cookie?"

Bryson closed his car door, jumping in surprise. "Jesus, I didn't see you."

"Really? I was standing in front of my house, having my ear talked off. You missed that?"

He chuckled, his signature pleasant expression fixed on his handsome face. "No, I saw. It just…usually takes a little longer to exit those conversations. Dale's a great guy, though."

"He said the same thing about you," I reported. "Unfortunately, he thwarted my plan. I was going to leave these on your doorstep."

"The cookies?"

"No, this." I handed him a grocery bag and stepped aside to drink in the sight of Bryson Milligan in his slightly rumpled blue oxford shirt and creased khakis.

He set his groceries on the hood of his car and peered into the bag I gave him. "Ramen?"

I flashed a crooked grin. "Yep. See, the plan was to leave that on your doorstep. You'd think to yourself, ‘Wow, that crazy neighbor of mine lost his noodles.' Like Dale says, you're a good guy so you'd return these to me and I'd say, ‘You found my noodles. I was just going to make dinner. Would you like some ramen?' And you'd say…"

Bryson stared at me. "Oh! This is a cue. Um, well…I'd say, ‘Cup o' noodle ramen? No, thanks.'"

"Ouch. Luckily, I'm a nice guy, so I'd say, ‘I make a mean spaghetti. You in?'"

"Are you inviting me over for dinner?" he asked, enunciating the last few words.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, I think I am."

"You think?"

"I am. I am. It just would have been way funnier if it played out with the ramen. Now, it sounds serious and I don't want you to get the wrong idea and think I'm trying to get in your pants or something. 'Cause I'm not. If there's no chance of a home run, I wouldn't mind going to first or second base…that's all."

He snorted without heat. "Good to know. Out of curiosity…what constitutes second base these days?"

"Well, I think second base is a hand job—with or without a happy ending. But I don't know for sure. A new generation probably has new lingo. I wouldn't ask, though. It would just make me feel old, and I'm feeling every one of my thirtysomething years after spending the afternoon with a posse of teenage boys."

Bryson passed the bag of ramen to me and picked up his own grocery bags. "How'd that go?"

"Good. Very good. I'm mean, they're terrible, and we'll lose every game this season for sure, but it felt great to be on the ice again. And I can't get over that rink. The whole school is incredible. I'm surprised it hasn't been written up in Architectural Digest. Do these kids have any idea how lucky they are?" I paused for a breath and realized I'd been monologuing…excitedly, no less. "Sorry. I have a ton of energy and a lot of questions. It would be nice to talk with someone who knows Elmwood and…I'd love to share my pasta with you. Like a good neighbor."

His lips twitched in amusement. "That's nice of you."

"Nice," I repeated, wrinkling my nose as if I'd sniffed a rotten egg. "You wish I did the ramen thing too, huh? Damn, next time."

"That's not necessary." He moved toward the house, his arms laden with bags. "What time?"

"Uh…an hour."

Bryson smiled. "I'll bring wine."

Oh. Okay.

The sexy realtor was voluntarily coming to dinner.

This was good.