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The garage door rumbles open.
Thank. Fucking. God.
Brit’s early.
Which isn’t like her. She’s always is the first on the ice, the last off it, and then does cardio and weights and?—
“—sleepovers?”
Sweet Christ.
Not double the amount of sleepovers.
That should be enough motivation to stay married for any sane person.
Focus.
“That sounds like Mom’s home, want to go check?” I nod toward the second circle of dough. “I’ll start on her pizza and then we can all eat together.”
“Okay!” Rox says and clambers down from the chair we pulled up to the counter so she could properly commence her pizza topping skills (or her pineapple eating skills, such it is). Her footsteps echo from the hall and I hear the door to the garage open, the sound of an engine, the rumbling of the metal panel sliding down. “Mom’s home!” she calls, and I grin.
And start working on the second pizza as I hear Brit’s voice ringing toward me.
It’s cheerful and bright, as always.
But when she steps into the kitchen, it only takes one look at her face for me to know that something is seriously wrong.
Twenty-Eight
Brit
“I’m surprised,” Frankie says from next to me, crouched on one knee on the ice next to me as we scoop up pucks, toss them into the plastic basket they’re stored in.
“Surprised at what?” I ask, shooing him away.
He stays after practice to give me some extra training—the least I can do is clean up after myself.
“That you’re only going for one bucket today,” he says.
My stomach clenches and I can’t shove down the bolt of guilt that slides through my middle. Maybe I should stay a little longer, practice just a bit more, keep going until I’m perfect and?—
He settles his hand on my shoulder. “I’m pleasantly surprised, Brit.”
The knot in my gut loosens, and I exhale. “Stefan and Roxie are making pizzas.”
His face changes, and I know with just that much, he gets it. “That’s good, honey,” he says. “I was wondering how long it would take for you two to work things out.”
I wince.
Does fucking and exchanging romantic words really count as working it out?
Especially when there’s so much that we haven’t discussed, haven’t come to terms with, haven’t?—
“You know,” Frankie says, coming down onto his other knee, not letting me shoo him away from the pucks this time, “I always thought that you’d be right here.”
“On the ice?” I ask. “I know you’re intuitive, Frankie, but that’s not much of a stretch.”
His smile is a flash of white. “I meant training the next guy.”
