Aubrey:Todd, say something!
Gary:You’re all acting like children. Can we calm down, please?
Andrew:Vince, message me and I’ll help you with advice on Malia.
Vince:Thank you, Andy. :) :) :)
Andrew:You’re welcome.
Vince::)
Cynthia:That’s an alarming level of smiley faces for you there, Vince.
Wayne:Cute.
Gary:Aww, look how adorable Vince is.
Vince:Stop.
Cynthia:I approve of every single smiley.
Wayne:Ten bucks says he's blushing.
Vince:Stop.
Andrew:....lol
Chapter 27
Ice Rink Epiphany
Vince
Theicebitesatmy blades, foreign territory after fifteen years of dry land. Saturday morning finds me laced into skates that feel like strangers to my feet, surrounded by the clatter of helmets and the gleam of hockey sticks—a family portrait of mismatched skill levels.
Andy's arrival in his rust-bucket car after his workout was a bolt from the blue. The girls, pampered with a rare sleep-in and breakfast, lounged while I stood there, dumbstruck, as he announced our destination with that maddeningly confident grin of his.
The realization that Andy and Malia have been exchanging numbers sends a jolt through me.
Panic, cold and sharp, cuts through the morning air. Their secret conversations unspool in my mind like a film reel I can't stop. What do they talk about? Is she plotting to replace me? Her texts to him already outnumber mine to her. Have I officially been dethroned?
Then, a darker thought, one that makes the bacon I'd burned this morning churn in my gut: Does she have a crush on Andy?
His orientation wouldn't be a deterrent—Malia has always been drawn to the unattainable. I shove the thought aside with the force of a slapshot. Nope. Not today. Not ever.
And yet, there she is, my Malia, gliding across the rink with an effortless grace that leaves me speechless. Where did she learn to skate like that? Tina, on the other hand, clings to the railing like it's a life raft, her helmet swallowing her head, stick drooping like a wilted flower. At the far end of the rink, Andy scoops up a puck, his movements fluid as water.
I remember boasting to Andy about my prowess on the ice when we first met, words that now come back to mock me.
The cold surface reflects my nervous expression. This old man is about to be exposed. Once, I was damn good out here, blades carving patterns in the ice that others could only dream of. Now, my balance is a distant memory, my muscles protesting with every tentative push. A fall wouldn't just bruise my ego; it would shatter something brittle, probably a hip.
Andy doesn't seem fazed. Neither does Malia.
This is going to be a disaster.
"Hey, it's weird, right? Being back on the ice?" Andy asks, skating circles around me like he was born on skates. He tosses Malia a stick, and she catches it effortlessly, like they've been doing this for years.
"No kidding," I mutter, trying to act like I'm not struggling to stay upright.
