“Play nice with your charity date. Take her to the new Italian place in the Seaport. I’ll make sure the press is around to snap a few pictures. It might do some good to show everyone you’re settling down.”
“It’s not like I’m going to marry the woman.”
“No, you’d have to date someone first.” I hear Laura in the background, whispering. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Next time, thiswill be a sit-down meeting with serious consequences to your career.”
Anger bubbles up inside of me, but I tamp it down, clenching my fists. “Understood. Catch you later.”
I shove my phone into my jeans pocket, then turn to get back in my car. But as I reach for the door handle, I hear the plop before I see it.
I glance down.
Be for fucking real.
Now I have seagull shit on my shirt. I rip open the car door, searching for something to wipe it off, but can’t find anything. There’s not a chance in hell I’m driving another hour with bird shit on me. I press the back of my hand to my mouth at the thought, my stomach revolting. The bitter taste is my only warning before I spin and throw up, last night’s bad decisions splashing into the crater beside the faded parking lines.
Hands on my knees, I suck in a breath, then stand, the world tipping slightly. Now I’m covered in bird shit and smell like puke… and she called me fucking James.
I walk into the old hockey rink before I can think better of it, instantly hit with the smell of fake buttery popcorn, rubber mats, and hot dogs that are likely a few hours away from being a serious health violation.
Tucked away behind a half-paneled door at the front desk is an older man, shoulders hunched forward as he aggressively types with one finger against the computer keyboard. When he looks up, it takes me a minute to recognize him.
“Ah, fair play to Bart. He always has an appreciation for talent.”
“Bart?”
Mr. Kelly grins. He was old when I first started skating here at three, but now, there’s a wild gray pouf of hair on either sideof his ears and wrinkles set deep into his pasty white skin. He must be close to ninety.
“He’s a crusty ol’ bastard. Loves to shite on anyone who won’t feed ’im.” He reaches into a bowl on his desk, then holds up a half-empty sleeve of Ritz crackers. “We’ve a truce now.” Slowly, he stands and shuffles to the door, then holds out his hand. His Irish accent is still as thick as I remember. “How the hell are you, Murphy? Heard you were in town again.”
“I’m good,” I lie. “On my way back to Boston, actually. Can I?” I motion toward the bathrooms.
He waves me on, and I quickly clean up. Two of the stalls are out of service, and the dim fluorescent light flickers and buzzes overhead. I turn the faucet on, and nothing comes out. I try a second sink, but only the cold water works.
I don’t remember this place being so run-down.
The door swings shut behind me with squeaky hinges when Mr. Kelly holds up a pair of skates. “We kept your favorite pair here for you. How about a skate?”
My gear is in the back of Betty, but I don’t have the heart to tell him no, especially when he grins and those dark-green eyes glisten with mischief.
“Come on now, a turn on the ice will put a right spin on your day.”
I force a grin and grab the skates, ignoring the fact that he somehow knows I’m at my limit.
He opens the partition and walks out, slapping a hand against my shoulder. “Public skate isn’t for another hour. You have the rink to yourself.”
There’s a chunk of the linoleum missing in the hallway, an orange cone sitting in the middle. Overhead, the drop ceiling is stained. Before we enter the rink, there’s a small display case of trophies to the right, and what can only be called a shrine toJimmy Arden, Sloane’s father, to the left. He passed away from cancer a few years ago.
Mr. Kelly makes a dissatisfied click with his tongue, noticing me scanning the arena.
“After Arden died, his wife stopped supporting the rink. We try boosters and things, but the building’s falling apart. Mr. Foley is thinking of selling. Developers are pitching to put in a bunch of condos. And you know that man could peel an orange in his pocket. He’ll go for a fat check for sure…” He trails off on a heavy sigh. “It’s good of you to come today. Glad to see your face, Jack. That was a dirty hit you suffered last year.”
“Montreal always plays dirty.” I ignore the ball of tension bunching between my shoulders and the answering twinge between my brows.
“But you play dirtier.” He elbows me playfully. “Always did like a cheap shot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I chuckle. Then I step out onto the ice, spinning to face him on my skates. “Still work magic with that Zamboni, Mr. Kelly. Smooth like butter.”
He laughs, salutes, then heads back down the short hallway to the front desk.
