Page 69
“No. I mean we lose the marching. You push with one skate and glide, push and glide.” He demonstrated backward again. “Like this.”
Nico picked it up easily, and then they were skating together, Bennett going backward, and Nico moving forward, their hands intertwined. Bennett couldn’t ever remember being this happy on the ice before, except for maybe when he lifted his first cup above his head. “See? Easy. You’re a natural.”
“Maybe you are just a good teacher,” Nico suggested as Bennett guided them around the ice, where he skated almost every day during the season. “Who taught you to skate?” Nico asked. “Your father?”
“Uh, no.” Bennett didn’t know how much to share. It wasn’t a topic he discussed very often. His gaze dropped to focus on Nico’s feet, just so he didn’t have to see the pity. “I never had a father.”
“He died?”
“I have no idea. I never met the man. He was never in my life and my mom didn’t like talking about him.”
“Fuck him. He doesn’t know what he missed out on.”
The words, spoken fiercely and without judgment, healed one or two of the long-standing cracks in Bennett’s heart. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s easier as an adult, obviously. As a kid, though, I had no idea why he didn’t want to stick around.”
“Did your mom ever tell you?”
“No, and now it’s too late.”
“Did she die?”
“Yes, two years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Bennett.”
The grief threatened to choke him for a moment, but he forced it back. “Thanks.” Then he realized he didn’t know anything about Nico’s family. “What about your parents? Are they still alive?”
“My father was killed when I was twenty-two. My mother left when I was young.”
“I’m sorry.”
Nico shrugged. “My father was a stronzo—an asshole. And my world is not a pleasant one for wives. I did not blame her for leaving.”
But there was a note there, a boy’s deep-seated sadness, similar to Bennett’s own regarding an absent father. A childhood hurt that never really healed. “Well, she doesn’t know what she missed out on.”
Nico squeezed his hands and Bennett took that as a thank you. They continued to glide around the ice slowly, and the cold air had turned Nico’s cheeks pink. Bennett found this absurdly adorable.
“I still have my grandfather,” Nico said, wobbling as they took a turn too fast. Bennett quickly steadied him, as Nico said, “He is eighty-five and sharp as a tack.”
“Does he live with you or somewhere nearby?”
“No, he is in Milano. Back home.”
“Do you visit him often?”
“Not as often as I should. Maybe once or twice a year, depending on business.”
That was a shame. Bennett wished he still had grandparents. Or parents. Or any family at all, really. But he was the last Verreault—no cousins, no aunts or uncles. No one.
“You are making a face as if you do not approve,” Nico said.
“No, no. Just thinking how much I wish I still had a grandparent around. It sucks having no family at all.”
“None?”
“Nope. Thanksgivings and Christmases are a blast, let me tell you.” Nico’s face did what Bennett had been trying to avoid: it filled with pity. Bennett exhaled heavily. “Don’t feel bad for me. I have an amazing life.”
Which he did. He was one of the most successful pro hockey players of the last fifteen years. A generational player, they called him. He made millions of dollars and traveled all around the world. It was all Bennett had ever wanted as a boy.
