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The muted, yellow-painted bricks stand out like a sore thumb amongst the newly renovated dark stone and siding of the neighbouring houses, but I don’t hate it as much now as I did when I was a kid referred to as the ginger with the yellow brick house at the top of the hill.
Tall hedges trimmed just a smidge crooked line the small front yard, and a matching yellow birdhouse that’s seen much better days is perched dead smack in the centre. Add in a mailbox that no longer opens and shuts because of its broken lid, and I’m sure we’re the subject of discussion in the HOA meetings at the end of every month.
Each morning I run past said mailbox and peek inside, I’m surprised not to see a letter from Mrs. Evansburg, the head of the committee, ordering us to spruce the place up a bit.
“Leo,” I say, preparing to shift the subject back to something way too heavy for a Monday afternoon. “I need you to be honest with me. Do you think I can do this job? Training someone to help them reach the dream I had and lost? I haven’t even touched the ice since that game.” Pulling into the short driveway, I shift the car into park and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.
“I really hate when you word it like that, Scarlett. You lost nothing. Your injury wasn’t your fault. Your career was taken from you because life can be an entitled asshole to the best people. But yes, I think you can do it. If anybody can, it’s you. Adam’s a really good guy. I owe him for how much he helped with my knee.”
I release a tight breath and lean back in my seat. That’s exactly what I was dreading he would say. Leo has never lied to me, and hearing his support only makes my decision more real. There’s no going back now. I can’t hide from this anymore.
My eyes catch the flapping wings of a small brown bird as it swoops into the bird bath by the porch steps. The damn thing doesn’t have a care in the world as it lifts its wing and uses its beak to bring water to the exposed skin. I never cared much for birds growing up. There was always so much to do, so many places to be, that I never even paid any attention when one would sing on my windowsill or chirp at me from a tree branch in the backyard.
Stopping to smell the roses, so to speak, was never my thing.
Now, though, I’ve noticed several things and actually paid attention to them in a way I hadn’t before my injury. The slower pace I’ve adapted in my daily life has been the second-best thing to come out of my destroyed career. The first one being my ability to be here, taking care of my sick mother so that she doesn’t have to struggle alone.
“If you were into girls, Leonard Arlo, I would have snatched you up a long time ago. You never fail to stroke my ego when it’s in the dumps.”
He laughs. “Oh, baby. I would have made you mine the first time we met and you told me your great-grandma Betsy could outskate me blindfolded and going backward.”
“It’s safe to say you’ve gotten better since then.”
He has, and he knows it too. I haven’t watched him play in a while, but he’s quicker than me on my best days. I’ve lost far too many bets over the length of our friendship to dare say otherwise.
“Damn right I have. But hey, maybe this job is a blessing. I would love for you to join me on the ice again sometime. Preferably before I retire.”
“Cool it on the dramatics.”
“Hey! Can’t blame me, Letty. You’ve been avoiding the rink. Don’t pretend otherwise. If you keep going on this way, I’ll be a wrinkly old man before I get to see you skate again.”
He’s right. I’ve avoided so much as looking at a pair of skates since my last game. They do nothing but remind me of a failed career and the blatant fact that I don’t know what to do next. I put everything I had and wanted to be into hockey, and when that stopped becoming an option, I realized pretty damn quickly there was no plan B.
“I’ll work on it,” I mutter. My mom’s figure appears behind the living room window, and she waves enthusiastically. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge, Leo. I should head inside before Mom comes and drags me from my car. I’m sure she’s bursting to hear about my interview.”
“Anytime. You know that,” he says. “If the Woodmen make it past the second round, we’ll be playing against either Vancouver or Vegas in a couple of weeks. If we play Van and I get you a ticket to one of the games, would you be there? For me?”
A sliver of panic creeps up my spine before I shove it away. There’s a slim chance Minnesota will lose to their current second-round playoff opponent, the Colorado Knights. Not when they’ve been outplaying them in all three of the previous games and are up two to one in the series. Minnesota will be here in Vancouver in no time since the Warriors also look like they’ll come out above their opponent, Vegas.
Anything can happen in the playoffs, but I’m loyal to my hometown team until the end of time.
“Yeah. As long as you don’t mind me wearing a Hutton jersey.”
“A Warriors girl through and through,” he groans, like me cheering for the Vancouver player pains him. It actually might, now that I think about it. “Fine. But don’t you dare bring a sign.”
“We’ll see. Gotta go, talk soon.” I hang up the phone when he starts to protest.
I’ve only just made it out of the car when Mom comes barrelling through the front door. Her smile is bright enough to light the darkest tunnel.
“Took you long enough. I’ve been just buzzing with anticipation,” she says when I step up beside her on the porch.
The hot rollers in her thin hair bounce as she grabs my hand and pulls me to one of the two wicker chairs decorating the corner of the porch we call her coffee nook. A metallic, glossy purple-and-blue wind chime swings above her chair, playing a high-pitched song in the breeze.
I give my head a slight shake and smile softly. “Well, sit down, busy bee. Let’s talk.”
5
ADAM
