“What happened?” I demand, alarmed.
“Just a cheap shot by a wuss is all,” she says, shrugging.
There’s muffled laughter from the parents. I’m not amused, though. I’ve taught Hazel better than to talk that way in front of other adults, especially when they include her coaches.
“Hazel,” I scold.
“He’s a wuss, Aunt Allie. That’s not even a swear word.”
“Sorry, Allie,” Cade says. “I would’ve called you but it happened at the tail end of practice. We got her an ice pack. Hazel, I know you haven’t iced it for twenty minutes yet.”
Silently, she pushes a bag of ice onto her forehead.
“I think I need to get her home,” I say, picking up her equipment bag and straining under its weight.
“You need help?” Forrest asks me.
“No, I’ve got it, thanks.”
“I’ll catch up with you later about volunteering,” Cade says.
I shoot him a dirty look and mutter, “Okay.”
That felt like an ambush, but Cade is a nice guy. He probably didn’t plan for things to go down that way.
“I’m fine, we don’t need to leave,” Hazel grumbles as we exit the rink.
“You have a giant knot on your head.”
“I’m fine, Aunt Allie. I don’t need the boys thinking I’m a delicate flower or something. I can take a hit. Let’s go back in there.”
“Not a chance.”
She sulks the entire walk to the car and during the drive home. I don’t even try to talk to her about it. The truth is, I used her injury as an excuse to get the hell out of there. In my current state of mind, a hangnail would have been sufficient cause to leave immediately.
Erik was just a few feet from me. I haven’t seen him in ten years—not so much as a googled photo of my ex-turned-famous-NHL-star. I knew it would hurt too much.
And it did. Seeing him again brought it all back—how much I loved him, how badly I hurt him and how much I still miss him.
God, do I miss him.
And he’ll be helping coach Hazel’s team for the next month? How am I going to manage if I have to see him again?
“Are you okay?” Hazel asks me, dropping her scowl.
I smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
I am so not fine. But for the kids, I have to put on a good face. I’ll have a nice, long cry with my pillow tonight.FiveEasyAunt Jo glares at me over the rim of her glasses.
“Don’t sass me, boy. I know what it means to be easy, and you should be ashamed of yourself for earning that nickname.”
I can’t help but chuckle, which only sharpens her glare. I clear my throat and try to explain.
“It’s nothing like that, Aunt Jo. It’s because of my initials being E.Z., and because they say I’m easygoing—you know, unflappable on the ice.”
She shakes her head, unconvinced. “You best be keeping it in your pants until you’ve got a wife. And by the way, when will that be? You’ll be thirty before you know it.”
Aunt Jo was widowed young. Her husband died of cancer when they were both still in their twenties. She never had children and never remarried. And since my mom is her only sibling and I’m mom’s only child, Aunt Jo has always considered herself a second mom to me. She doesn’t hesitate to tell me what I “should” be doing with my life.
“Thirty’s not that old,” I tell my aunt.
She just shakes her head and picks up the newspaper in her lap, scanning it.
All the open space in her living room is taken up by the hospital bed she rented from a medical supply store. Every morning I help my mom get going first and then we both help Aunt Jo get ready for the day.
After that, I just sit at the kitchen table, answering their endless questions while they watch The View, both of them chiming in to agree with most everything Whoopi Goldberg says.
This morning, The View starts in about ten minutes, and I’ve just topped off Mom and Aunt Jo’s coffee cups when my phone rings with a FaceTime call.
I smile when I see my teammate Alexei’s name on the screen. As I answer the call, I head out to the back patio, sliding the door closed behind me.
“Hey man,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Just living the dream, man. How’s Wisconsin?”
I grunt in response, and he laughs.
“That good, huh?”
“Yeah. I’m helping one of my high school buddies coach youth hockey, so that’s fun.”
“Cool. Teaching ‘em how to throw a solid punch, I hope?”
“Of course. Fuck skating and handling the puck, it’s all about your fighting skills. I have the kids recite that at the start of every practice.”
Alexei nods. “Good man.”
He’s shirtless, his hair going in about twenty different directions. I squint, trying to look closer at his surroundings.
“Are you in your apartment in Chicago? Why aren’t you in Kauai?”