Page 7 of Home Ice

"Um, guys?" The Princeling's voice is so quiet, I almost don't hear it above my laughter. "Do you think it could be the stapler?"

Do you have the steel to bind it all together? Staplers do bind things, I guess. I take it out of the drawer and flip it around in my hand. No sign of a clue, so I try to use it. "Nothing happens when I squeeze it."

"Sounds like a you problem. Up top, kid." Kayden holds his hand up for the Princeling to give him a high-five.

I glare at them, trying to look as mean as I can. "You're not helping your cause, rookie." I turn back to the stapler and look it over one more time. "Maybe we have to find staples to use in it?" I pop it open. Inside, there aren't staples, but there is a red button. I press it. Something buzzes behind the door, and then it clicks as the door unlocks. "Hell yeah! Great job, rookie."

He beams as he and Kayden walk to the door and twist the knob. The door swings open, and the Princeling starts to walk through it, but Kayden yanks him back by the collar. "Age before beauty, rookie. Gramps? You want to limp your way through?" He motions me toward the door.

"Very funny. I haven't had a limp for months. And you know I'm not a grandfather. I only have six illegitimate children, and they're all still too young to have kids of their own."

"Six that we know of." Kayden and I always joke about this. When he's on the road, he likes to enjoy the locals. I usually shut myself in my hotel room and either watch game film or old TV shows. At least, that's what I did when I last traveled with the team.

When I walk by him, I twist his nipple and run into the next room as he shouts obscenities behind me. The woman working the escape room has a worried look on her face, like she's not sure if we're on the verge of fighting. I'm sure the last thing she wants is four enormous hockey players deciding to battle in this tiny space. A minimum wage job isn't worth the hassle of dealing with that mess. I make sure to smile as I hand her the walkie-talkie she gave us at the beginning of the hour.

"Hey, how is your knee? For real." Kayden sneaks up behind me and rests his hands on my shoulder. He's close, so Milo and Sammy can't hear his whispers. "No bullshit, and no changing the subject like you always do when I ask."

"It's..." What is it? It hasn't hurt in months. Every time I add more weight to my squats or try a different lateral exercise, it does fine. "I don't know, man. It seems good, but there's something."

He turns me so I'm looking at him. "This is the hardest part of any recovery." He taps on the center of my forehead. "You gotta trust that it's not going to break down again. It's hard. When I dislocated my shoulder, it was a long time before I was willing to take another hit. You have to learn to trust yourself all over again. And you have to trust the trainers and physical therapists. They know what they're doing."

I nod. He's right. And that trust is the part I'm really struggling with right now. "When did you get smart?"

"When they sewed that C on my jersey. It made my IQ shoot up like 30 points."

I smile at the perfect setup. "So that makes it, what? 31 now?" I slap the back of my hand against his chest and walk outside.

CHAPTER 6

THERE'S NOTHING WORSE THAN COFFEE

LILY

I pull in a deep breath and open my eyes to the ceiling. The sun is already drawing a bright line across it to the other side of the room. And I think for a second that maybe he'll be there when I open the door. Maybe he came back while I was sleeping. Maybe he's cooking breakfast for me the way he always did when he had the day off. I could smell the bacon even in my room, but what always got me out of bed was his green chile omelet. He'd slide it on my plate and then slide into the seat across from me, insisting I had to tell him everything that was going on. I wasn't allowed to leave the table until I told him everything. No matter how much I stalled or tried to say it was nothing. I don't know how he could sense when I was holding out, but he always did.

But there's no bacon smell today. There's no noise of cooking. He's gone. He's gone and neither of us said goodbye.

One year until I can sell the house. One year until I can leave Salt Lake for good this time.

Who the hell makes deals with dead people anyway? And why did it have to be this? Couldn't I have promised to plant a tree or light a candle every day? Why do I need to prove to him how much he meant to me? Why couldn't I have shown him while he was alive? I force out a breath and push myself out of the bed.

Like I have every morning since I came back, I pad to the kitchen as soon as I get up. The filters are in the cupboard right above the coffeemaker. I take one out and drop it into the machine. Then I fill it with a scoop of ground coffee. I want to pinch my nose shut as I do. I'll never understand people who claim to love this smell. Once I fill the machine with water and flip the black switch that's loose from years of use, I head out to the living room and sink onto the couch.

I want to FaceTime Em, but she started work at seven this morning. Right now, she's probably cleaning some angry dog's teeth or whatever menial task she's allowed to do today. So I settle for grabbing my Kindle from the end table. I'll be glad to start work next week. There was a time when I would have loved to read eleven books in nine days, but lots of things are different for me now.

It's not long before the background smell of coffee becomes something even worse. I lift my nose, like I'm a bloodhound and can tell exactly what it is from the smell. When that, shockingly, doesn't work, I walk toward the kitchen. Since Dad knocked out all the walls on the first floor, it's essentially one space separated by a kitchen island. That's when I see the smoke. "Shit! No, no no, no!"

I sprint to the coffeemaker. It's surrounded by a flood of coffee on the counter, and there are tendrils of smoke swirling up from the now charred hot plate at its base. The hot plate that should have a coffee pot sitting on it. Instead, the pot is sitting in the sink. Right where I remember setting it after I filled the coffeemaker. Fuck.

I yank the cord from the wall and take a step back. The counter is covered in coffee. The white cabinets beneath are streaked with brown, and the pool on the tile floor stretches at least two feet. I drop to the floor and sob. This is not how it's supposed to be. I'm not supposed to be cleaning up this mess. I'm not supposed to be in this house or in this town that I always hated. The town that always hated me. I choke out a laugh as I stare at the puddle of coffee just beyond my feet. "I can relate," I tell it. "I don't know where anyone would even start trying to clean me up either."

The mop is in the closet behind me. I don't know how long I have before the coffee stains the cabinets and the tiles. But when I stand, I walk past the closet. I slip my shoes on and walk out the front door. I'm a block away before I realize I'm still in my pajama shorts and a faded pink cami, but I don't have enough room in me to care about that.

I pass by an older couple walking their dog. They seem familiar, so I look at the pug and try to ignore them. "Lily, we're so sorry. Your dad was?—"

"I know. Thank you." I speed up so they won't think about saying more. Why don't people understand I don't want to talk about it? I want to be alone and never have to deal with memories of him, or spilled coffee, or a house that I promised my dead dad I would live in for at least a year before I sold it and moved away for good. He's gone. I tell myself every night that he would never know. But I would know.

I loop around the block and head back toward home, keeping my head down so no one else will be tempted to say anything to me. As I get close to my street, I look up and notice the house on the corner beside Dad's. It's the first time I ever really looked at it.

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