Page 24 of Head Over Skates

"Oh, hey, Nancy. I'm alright, just a long night and a painful presser."

"You poor thing. Tell you what, why don't you come up to my office for a bit and put your feet up?"

I hesitate. Hanging out in Nancy's office doesn't sound much more appealing than being accosted by reporters. But she's being nice and I'm too exhausted to argue.

"Yeah, okay. Be there in five."

Nancy bustles around, fussing over me as soon as I step into her office, bringing me a bottle of water and some Advil. I sink into the plush couch with relief. The cool leather feeling soothing against my tense muscles.

"Oh honey, you look absolutely wiped," Nancy clucks, perching on the edge of her desk across from me. Her office is bright and airy, with large windows overlooking Lake Ontario. I pop two of the pills and chug half the water bottle in one go.

"That press conference was a nightmare," I confess, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. The image of the mob of reporters shouting and cameras flashing burns behind my eyelids.

Nancy makes a sympathetic noise. "I can't even imagine. You handled it so well, though, staying calm and collected up there."

I give a half-hearted chuckle. Calm and collected is far from how I felt, pulse racing and hands shaking the whole time. But I managed to choke out the team's official statement without completely losing it, at least.

"I only wish I'd been fast enough to catch the bastard."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. When I spoke to Mark, he said he didn't even realize the car speeding past him in the parking lot was a robber until the next day."

"Wait. Mark was there? Mark, the equipment manager?"

"Yeah. He was warming up his engine when the getaway car wizzed right by him."

"Well… did he give any details? Make, model, license plate?"

Nancy shakes her head, her blonde curls bouncing around her shoulders. "No, unfortunately not. He wasn't paying thatclose attention to the car. He just wrote it off as some hot-rodder speeding through the parking lot."

I nod, considering this new information. Huh. So Mark was there, and I didn't even know it. What was he doing at the arena so late at night? He's always been a little strange, not gonna lie. I make a mental note to ask him about it later.

I thank Nancy for the mini spa treatment and head out, my headache fading slightly. The early February air still has a bite to it, but the sun is bright, melting the snowbanks lining the streets.

I swingthrough the McDonald's drive-thru to grab Cyrus a Happy Meal. I know the egg salad sandwich or whatever warmed over concoction Shannon packed will be straight in the trash the minute he opens his Baby Yoda lunchbox. The kid deserves a treat.

I pull up outside his school just as the bell rings, unleashing a stampede of wildlings onto the playground.

Kids are already swarming the playground equipment and grassy fields. I scan the chaos, looking for Cyrus' mop of unruly brown hair. Finally, I spot him sitting by himself under a big oak tree, picking at a sandwich. My heart twists. He looks so small and vulnerable. I weave through the mob, trying not to attract attention.

"Hey, buddy!" I say.

Cyrus's head snaps up, his eyes going wide with surprise and delight. "Owen!"

He leaps up and wraps his arms around me, grinning up at me, gap-toothed.

I hand him the Happy Meal bag discreetly.

"I thought we could have lunch together. But let's keep this on the down low." I wink.

Cyrus peeks in the bag, his face lighting up. "Whoa, a cheeseburger! And fries! You're the best."

I ruffle his hair. "Anything for you, kid."

We sit together under the tree, chatting about his day while he eagerly devours the forbidden fast food. In between bites, he tells me about the cool dragon story he's writing in his notebook. His shirt and face are soon smeared with ketchup and grease. The pure happiness radiating from him makes my crappy morning fade away. I sip my coffee and soak up this time together, knowing these moments are fleeting. Cyrus will be a moody, monosyllabic teen before I know it. But right now, with this little kid's excitement over a Happy Meal and his goofy grin, I'm savoring every second.

Before I realize, the bell rings, and Cyrus saves his leftover fries for later.

“Here,” I say, adding my untouched fries into his bag, “Take mine, too.”

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