Page 12 of Ice Dance Hockey

Rhett turns, sets eyes on Jack, and his face splits into a wonder-filled smile. Even the smile he gives him is different from the one he gives me. That’s his genuine smile. That’s why Jack loved him.

Halting his practice in an instant, he’s skating over, practically tripping over his feet to get to Jack.

You’re better than that, Elkington. Pathetic.

He performs an aggressive hockey stop, spraying a wave of ice at the boards, destroying the gorgeous frozen landscape. Hockey players are the reason we need so many Zamboni washes.

“Hey, sunshine. Your warden let you out?” he says, raising a cocky brow.

“He’s not my warden, Rhett. I wanted to see if we could be on for tomorrow…? Merc said he’d watch the baby.”

Rhett’s standing there, leaning on the boards, looking like he’s posing for Men’s Health or something. With the pink in his cheeks, he appears more human and less like a plastic Ken doll. “We’re on. See you at five-thirty?”

“Yup. Five-thirty am. We’re on.”

“Good.” He winks at Jack. I rub my wrist where hedidleave faint finger-pad-shaped bruises. If he flirts with Jack anymore, I’m making sure Merc sees these.

To Jack’s credit, he’s careful not to flirt back. He’s just his nice and usually sunny self. I hate it.

“Can we go, dude? I’d like to shower sometime today,” I say.

“I keep tellin’ yah, I’m okay to wait if you want to shower here.”

“Ew. That’s exactly how you pick something up. I don’t shower in public places.” It’s not the only reason, but it’s one of my top reasons.

Rhett wrinkles his nose. “Thank you. I’ve been telling him that for years. He won’t listen to me,” Rhett says.

“Oh God, there are two of them,” Jack says. “Soon as I get one of these mysterious diseases you keep ranting about, I’ll start worrying. C’mon, Lo. We need to get breakfast into you before your workday with Merc. Bye, Rhett.”

Rhett’s still lounging demurely against the boards. “Bye, Jack. Bye, Logan dear.” He blows me a kiss.

Oh, brother. I’m not responding to that, but my somersaulting tummy doesn’t get the message, dropping until I catch it, thankfully before it lands in that dark abyss called rapture. And I won’t be enraptured by Rhett.

* * *

Mercy’s house sits on the kind of lot in the Southlands of Vancouver that you can’t buy anymore. Not that I’m some housing expert, but Merc said that, and I believe him. It stretches into a real backyard with a smattering of old-growth trees, reaching toward the sky, reminding everyone that they’re standing where an ancient forest stood not so very long ago. The house itself has a long deck off the kitchen, and it’s old enough that Jack claims it’s haunted.

It’s expensive to live in this city. The only way I’d be able to afford it is with three jobs or big money like what I would have had with Rhett’s credit card. I have neither of those. Nor a pot to piss in.

Even though I was a fucking brat about it—only because Merc’smakingme do it—I’m looking forward to fixing cars with him. I know a thing or two about engines, which I never told him, and he likely knows more than I do, so I wouldn’t mind learning a thing or two more.

Dressed in a pair of old sweats and a black t-shirt, I head down to the kitchen where breakfast preparations are underway. My hair’s damp from the shower I just took, so I have it pushed back in a headband. Knowing they’ll ask me anyway, I take out the stuff from the cupboard and begin setting the table. The curtains are open wide, letting in the brightness from the cloud cover outside. Someone needs to get the memo to whoever’s in charge of the weather around here that it’s almost summertime.

Jack doesn’t seem to cook much, so he’s got the baby and Merc’s over the stove.

“Thanks, Lo,” Merc says. “We appreciate the help.”

He talks as if they’re one person. Sometimes, I think they are. They’re attached at the hip when they’re around each other and when they’re not, they don’t stop texting each other. It’s disgusting.

What will they do when Jack leaves for New York? Haven’t heard much on that topic. It’s, like, forbidden or something. They’re straight-up living in denial. I can respect that. It’s a place I like to live myself. Some things are better left on a shelf and ignored forever.

“Here ya go, Lo. Egg-white omelet, onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, and only the tiniest bit of butter in the pan,” Mercy says, sliding it from the pan onto a plate.

Looking it over, I decide that he couldn’t have used much butter. It’s acceptable.

“Sorry, that Pam stuff is shit,” he adds. “All chemicals and no nutrition. You need a bit of fat, Logan.”

No, I don’t, but I guess so long as it’s just a little that would be okay. “Thanks for the omelet.”

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