Page 18 of Ice Dance Hockey

“Really?” He sips his cognac. “Which sport does he play?”

“Not one he plays. He’s a figure skater. More like an ice dancer.” A beautiful vision of him flying across the ice fills my mind.

Father proceeds to grill me about what I know of him. I came prepared, having had one of my private investigators do a little digging on Logan for me. Once he’s satisfied, he nods. “Sounds worth a date, I suppose, but we both know Jack is the endgame.”

Definitely, but I don’t say that. I’m shocked to get any note of approval. I thought I’d be doing this without it. “You and Jack were never close.” I don’t like to point it out, but I’m curious as to why he’s fighting so hard for someone I claim not to want anymore.

“Jack is pedigree, it doesn’t matter if we’re good friends or not. Most importantly, I know you still love him. I won’t let you settle just because he’s going through a phase.”

He’s coined what Jack’s going through as a “sowing his oats” phase and equates it to when Mother went through something similar during their college years. I still don’t know how he got through it. He’s as jealous as I am.

Nodding as if I agree, I don’t comment. What happens with Logan has to look as organic as possible.

Instead, I give a scheming smile and shrug. “In the meantime, I’ll have my fun.”

“Atta boy. As an Elkington should. I have some news myself.”

I hear a few details about the Honorable—or maybe not so honorable—Judge Eric Sampson and his new mistress that I probably shouldn’t know, but Father wants me to be aware. Politics at every level is … complicated. There are the extremes, like the former mayor of Allentown with his forty-seven counts of corruption, and even non-politicians who have too much money like Tony Croft, chairman of NASDAQ, trying to pull off Ponzi schemes.

At the other end of the scale, are more upstanding officials like Lola Gibson, a Vancouver school board trustee, who’s just trying to make a difference. However, it’s because of people like Ed and Tony that Father is forced to watch his back, because those types won’t hesitate to turn the public against you if you have something they want. It’s the ugly part of what he does, but he’s an Elkington. Long before he ever became mayor, he operated under the principle that the best defense is a good offense. Keeping his ear to the ground fortifies his social fortress.

“Alright, enough of that bitterness. I’d rather hear about your training regimen. Let’s make sure that’s up to par and then I’ll bid you adieu so that you’re not late for your figure-skating firecracker.”

* * *

The Meyer residence is oddly impressive. It’s no Chateau Elkington, but it’s a decent-sized house on a large plot of land. It’s nearly impossible to acquire this setup in Vancouver anymore. The house is modest, but it’s big. I betMerchasn’t the first clue what to do with the gem of prized land that he’s got or the house sitting on it.

There’s a sizable detached garage, too. Wonder if that’s where Logan will be doing his time as a mechanic?

Parking my McLaren on an angle, I get out, leaving my blazer in the car, rolling up my sleeves, and giving myself a little time to air out on this sweltering evening.

I take a moment to survey the land before I head up to the door. I still have four minutes. I like to be precise. Staring into the distance, I envision the stunning Cesare Attolini suit I had sent over for Logan to wear. It’s Italian. It was over three thousand dollars. It’s the perfect kind of cut for his sharp frame. I can’t wait to see how it fits to his well-conditioned body. Just because we’re not dating for real that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the view.

At thirty seconds to seven pm, I walk up to the door, at seven on the nose I ring the doorbell a few times.

There’s a stampede of hooves. Several sets. Then clamoring—sounds like a fight over who gets to open the door. It swings open to reveal two little people. One small boy with a mop of dark curls and a willow-y girl with wispy brown hair. They both have cornflower blue eyes. Ah, they must be Meyers.

“Who the fuck are you?” the boy says.

I wince. What language and in front of this darling little lady.

“Yeah, who the fuck are yah?” she says.

Scratching my head, I don’t know what to do with that. A house that allows children to use vulgar language? Should have suspected as much. The heavy footfalls announce a stampede otherwise known as Jack, who bounds toward the door, dressed in gray sweats and his nearly dead Wildcats hat. I’d give him mine—kept it from when I played with the Wildcats—but I doubt mine is imbued with the luck he believes that ratty old thing to possess.

I make a note to convince him he’ll need to start wearing a New York Eagles hat while checking him over head to toe. Sleepless nights are showing up in his jade-green eyes, but his blinding smile is full of as much sunshine as it always was.

“What did I say about using that word when we’re not in private? Cheese Whiz. Please say Cheese Whiz instead,” he says. It’s instantly weird to see Jack in any kind of disciplinary role, but there’s something of the captain in him when he does it, and it makes sense.

“I’m not giving you my quarters, Jack!” the little boy shouts.

“I will. I’m sorry, Jack,” the little girl says.

“Heavens to Betsy you two. Sorry about them,” Jack says, scooping up the recalcitrant boy, who’s taking stock of me. “This is Theo, that’s Lorelei.”

“Wow. You’re a giant,” Lorelei says, craning her neck upward.

“I’m a hockey player,” I tell her, with boatloads of pride in my tone, and I swear her eyes turn into hearts.

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