Page 20 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“That’s alot,” I explain.

“Right. Great. Anyway, half the kids are in the skating club, so they’ll be fine. For the ones who can’t skate yet, is there something we could put on the ice, or spikes on their shoes, or something so they could still be involved?”

“You could put mats down. Like we do for the anthem singers and presentation ceremonies.”

The video call noise comes from my phone, so I pull it from my back pocket.

“See,” she says. “You know everything, and I know noth?—”

“My parents.” I hold up the phone. “Got to take it.”

Two steps into walking away to find some privacy it dawns on me that wherever else I move to it’s going to be obvious I’m in a house. Standing where I was, in front of the kitchen window, with the non-specific landscape as a backdrop, is the best spot to be.

Dammit, that’s right behind Natalie, who’s resumed her baking tasks. But I return there anyway. To save my own ass. And just in time to answer.

“Look at us!” Mom and Dad squish together into theframe—Mom holding up a mimosa with a chunk of orange on the rim, Dad a tall glass mug of coffee with a thick layer of cream floating on top.

The sky behind them is cartoon blue and the tips of their noses are a bit pink.

“Well, it looks like you’ve taken to cruising pretty quickly,” I say.

“Oh, we love it already.” Mom beams and turns the camera around to give me a wonky, slightly-too-fast look across the deck of the ship and out to the Caribbean Sea, which is somehow even bluer than the sky.

Natalie lets out a littleawsound and continues mixing whatever is in the bowl.

Mom turns the camera back on herself, Dad peering over her shoulder.

“The cabin is beautiful,” she says.

It’s actually a suite I got them, but never mind.

“Oh yes,” Dad chips in. “It has a flashy TV, so I won’t miss the game this week.” He’s referring to the Apollos’ upcoming clash with Miami, which I obviously won’t be playing in. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know.” I roll my shoulder to show them it still exists. “Getting there.”

“Well, it does look like that rehab place is in a beautiful location.” She’s peering at the picture-perfect snowy scene out of the window behind me.

“Thewhatplace?” Natalie pipes up as she moves things around on the island.

“Yes. Well. It’s not quite as peaceful as I’d hoped.” I try to give Natalie a quickshut the fuck uplook, but she’s too focused on creating a clear space to notice. “But hopefullyit will be soon.”

“I hope they’re serving you good meals and the staff are treating you well,” Mom says.

“Thewhat?” Natalie repeats louder, tipping out the brownish dough onto the counter, a questioning crinkle in her brow.

“Yes,” Dad adds. “With all those specialized treatment experts, they should have you back on the ice before you know it.”

Natalie turns her head to look at me so sharply she sends a cookie sheet crashing onto the tile floor.

“Oh, what was that?” Mom asks. “Thought you must be in your room. Are you with other people?”

Natalie rushes over as quickly as a person with a slightly injured ankle can.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Woods,” she says loudly, while stretching up tall and smashing herself as tight to my side as she can to get in frame on the call. “I’m taking…I mean,we, the whole staff”—she turns her eyes up to meet mine for a fraction of a second—“are taking excellent care of Gabe.”

“Oh, are you one of the specialist physical therapists?” Mom asks.

“Absolutely I am,” Natalie says with gusto. “I am one of the top shoulder injury manipulation and repair specialists in the hockey world. I just came to collect Gabe for his next treatment.”

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