Page 4 of Icy Pucking Play

Evan

At five forty-five a.m., my daughter is explaining why she wants to be a figure skater as well as play hockey.

"But Dad," Natalia says around a mouthful of Cheerios, "I already know how to skate."

I take a long sip of coffee, buying time. "Hockey skating is different from figure skating, Nat."

"How different can it be?" She waves her spoon for emphasis, milk droplets flying. "You just do it prettier."

I suppress a laugh. Everything in life is that simple when you're nine years old.

"What about hockey?" I counter, wiping up the splash zone with a paper towel. "I thought you loved playing goalie for the Tiny Terrors."

"I do! But Maddie says I can do both." She fixes me with those big brown eyes—her mother Chelsea’s eyes—and I feel my resolve wavering. "Please, Daddy? Just one lesson?"

Christ. The "Daddy" card. She's getting too smart for her own good.

"We'll talk about it later," I say, which is dad code for,Let me figure out how to add one more thing to our already impossible schedule. "Finish your breakfast. Aunt Julia will be here in ten minutes."

This earns me a dramatic sigh worthy of Broadway, but she goes back to her cereal.

I check my phone while she eats, scrolling through the usual morning barrage.

Three texts from my sister about Ryland's upcoming prospects camp. And another two from my agent about endorsement opportunities I have zero interest in. And an email from the Blades' PR team about some media thing I definitely won't be doing.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

"Dad?" Natalia's voice pulls me back. "Are you listening?"

"Always." And I mean it. Even when I'm distracted, even when my mind is a thousand places at once, I'm always listening to her. "What's up, kiddo?"

"I said, can Sophie come to my next game?"

I nearly choke on my coffee, my mind flashing back to the familiar dark hair and ocean-blue eyes. "Sophie?"

"Yeah, the pretty lady that used to hang around after your games. The one who always remembered my favorite flavor of Gatorade." Natalia tilts her head, studying me with that unnerving perceptiveness she inherited from…well….me. "You know...the one you saw in the bathroom yesterday?"

This time I do choke. "How did you…"

"Aunt Julia told me. She said you were all flustered when she called you yesterday right after it happened."

Note to self: Kill Julia. Slowly.

"I wasn't—that's not—" I clear my throat. "We're not discussing this."

"But Dad—"

"No buts. Go brush your teeth. And don’t forget your math homework this time."

Another sigh, but she slides off her stool and heads upstairs, her dark ponytail bouncing with each step.

Alone in the kitchen, I think back to the bathroom encounter and shake my head.

Sophie Bennett.

Of all the people to walk in on me yesterday... And what the hell was she doing in the men’s room?

It's not like I haven't thought about her since she left the Blades forSports News Now. Hard not to, when she had made such an impression during her time with the team.

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