Page 66 of Conrad

“Yeah. His dad was the security guard at North Star Arena in Duck Lake. He was working late one night—hockey schedules are crazy late and brutally early to get all the ice time in for the teams. A peewee team had just cleared out.”

He drew in a breath. “A bunch of high-school players had hung around, hoping to slap around the puck, and one of them got on the Zamboni, started driving on the ice, goofing around. When they spotted Joe, they piled off, and the Zamboni just kept going. Joe ran out to try to stop it, fell, and couldn’t get away in time.”

Her hand covered her mouth.

“Terrible accident.” He took another sip of water, then stared out at the game, his face hard.

Wait . . .“Oh, Conrad—you were the high schoolers.”

His jaw tightened.

“You weren’t the onedriving?—”

He looked at her, the answer in his tortured eyes. “I’d driven the Zamboni a few times, part-time job, so I had keys, I knew how to run it. It wasn’t off-limits, at least to me. But a buddy of mine got the keys, started it up, and lost control. I tried to take over, but . . . I panicked. I hit the brakes, put the Zamboni into neutral . . . and bailed. I never meant . . .”

He shook his head. “It was deemed an accident, a malfunction of the Zamboni. I was found guilty but only of negligence and was given community service. I spent a summer cleaning the local parks, coached the peewee hockey team, and had to work as the janitor at the arena for an entire year.”

He finished the water. “I never played hockey there again. Thankfully, I was already playing in the juniors, so I’d moved on. But . . .” He looked at her then, his blue eyes thick with pain. “I relive it over and over. I made the news in my small town, and it was humiliating. I felt so stupid. So . . .” His mouth tightened. “Naked.”

Oh.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. I knew better—but I was with my buddies, and we were in our senior year, had just won state, and I just didn’tthink. It was impulsive and stupid and . . . and I wrecked someone’s life.”

She simply didn’t care if he shrugged her away when she put her hand out and touched his forearm.

He looked at her hand, back at her, met her gaze with a slight frown.

“I’m sorry I was rude on Sunday night. I was . . . I . . .” She drew in a breath.

He cocked his head.

“I read into . . . Never mind. Clearly I misjudged you, Conrad.”

He gave a small huff. “It happens.” He lifted a shoulder. “Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

He turned, his blue eyes holding hers, what looked like a question in them.

On the ice, the buzzer sounded. The kids erupted, hugging on the ice, and it broke his gaze. She released her hold on his arm. “I’ll get the sandwiches.”

He got out also, dropped the bottle into a nearby trash can, and then helped her carry the loot to the Quonset hut.

The team traipsed in, and he high-fived them, grinning, and it seemed he’d rebounded, back in his element. Simon came in too. “You good, bro?”

Conrad nodded, gave Penelope a quick glance. “Yep. Sorry?—”

Simon held up his hand. “No problem. Great coaching today. On to the finals, boys!”

Shouts, which was her cue to get out the sandwiches.

The team descended like wolves and scooped up the food, some of them still in their new gear. A few parents came in, and she posed with some of the players. She noticed that Conrad didn’t try to get into any shots, although a couple players cornered him.

He didn’t suggest even one with her.

The team finished the meal, and she gathered up the debris while they changed out of their gear. Conrad and Simon had gone back outside to watch the next game.

She joined them, standing at the boards. They were pointing out players and different gameplay. Conrad seemed revived—she noticed he’d downed a sandwich and another bottle of water, and the color had returned to his handsome face. The sun shone down into his beard, the red highlights turning him into some warrior Norseman, and all she could think of was the pain in his blue eyes.

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