Page 21 of Slap Shot Daddies

“You sure you don’t wanna call your folks?” I ask, keeping my voice light and casual. “They might wanna know you just had your hand turned into bird food.”

The attempt at humor hangs in the air as Kenzie exhales, a long and slow release of breath that seems to carry a weight of its own. “No, I really don’t.”

I catch Braden’s eye in the rearview mirror, and he raises an eyebrow, a silent exchange of curiosity reflecting my own thoughts. “Seems like you don’t wanna go to Ambrose’s either,” I add, noticing the slight stiffening of her posture, a telltale sign that my words have struck a nerve. “That gonna be a problem?”

Her head snaps toward me, lips parting as if she’s about to argue, but then she clamps her mouth shut.

Instead, she shakes her head, a curt motion that contradicts her words. “It’s fine.” But the tension in her clipped voice betrays her, hinting at something deeper than mere workplace camaraderie, something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.

I decide not to pry, at least not yet, but the observation is tucked away for later.

Braden, less inclined to patience, breaks the silence with a teasing tone. “Damn, did he steal your lunch money or something?” he jokes.

Kenzie lets out a laugh, but it’s hollow, devoid of genuine amusement. Whatever’s happening beneath the surface, it’s tangled her in knots, and the strain is as visible as the tension in the air around us.

I shift in my seat, watching as the vibrant city lights blur into streaks against the darkened window. Snow flurries dance under the soft glow of the street lamps, their delicate flakes twirling gracefully to the ground and making the roads slick.

Yet, Ambrose maneuvers the car with an effortless skill, as if driving in foul weather were as natural to him as breathing.

It's only been a week since Braden and I moved in with him, and the arrangement has been surprisingly smooth.

Ambrose is older than us, sure, but he defies the stereotype of the grumpy, stuck-up hockey veteran I had imagined. Instead, he exudes a calm, collected energy, serious when necessary but laid-back otherwise.

Despite juggling the responsibilities of being a single dad, he’s remarkably easy to live with.

So why is Kenzie behaving as if he’s a walking disaster zone?

“Everything good over there?” Ambrose inquires, his eyes fixed steadily on the road ahead.

Kenzie nods stiffly, her fingers twitching with an unspoken tension. “Yeah. Just tired.”

An obvious fib, but once again, I decide to let it slide.

I glance at Braden, who’s reclined against the seat with his eyes closed, as if already plotting a nap the moment we arrive home.

It figures, on the ice, he’s all smoothness and agility, but off it, he swings between the boundless energy of a golden retriever and the aloofness of a cat with no in-between.

“How’s Wyatt?” I ask trying to break the ice. Talking about his son softens him up every time.

He clears his throat, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his jaw. “Good. He hates flying alone, but he’s getting used to it.”

Wyatt is eight years old and splits his time between his mom in Grand Forks and Ambrose. I know Ambrose hates putting him on that plane and saying goodbye.

Kenzie watches Ambrose talk about Wyatt, her posture finally easing a bit.

I chuckle, deciding to shatter the lingering tension with a touch of humor. "My mum’s quite the worrier too. Back home in Scotland, she can’t go more than two days without checking in on me. If I don’t answer the phone, she’s convinced I’ve been devoured by a bloody bear or something outlandish like that."

Kenzie’s lips curve into a small, reluctant smile. “You don’t have to worry about bears in town.”

"Aye, but she doesn’t realize that," I smirk, a hint of mischief in my voice. "She just frets because she’s got nothing else to fill her time. That, and keeping an eye on my perpetually tipsyda."

Braden snickers from his seat in the back, but I notice Kenzie’s expression soften. She shifts slightly, tucking her legs up beneath her on the seat.

"I get it," she murmurs, her voice a gentle whisper. "Parents like that mean well, but they can be…suffocating."

Her words pique my curiosity. I tilt my head, studying her face, trying to read the story beneath her guarded exterior. "Is that what your folks are like?"

There’s a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as she weighs how much to reveal.

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