Page 12 of As You Ice It

Now, I’ve been blindsided by Liam’s appearance and the knowledge that Naomi is in Harvest Hollow.

I don’t have a playbook for this.

But then I realize I don’t need one; I have hockey.

“How do those skates feel?” I ask Liam while lacing mine up.

His are clearly borrowed, scuffed with dull blades and mismatched laces. Possibly the wrong size. His hockey socks are sagging because he didn’t do a good job with the tape.

“Fine, I guess. Howshouldthey feel?”

“They should support you. Tight but not too tight. Did you lace them up yourself or did your mom help?”

For most younger kids, getting geared up is a two-person job. But I’m not surprised when Liam tells me he got ready by himself. His momreallymust not want to see me. I swallow down the lingering discomfort I have about this.

At a glance, I can tell that Liam’s laces are too loose. Kneeling before him and keeping my gaze firmly fixed on his skates, I say, “Let’s tighten these up, get some fresh tape, and then we’ll get you back on the ice.”

* * *

Half an hour later, I’m watching Liam shove his mismatched gear into a duffle bag. I’m not sure where Naomi found all this stuff, but it’s all heavily used and ill-fitting. Without meaning to, I’ve made a mental checklist of his size and what he needs.

Not that I have any business even thinking about buying Liam new gear.

I don’t want to assume it’s a cost issue for Naomi, who never mentioned financial struggles in our brief time of dating. From what Liam said, moving to Harvest Hollow related to her getting a raise. Maybe Naomi told Liam she’ll buy him his own gear if he sticks with it, which sounds like a Naomi thing.

Hockey is the most expensive youth sport besides any sport involving horses, so it’s a practical choice to start with used gear. Even though some of Liam’s looks like it’s falling apart.

There are hockey players who keep wearing their old gear until it looks this bad, but that’s more about superstition. Dumbo’s shoulder pads are the same ones he’s been wearing since he was seventeen and are held together by duct tape and—according to him—good vibes. But that’s different from Liam’s ill-fitting, worn-out gear.

He doesn’t seem to care, though, and beams up at me after zipping up his bag. “Thanks, Camden. I mean, Coach Cam. That was awesome. Will you be here next week?”

“Yeah, Cammie.” Eli appears, draping an arm over my shoulder. His floppy blond hair tickles my neck. I shove him off. “Will you be here next week? I could use another set of hands. Did you see those little kids? Bloodthirsty monsters, I tell you.”

I don’t answer quickly enough, and Liam’s face falls. Eli’s hand gives me a painful squeeze.

“Yes,” I say finally. “I’ll be here. But not to help with your group.” I shake Eli off and give him a playful shove. “Just Liam.”

Bad idea, a little voice in my head warns. I ignore it, as you’re supposed to do when you hear voices in your head.

“Really?” Liam’s voice pitches high with excitement.

My chest constricts, thinking about how, in a few years, he’ll be entering into the too-cool teenage years when guys seem to think they have to hide their enthusiasm for anything.

Even while trying to keep his skates underneath him, Liam was stoked to be here. Concentrating with all his might, celebrating every little victory, and rattling off hockey facts. Between the last time I saw him and now, he’s grown two inches and become a veritable piñata stuffed with hockey information.

Is this … because of me?

Last summer, Liam’s knowledge of the sport went so far as to know that it’s played on ice with skates. Now, he’s here in Harvest Hollow, sneaking his mom’s credit card to sign up for hockey training, and knows Sidney Crosby’s current number of assists. Not for the season. Sid’slifetimenumber of assists.

Maybe it’s unrelated, but this sudden interest—fixation?—seems a little too pointed to be coincidental.

I shouldn’t feel so happy at the thought.

Eli narrows his eyes at me, letting me know he’s going to have a lot of questions later. I ignore him, the same way I will when he asks all the questions.

“See ya, kid,” he says, ruffling Liam’s sweaty hair before walking off toward his group of little guys. “You looked good out there.”

He did—at least compared to how he started. I mean, he’s still wobbly and barely able to take more than a few strides in a row without falling. And he can’t turn. Or stop. But he’s no longer holding onto the wall or to me for support.

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