Page 63 of Heart on Ice

“It won’t define your career, though,” I tell him, which pulls a small smile from his lips.

“You watched my games?”

I smirk. “Don’t think anything of it. It’s my job to keep an eye on the agency's clients.” He sips his wine, chuckling. Which makes me giggle, a bit of tension slowly easing from myshoulders. “And things seem to be looking up for you, from what Marcus says.”

“I can’t believe The Mavericks are interested in me.”

“Having the St. Pierre brothers on the ice together is a huge deal for the team. The added revenue that you and Felix would bring in, the merch, the fans, your skills, it’s a no-brainer. Will you entertain any other teams?” I ask him.

“Not if The Mavericks are interested. I want to end my career with my brother by my side.”

“You’re not over the hill yet,” I joke with him.

“For hockey, I am. The Mavericks have said that they would be interested in talking to me about coaching with them if or when I’m ready to hang up my skates,” he explains.

“They did? And that’s something you would be interested in doing?”

He nods. “I would, yeah. If I can get one season with my brother, then I’ll be happy, even better if we win the cup,” he adds.

“You’re in with a chance. Bill will lose his mind if you guys win it.” I chuckle.

“I’m highly motivated.” He grins. “Are we good, Issy?” he asks. “I know we are laughing now, and I don’t want to ruin it, but I need to know that you and I can try again … as friends. I’ve truly missed you.” His speech is heartfelt, and being around him again, deep down inside, I have missed him too. He was my best friend as well as my partner.

“I’ve missed you too,” I confess, and I see the hope in his eyes. “It’s hard, I’ve held onto the anger toward you for so long, I’m going to need a minute to truly let it go. And when I look at you, I see Missy Jenkins on her knees, smiling.”

“I’m so sorry about that.”

“I know you are,” I reassure him. “I want to truly move on from our past, Pierre. Do you mind being patient with me?” I ask him.

“I’ll wait forever for you,” he tells me.

“You’re a horrible singer,”I tease him.

“I can’t be good at everything.” He belts out another noughties power ballad. I’m having fun and laughing with him, something I never thought I’d ever do again. The two of us may have drunk too much wine tonight, but after the conversation at dinner where we put a lot of our issues on the table and spoke honestly, I feel like a bit of the weight and tension between us is lifting.

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Hockey Superstar.”

“Hockey isn’t the only thing I’m good at,” he says.

“Really, what else do you excel in?”

“Cooking.”

That’s true, he is a good cook, but I’m not about to inflate his head. “I’ve only tried one dish, the jury is still out on that.”

“Fine. I’ll cook for you every night until you realize I’m a fantastic cook.” He grins.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.

“I want to. It’s the sign of my appreciation for letting me crash your life,” he explains to me.

“Guess I can handle that.” I take a sip of my wine. If it means I don’t have to cook, sign me up.

Pierre continues to list off his other talents. “I’m good at being a dog dad.” He is, he loves that floof ball. Frankston is passed out on the rug in front of the television, he’s totally over listening to our bad karaoke tunes.

“You are a good dog dad.”

This makes him smile. “I’m good at massages.” Really? The old I’m good at massage trick. “Not those kinds, but I am good at them too. I give good foot massages, here give me your feet,” he says, trying to grab my feet.

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