Page 25 of Absolutely Not in Love
I’m more impressed with his handwriting, but okay, sure. His hockey stats are enough to raise my eyebrows. “He sounds pretty cool,” I say, ruffling Maddox’s hair. “Is that the first time you’ve met him?”
He nods, his shoulders lifting the slightest bit. “He gave me a fist bump.” He looks back toward the hockey players, and I resist the urge to follow his gaze, to grab another glimpse of Felix’s warm smile.
“Hey, you wanna go buy some apple butter with me?” I ask, reaching for Maddox’s hand. “Maybe we can grab a jar for your mom, too.”
He looks up at his dad, who shrugs. “Fine by me. We don’t have anything else to do until the game.”
Once we’re far enough away that I canstopworrying about whether my neighbor will spot me with two of his biggest fans, I’m able to relax and actuallyenjoywandering around the farmer’s market, especially now that Maddox is with us.
He’s a funny kid—the funniest, really—and I genuinely love hanging out with him. He takes to Summer right away, who answers his questions with the same level of dedication she gave to the civil procedures class that was nearly her undoing her first year of law school. She listens intently, then answers like Maddox truly matters—like his reasons for asking are as important as anything else.
My heart stretches the tiniest bit. My parents did a lot of things right, but they didn’t always talk to me like my thoughts were important, especially since they were so frequently different from their own. Josh got lucky. He loves hockey as much as they do, so his opinionsalwaysmattered. But mine? Not so much.
When I have kids—if Ieverhave kids—I want to talk to them just like Summer is talking to Maddox. Like they matter. Like whatever they love is the most important thing. Whether it’s music or horseback riding or swimming or drawing.
Or hockey,I think, a weight settling into my stomach. I’m a Mitchell, after all. If my own family is any indication, where seventy-five percent of us are diehard fans, the odds are pretty good I might have at least one kid who loves the sport. Especially if I live in Harvest Hollow.
Hockey isn’t really big in North Carolina generally, but the presence of the Appies in Harvest Hollow has gone a long way to creating a hockey-friendly culture, at least in our community. Add in the recent social media efforts Summer was talking about last night, and a hockey-friendly culture has morphed into a practically rabid fanbase.
The schools don’t have teams, but the local youth league is thriving, with tons of businesses always willing to sponsor games and tournaments. It’s nothing like you might find further north where kids can just play outside on frozen lakes, regardless of whether they have the money to join a league. But it’s pretty much impossible to grow up here andnotbe exposed to hockey, at least on the most basic level.
Throw in my family? My genetics?
There’s no way I’ll be able to keep any future offspring from learning about the sport.
And I wouldn’t want to. Not really. I would have died if my parents had tried to keep me from playing the cello. I was in the third grade when the high school orchestra visited my elementary school and played all the different instruments for us. A guy with shaggy blond hair and thick, black glasses played “Hedwig’s Theme” from the Harry Potter movie soundtracks on the cello, and I was transfixed from the first familiar note all the way to the end. As soon as he finished, my hand shot up in the air, and when the teacher leading the demonstration called on me, I looked right at the cellist and said, “Can you play it again?”
It was two years after that when I finally started lessons—two years of begging and pleading and promising to save up my allowance money to pay for a cello myself—and it felt like coming home. Like my hands had been made for the singular purpose of holding that instrument.
I look up at Maddox, bouncing on his toes next to his dad.
I wouldn’t tell that kid he couldn’t play hockey to save my own life.
And I won’t say it to my own kid, either.
I finally turn and let myself look back across the farmer’s market at the radio station booth. My eye immediately snags on Felix’s broad shoulders, his dark hair glinting in the sunlight. He’s standing just outside the booth with a kid wearing an Appies jersey who is crouched in a goalie stance, his arms outstretched. Felix makes a couple of adjustments to his position, then nods and gives him a high five.
I have no idea how or why. And I don’t know if it will last. But for the briefest moment, with thoughts of Felix and Maddox flitting through my brain, my animosity toward the sport I’ve spent half my life hating thaws the slightest bit.
It’s always been all or nothing in my brain.
But maybe—maybe—it doesn’t have to be.
Chapter Six
Felix
Theenergyandexcitementinside the Summit, the arena where the Appies both practice and play our home games, is palpable. The guys are all keyed up, buzzing around the locker room, taping sticks, putting on the last of our gear.
“We’ll gather in five,” Coach calls.
Across from me, Logan stands, helmet in hand. He seems stoic, his expression serious. We all want to win—there’s no doubt about that—but Logan has the most on the line tonight. His performance at last week’s preseason game was stellar, but that just means he’ll be watched more closely tonight. I don’t have a single doubt that he’ll eventually be called back to the NHL, but I’m sure he’s feeling the pressure just the same.
“Hey,” I say, meeting his eye. “We’ve got this.”
Logan only nods as he moves toward Coach, who is waiting at the opposite end of the locker room.
“Let’s dooooo it,” Eli says as he comes up beside me. He’s practically pulsing with energy, but that’s typical for Eli right before a game. I tend to be the opposite. I get quiet, focused.
