Page 55 of The Parent Playbook
I ruffle his hair as we finish, feeling a pang of something. “Listen, bud, I’ve got a few games lined up, back-to-back, so I won’t be around,” I start, my voice catching. “And after the season, Lily and I will be heading back to Colorado.”
Andy’s smile fades, his eyes widening. “But why?” he asks, voice small.
“It’s what’s best for Lily,” I say simply.
Andy’s lips press together, his brow furrowing as he launches into a breathless tirade. “But she likes it here, Scotty! She’s got friends, and school’s good, and she’s happy at last. What about Happy Horizons? And what about … what about all of us?”
His words hit harder than I expect, and I kneel down at his level, trying to steady my voice. “It’s about what’s right in the long run. Sometimes, we adults have to make tough decisions.”
Andy’s eyes glisten with the threat of tears. “Then you better make the right choice!” he blurts out, voice cracking as he backs away, rushing off the ice before I can say another word.
I stand there, watching him go, the chill of the rink seeping through my jacket. His words echo around the empty space.
CHAPTER 23
ANGEL
I’m that girl who wrestles with makeup like it’s some kind of strategic game. I never would have made it as a princess.
I swipe on eyeliner, frown at the mirror, and then, with a huff that could stir the curtains, I scrub it off only to sigh and start over. Because, of course, tonight’s not any old night—it’s hockey night, and somehow, I’ve been suckered into caring about it.
All for a guy who is a self-declaredjust-friend.
I can’t decide if I’m more annoyed with the mascara clumping or with myself for being so knotted up over a guy. A guy who’s not even staying in Maple Falls. I slap on some lipstick, a shade too bold probably, but if I’m going down this road, might as well do it with some flair.
Happy Horizons is about to hit the big leagues, and that’s where my focus should be. Not on some fleeting, what-if fantasy that has me reapplying my makeup three times in a row like a teenager before a first date.
But then, Scotty isn’t any old fleeting fantasy, is he? He’s a full-blown what-on-earth-are-you-thinking-Angel kind of daydream.
I cap the lipstick, glance at my reflection, and let out a snort.
“Nothing like prepping for a heartbreak,” I mutter to my reflection, who, wisely, doesn’t mutter back. The fact that I’m even considering heartbreak as an option is proof enough that I’ve strayed off the sensible path.
After one last scrutinizing look in the mirror, I take my bag, tug at my jacket, and head out the door. Ready to cheer on the Ice Breakers and, alas, one coach whose smile knocks the cynicism right out of me.
Keep your eyes on the puck, not on the coach, Angel.
Yeah, easier said than done, especially when every part of me screams that Scotty is supposed to stay in Maple Falls. With me.
Ugh.
“But first things first, pizza with my boy,” I mutter as I head to the Rustic Slice, the one place in Maple Falls that claims to make a New York-style pizza that actually lives up to the name. I shove the door open, and I’m immediately swathed in the scent of bubbling cheese and the yeasty promise of dough that could make anyone happy about a calorie splurge.
Inside, the pizzeria is buzzing with pre-game energy, families and fans gearing up with carbs. I spot Andy waving at me from a booth, and my step falters when I see who’s with him—Scotty and Lily, already halfway through their meal. Scotty’s face lights up as our eyes meet, but his smile falters, dims into something more reserved, and then settles into a warm, if somewhat restrained, welcome.
I scoot into the vinyl seat beside Andy, and Scotty’s all business-like enthusiasm as he hands over tickets. “Got you seats right at the rink side again this time. Gotta love getting up close and personal as the players glide over the slick surface like spirits. Nothing like being on the ice, the blur of the game, the rush of cold air across your face. It’s like flying.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’d rather be out there, crashing into boards than strategizing behind one.”
His cheeks tinge pink, and he looks away briefly beforeshrugging. “I don’t know. Coaching has its own thrills. Besides, I’m where I need to be.” His voice is firm, but his eyes say something else.
The kids, meanwhile, conspire in whispers, passing tickets with the stealth of seasoned spies.
“See you by the ice,” Scotty says as he flashes his credit card on the machine. “By the way, you look wonderful.”
Now it’s me tinging pink. “This old thing? It was the best I could do, not sure it’s rink side seat worthy, but … you know.”
Why am I so awkward? We’re just friends now.
