Page 48 of Lucky Shot
“Aidan might have stuff he needs to do, or my dad might have plans that interfere with my schedule.”
“Like inviting a stranger to stay on your property?” I ask, hoping we’re at the joking phase of the situation now.
“Yeah.” A rough, short laugh slips from his lips.
I smile back at him and for a moment it feels like we’re in on our own private joke. He looks away first and when he glances back, the grumpy version of him is back in full force.
I guide the conversation back to more easy questions about game day, before and after, then during. What’s it like being out on the ice? What are you thinking about? How do you decompress after the game?
“It depends” is his favorite answer. He never says it in a way that makes me think he’s trying to put me off, but more that he can’t seem to drill things down so simply. Maybe hockey really is that complex. It definitely feels that way as I try to make sense of the different penalties.
He’s listing them out for me. “Tripping, high-sticking, hooking?—”
“Hooking?” I ask, certain I heard him wrong.
He nods.
“It’s really called that?”
Another small smile pulls at one side of his mouth. “Yep. It’s a minor penalty.”
“Which means the player spends two minutes in the box?”
“That’s right.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ve managed to remember one tiny detail.
“Have you ever had a hooking penalty?” I still can’t believe it’s called that, though I can’t seem to come up with a better name.
“Oh yeah.”
I quirk a brow. “So they’re common, then?”
He doesn’t strike me as someone who makes a lot of mistakes.
“Yeah. Minor penalties are more common than major, but they all happen. Emotions and adrenaline run high during games. And sometimes, guys just piss you off.”
“You get them on purpose?!”
His smile is even bigger, and those damn dimples are winking at me.
“Wow. I had no idea,” I say at the same time Aidan’s voice carries from the other side of the rink.
“Dammit,” Aidan curses quietly again, head hanging low.
Nick looks from his son back to me.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
Everything in his body language screams his desire to check on Aidan, but his words are calm. “He’s fine. Hockey can be frustrating.”
“At least that makes sense to me.”
“Writing is frustrating?”
“Sometimes.” Lately it’s more like always.
Nick glances back at his son. Even through the mask, I can tell Aidan is scowling like his father.
