by Rebel Hart
We were nearly done around eight-thirty. All we had left to put away was one net, some pucks, and our own sticks. Kim skated over to the net to pull it free and push it off the ice, but I called for her to wait.
She paused with her hands braced against the top bar. “What is it?”
“What do you say you and I take some shots?”
Kim arched an eyebrow.
I swept a puck free from the cluster of others and passed it back and forth, left and right, between my ever-moving stick. “Come on, Kimwick. You know you want to.”
“Actually, I don’t. I’m not in the mood to be upstaged by you and have to listen to you brag about it for the rest of the night.”
I grinned. “So that means you are planning on spending the rest of the night with me?”
Kim blinked. “I-”
“One shot, Kimwick. Don’t be a pansy. The Kim I knew would’ve jumped at the chance to take me one on one.”
Kim licked her lips. “I have a condition.”
“Name it.”
“We go to the golf club for dinner.”
“You want to go to the golf club in your hockey fleece?”
“Don’t shame my outfit. I don’t care. I just want those delicious little lobster cheese bite things that come on the silver tray.”
I chuckled. “All right. Golf club it is. Now take your shot, princess.”
Kim skated over to where I was standing halfway between the offside line and the net. She nudged me out of the way with her hip and offered a very unapologetic apology before taking her aim and tightening her grip on her stick. She lined up her shot and wrenched the stick up. Her hips stayed square. The power built in her legs and her swing as she swept down with the stick.
The puck shot across the ice and smacked into the net with a soft woosh.
Kim turned to me, her short black hair getting caught in the corner of her mouth as she did. She pulled it free and her eyes glittered. “Your turn, Hughes.”
I flipped my stick over. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“And why not?”
I shrugged. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Kim threw her head back and laughed.
That was it. That’s what I’d been after. I remembered the sound as soon as I heard it; Kim had a contagious, vivacious, wild laugh that ignited joy in every room she was in. I’d yet to hear her truly laugh like this since I’d come home and now that I’d finally heard it all the uncertainty I felt about her slipped away.
She was still herself. She’d just lost a couple pieces along the way.
13
Kimberly
The Long Grove Golf Club had been and still was the nicest restaurant in town. It was owned by the old mayor and his wife. They’d raised both their sons on the property and the boys now ran the club after their parents’ retirement. Mr. and Mrs. Gurdy still spent a significant amount of their time at the club but it was to indulge in cold beers on sunny afternoons and hit the links. Their sons had pushed the club toward finer experiences for their guests, and I’d heard rumors that they were considering making it a resort in the future.
But those were just rumors. Long Grove was full of them. As William and I walked through the front doors and then through the open french doors into the restaurant, I realized he and I might very quickly become one of said rumors.
What might people whisper to each other when they ran into each other at the gym the following morning? What would neighbors mutter over their fences as they trimmed their hedges?
That poor hockey girl from the rink is hanging around with William Hughes, can you imagine that?
William Hughes has a thing for hockey players, apparently.
Didn’t they used to live together?
Isn’t he her brother’s best friend?
Didn’t his father die in a drunk driving accident-
I preferred not to think about the accident that had killed William’s father all those years ago. How he’d faced it being so young I had no idea. It still made my stomach squirm to this day to think of what it might be like to lose a parent.
Then again, the parent he lost wasn’t exactly a good person. Although where parents were concerned, being a bad person wasn’t enough to make your kids not love you. William had loved his father fiercely in spite of it all; in spite of the bruises, the embarrassment, the shame. I’d never heard him say a bad word about the man to this day.
We took a table near the window. It was covered in a sheer white tablecloth. There was a single yellow daisy on the table surrounded by baby’s breath and greenery. It smelled floral and savory all at once in this place and my mouth immediately started to water in anticipation of the basket of garlic bread and butter that I knew was on the way.
The club was nice. Really nice. The floor to ceiling white framed windows were draped in sheer curtains that would have let sunlight through had the sun not already set. Brass crystal studded chandeliers hung above and cast warm, soothing light over the place. The faint background noise of the kitchen accompanied the acoustic music flowing through the restaurant and I suddenly questioned why I’d wanted to come here in the first place.
As I gazed across the table at William, who was preoccupied with the menu, I realized this very much looked like a date.
His hazel eyes flicked up and he peered at me over the top of the menu. “Something wrong?”
I shook my head vigorously. “No. Nothing.”
His attention went back to the list before him. “This place has changed a lot since the last time I was here. Since when did they serve lamb?”
“Since two years ago. The menu got a total overhaul at the same time they renovated the restaurant and event hall. When the brothers took over.”
“Huh,” William mused and scratched his jaw. I could hear the short whiskers whispering against the tips of his fingers. He used to be clean shaven all the time when we were young. Now it seemed he was embracing that rugged, somewhat dishevelled hockey player cliché. It suited him.
He noticed I hadn’t picked up a menu. “I assume you know what you’re ordering?”
“Yep.”
“And that is?”
“The squash ravioli,” I said. “I order it every time. It’s so good.”
He slapped his menu closed and left it on the table to rest his forearms on top of it. He was wearing his usual attire: a gray Henley with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a pair of dark wash jeans. I tried to look him in the eyes instead of letting my urges get the best of me. I wanted to stare at those forearms of his. Hockey players were infamous for having good arms, wrists, and hands. They had to. The sport demanded that much of them.
And any girl out there who claims not to admire men’s hands when they aren’t looking is a downright liar.
“I trust your word, Kimwick. Ravioli it shall be.”
When our server arrived we put in our food and drink orders. William ordered ice water and I ordered a glass of cabernet sauvignon. Our drinks were brought out in a timely manner and I leaned back to sip my wine while William tore open a piece of piping hot garlic bread that had arrived with our drinks. Steam plumed out of the bun and he dropped it on his side plate, cursing and shaking out his burned fingers.
“Oh yeah,” I said, trying not to laugh at his expense. “It’s hot.”
“Classy. Real classy.”
Smirking, I helped myself to a piece of bread and cut into it with my knife instead of my hands, sparing my fingers. William followed suit and we buttered the pieces and popped them in our mouths. “Heavenly,” I mumbled through a full mouth. The decadent buttery garlic carbs tantalized my tongue. “Why is bread so good?”
William licked butter off his thumb.
I watched, paralyzed by the suction of his lips.
He caught me staring.
My cheeks burned and I dropped my gaze to my plate. Suddenly I didn’t want to demolish the bread in front of him. Suddenly I felt… different. Seen. Acutely present.
&nb
sp; “Your kids love you,” William said.
“Huh?”
“Your team. They love you. I was watching them when you spoke and showed them the new tricks and they hang off every word you say. I think you might have a couple serious athletes on that ice. What was that one girl’s name?”
“Drew. She doesn’t know the meaning of holding back. I’ve spoken to her father about getting serious about scholarships and preparing for scouts now if he thinks this is something she really wants to pursue. And we’ve talked about eliminating potential risk and injuries and he’s being proactive and taking her to chiropractor appointments and what not.”
William looked impressed.
“What?” I asked. “Didn’t think I had the foresight to see past the end of my own nose? I know how shitty it is firsthand to lose out on your sport because of an injury. I don’t want that to happen to any of those kids. It’s… it’s not a good time.”
William sipped his water. The glass had started to sweat and left little wet rings on the tablecloth in each new place he set it down. “I wish things had gone differently for you, Kim.”
I sighed heavily. “Me too. Speaking of going differently.” I sat up a little straighter and forced myself to look him in the eye. “I’m going to try to be nicer to you now that you’re home.”
“Home?”
“Yeah. I’ve been a bit… abrasive. And it’s not your fault. I’ve just had a lot going on and-” I broke off, confused by how he was looking at me. Was there something in my teeth? Had I said the wrong thing? He looked completely taken aback. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked.
William shook his head. Then he smiled. “No. Not at all. I’ve just never heard you refer to your house as my home before.”
“Well. It is your home. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise.”
He swallowed.
So did I. Then I cleared my throat. “Anyway. Let’s spare ourselves the mushy bullshit, shall we? It’s neither of our styles.”
“Cheers to that.” He lifted his glass. I lifted mine. We tapped them together and them sipped from the edges. Neither of us said anything for a minute. It wasn’t uncomfortable, either. We were content to sit. Then William thumbed the edge of his glass, inching it across the tablecloth, and paused to look up at me. “Can I ask you something kind of personal? Something you might not want to talk about?”
“You can ask. I might not answer.”
“Fair enough. I just… I’ve been thinking a lot about your knee and what it cost you. Is there no chance surgery can fix it so you can play again?”
I shrugged. “I’ve discussed experimental surgeries with doctors, but none of them have very high hopes. The damage is all muscle tissue and structural. My knee is basically all metal pins and rods and fragile bone that still isn’t healed in all the right places. At this point the best I could do is get a completely metal knee cap, but doing that would probably make the joint deteriorate faster. By the time I was back up to the best playing level I could and I hit my knee it would probably just give out on me again.”
William flinched. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. Fuck.” I studied him. “Why did you ask?”
He licked his lips. “Don’t get angry. I just wondered if you’d have more options if money wasn’t a factor.”
I laughed. “Oh God, William. Please tell me you weren’t considering offering to pay for my surgery.”
His expression remained neutral. “I would if it helped.”
My instinct was to poke fun at him, but he seemed so genuine. So put out that he couldn’t help. It made me smile. “Thank you. I appreciate the thought. But I don’t need fixing. I’m not broken. I’m just not the girl I used to be and eventually, and with lots of therapy,” I added under my breath, “I’ll be okay.”
“Yes. You will be.” He smiled at me. It wasn’t the sort of smile I was used to seeing from William. This felt real and vulnerable and honest. There was nothing forced about it and I knew he’d gotten good at forced smiles since his career took off and he always had to stop to take pictures with people. I couldn’t hold it against strangers for wanting to meet him. He was a god on and off the rink.
Our waiter returned with our meals. Neither of us held back. We dove into our pasta dishes with unabashed hunger. After all that time on the rink and staying late to mess around, we’d both worked up an appetite. It was a little odd to share a meal with him like this. I remembered sitting at my kitchen table in the early mornings before school passing a box of cereal back and forth to top up our bowls of milk while we waited for the rest of the household to wake. William and I had always been the early risers and I made him wait on me every morning before he could use the shower.
Ladies first.
Sitting here now with him reminded me that even though we used to bicker as teenagers, he had been a friend.
“Can I tell you what the hardest part is?” I asked.
William blinked. “Yes. By all means.”
I ran my tongue along the inside of my teeth. “It’s watching everyone else figure their shit out. You know? I’m stuck at this dinky rink coaching little league and working the concession stand while all my friends are pursuing the careers they chose and have been grinding their asses to achieve. Eugene is coaching figure skating. He’s taking teams to competition. He’s really good at what he does and his future looks promising. Jade is excelling in oral hygiene and on track to eventually be an orthodontist. Keith is an accountant and bought his first home. And you—” I gestured at him. “Well. I don’t have to say anything about the success you’ve had. It speaks for itself.”
“Kim, I don’t think I understand where you’re going.”
I sighed. Of course he didn’t. “I can’t help but resent everyone for moving full steam ahead while I’m still stuck at point A. I feel so behind.”
“That’s not true,” William said firmly.
I smiled at him. “Easy for an NHL player to say.”
He frowned and didn’t say anything right away. He was thinking, considering, weighing what the right and wrong thing was to say. Then he spoke up. “Look. I know you have no reason to believe me when I say this, but I mean it. The grass is always greener on the other side.”
Our waiter returned and collected our empty plates. William paid the bill and I finished my wine, and we decided that we should probably head home. I had to work in the morning and he had a very early start to get to practice in Chicago. We walked out to the car and he opened my door for me. When he got in and we pulled out of the golf club parking lot, I cast a glance over at him.
“What did you mean when you said the grass is always greener?” I asked.
He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “There are parts about being me that aren’t easy, Kim. That I don’t like. Like the publicity. Nothing feels truly private anymore.”
I hadn’t thought about that.
“And,” he added, “you never know what people’s real intentions are.”
“What do you mean?”
We came to a stop at a red light and he looked over at me. His profile was painted red from the street light and it cast the other side of his face into shadows. I was struck with a compulsive urge to reach out and touch his cheek, to trace his jaw and feel that whisper of hair under my own fingers. I clenched my hands together in my lap to stop myself.
“This new life has changed a lot of things for me,” he said softly. “But most of all, I never know if someone is in my life because they care about me, or because they care about what they look like by being around me.”
I bit my bottom lip. “That must be frightening.”
The light turned green. William shifted into first and his attention returned to the road. “It certainly can be.”
14
William
I chose my steps carefully as I made my way down the Renwick stairs at five o’clock the morning after my dinner with Kim. Her bedroom door was still closed and I didn’t expect her to rol
l out of bed until closer to eight. If I hadn’t had practice so early there was no way I’d be up at this ungodly hour. But here I was making my way downstairs in desperate search of coffee and something to eat.
I made sure not to step on the third step from the bottom. It was squeaky and had been since I lived here. I stepped over it, crossed the foyer, and moved into the kitchen, where I found Kim’s father standing in front of the stove setting the kettle on a burner to boil.
“Morning, Roger,” I said.
He started. Water sloshed out of the opening on the kettle and spilled on the stove, where it sizzled. He set it down and pressed a hand to his chest. “William. You scared the daylights out of me.”
I’d forgotten he startled easily. Smiling apologetically, I went to the kitchen island and leaned against it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t expect anyone to be down here so early. What are you doing up?”
Roger rubbed the back of his head. His graying hair was all askew from sleep and he was wearing his flannel robe. It was red and black plaid and I tried to remember if this was the same one he’d always owned or not. Couldn’t be. Mrs. Renwick—Liz—bought him a new one every second Christmas. Slippers, too. I glanced down to find he was in fact wearing a pair of black Hush Puppies. Same as always.
“The older you get, the harder it is to sleep in,” Roger admitted. “I’ve been getting up at the crack of dawn for the last few years. Keith likes to remind me that my senile is showing.”
“Is that an expression?”
“My son says it enough for me to consider it to be one.”
