My father cracks a smile. “You get your modesty from me, I’m afraid.”
“I’d never let her down,” I say earnestly. “I just have to convince her to give me a chance…before she gives some other asshole a chance.”
“She’s not wowed you’re an NHL player, huh?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
“I like that,” he says. “And what does she do?”
“She’s a pastry chef.”
He arches his brows. “Hey, that’s pretty neat.”
“You’d like her.”
This time, his smile is sad. “Maybe someday you can tell her about your old man, who made you learn how to skate when you were three.”
His meaning hits me hard—he won’t be around long enough to meet her in person. I clear my throat, forcing myself not to get emotional.
“I’m pretty sure I was begging you to teach me,” I tell him.
Dad’s eyelids are starting to droop as he says, “I remember that feeling, seeing my son in pads and skates out on the ice. It was…damn, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it.”
My muscles tense with the effort of holding back my emotions. My dad is only sixty-seven years old; his story’s not supposed to be over. And if his number has to be up, unfair as it is, he wouldn’t have wanted to go this way—wasting away to nothing in front of his family.
“I hope you’re happy,” he says, his voice so soft I can hardly hear him. “I never really gave you much choice about hockey, and it’s hard to have a regular life when you’re on the road so much.”
I clear my throat and say, “Dad, I couldn’t be happier I followed in your footsteps. I love hockey. It’s always been a part of me.”
His expression relaxes into a smile. “Good. I wish I could hang on long enough to see you play in the Olympics…” He pauses, seeming to struggle to keep speaking, “…and have a family of your own.”
My throat is so tight it’s hard to even speak, but I make myself find a way. “I haven’t even been picked for the Olympic team yet.”
“You will be.”
His eyelids close, his body exhausted. I don’t want our conversation to end. I don’t want to leave tomorrow, and go back to playing hockey while he keeps deteriorating. But he made me promise when he first got sick that I’d keep playing, telling me it’s for both of us.
“Get some rest, Dad,” I say, standing up to help him get situated in a lying-down position again.
This time, he doesn’t fight me. He doesn’t have the energy.
I pull the covers up to his chin and bend down to kiss his forehead, a tear falling from my eye onto his pillow as he sleeps.
All the good memories I have of my dad flood my mind as I sit watching him sleep. The first time I touched the Stanley Cup was after my dad’s team won when I was a kid. I have a picture of us on the ice together after the game, him holding me and smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen.
He taught me how to shave, how to fly fish, and how to change a tire. But looking back, there’s so much more I learned from him that I can’t even put into words. He’s never raised his voice to my mom. My sister and I got yelled at when we deserved it, but even on the few occasions I can remember Mom being wrong, Dad shouldered at least half the responsibility. He was always fierce on the ice, but even-tempered at home. He taught us to do what we had to do—get good grades, practice sports and do our chores so we could do what we wanted to do—have fun and succeed.
I bury my face in my hands and cry softly. On one hand, I’m not ready. I can’t imagine a life where my dad’s not a phone call away anymore. A life where my mom is alone for the first time in thirty-three years.
But at the same time, I don’t want him to suffer. I wish he could just fall asleep and not wake up, if waking up means being in pain and losing his dignity.
Sitting up and wiping my thumbs beneath my eyes, I get myself together. If he wakes up or my mom walks into the room, I don’t want either of them to see me like this.
I take out my phone and scroll news headlines, keeping the sound off so I can hear my dad’s soft snoring next to me.
My heart sinks when I see the top headline on a popular pro hockey blog. Alexei Petrov’s in trouble again. Anton’s twin brother has always been known as a wild one—partying hard and making no apologies for it. He’s one of the nicest guys I know, but he’s a headache for the PR team in Austin, where he plays.
This time, it looks like he showed up intoxicated for a game. At least, that’s the unconfirmed rumor. The team spokesman says he was sick, but unnamed sources say he was stumbling and slurring his words in the locker room.
Anton is probably furious. He’s the more mature brother by far, and he’s always trying to keep his brother in line, but it’s an impossible task. And we’re starting a new season, so Anton’s got plenty of shit to keep up with in his own lane.
I’m about to text Silas about Alexei when a message pops up on my screen.
Reese: Hey, I’m dying to know…did they take your stick?
I grin at the phone, the unexpected message from her like the sun breaking through the clouds on a dark, gray day.
Me: No, they knew I was expecting that. Instead they filled up a cooler with a bunch of giant dildos buried under ice and when I reached in for a Gatorade the fuckers took pictures of me standing there holding a dildo.
Reese: OMG I just laughed really loud on the El train and everyone’s looking at me now.
Me: One of these days I’m gonna get them all back good.
Reese: Oh, on another subject, I had the best coconut shrimp EVER the other night at a seafood place on the northside. It made me think of Kauai. Maybe we can go there sometime.
Me: Is this your way of asking me out?
Reese: As a friend, yes.
Me: I’d love to. You weren’t at a seafood place with some other guy, were you?
Reese: No! I took my friend Angelia there for her birthday. I don’t date, remember?
Me: Yep. But a nun’s habit doesn’t suit you.
Reese: I’m ignoring that. When can you meet up for dinner?
Me: I’m traveling for the next couple days. Thursday night?
Reese: That’s my night at the shelter.
Me: Okay, I have games this weekend, so how about Sunday night?
Reese: Yes.
Me: Pick you up at 6?
Reese: See you then. And I’m expecting to see that picture your teammates took of you.
I smile at the screen, considering whether I should tell her where I am, and why. But I dismiss the idea. I’m hurting enough over my dad; I don’t want to rub salt in the wound by talking about it.
Hopefully Reese and I can have a nice, quiet dinner where I can gain her trust just a little bit more. Our night together in Kauai is still fresh in my mind, and even though I went out with other women after that when I thought I’d never see her again, now that she’s back in my life, I’m planning to wait for her. She’s damn well worth it.
Chapter Twelve
Reese
“What’s with all the celery?” Angelia asks me, her brows knitted together in confusion.
“Oh.” I shake myself out of the daze I was in and look down at the mountain of diced celery on the kitchen counter in front of me at the shelter. “I guess I was daydreaming.”
Truth is, I know I was, but I’m not going to admit it to Angelia. I’ll get an earful and then some if I tell her I was thinking about a man. Last night I saw Knox being interviewed on ESPN after a game, and I haven’t been able to shake thoughts of him since.
He had his resting brood face on as he talked seriously about his team’s defense this season. It made me fluttery inside to watch him in his element, talking so confidently about his team’s strengths. I also felt a surge of pride in him, even though we’re only friends.
I didn’t think it was possible for us to be just friends when he came in to see me that day at the shelter. The attraction between us is still strong. But w
e seem to be making it work. Just because we feel an attraction doesn’t mean we have to act on it.
It’s that dead mid-morning time on Thursday when I’m just getting started with my day at the shelter and the residents who helped Angelia with breakfast have all cleared out to go to work or class. A requirement of staying here is that any women who are physically and mentally able must work or take classes.
There’s just one woman left in the kitchen, and as soon as she finishes the dishes she was working on and hangs up her dish towel to dry, she says goodbye to me and Angelia and heads out.
“Have you heard yet?” Angelia says to me in a low tone once we’re alone in the kitchen.
I turn to look at her. “Heard what?”
Her expression is grim. “The Mission board of directors met last night and voted to cut all non-essential programming here.”
I freeze, the knife going still in mid-air. “What does non-essential mean?”
“It means everything but the beds and non-perishable food.”
My heart rate flies into a frenzy as I set the knife down. “Non-perishable food?”
“I’ll be making a lot of PB&J’s here soon. If I even get to keep my job.”
“Wait, what? The residents here are going to have to eat peanut butter and jelly every day?”
Angelia gives me a sad smile. “Your chef soul just died a little, didn’t it?”
“Why? This can’t be. I knew the after school program was in danger, but…you might lose your job?”
“The shelter’s federal funding got cut. We’re getting forty percent of what we got last year. It’s a big hit. So the board had to decide if we cut back on beds, or cut back on what we can give residents. With the winters here and all our beds full for the past two years…they couldn’t cut beds.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s a horrible spot to be put in.” I feel a surge of anger. “But this means no classes? No job training?”
“Yeah. And nothing for the kids. We’ll be back to relying only on donations for extra stuff for the kids.”
“There wasn’t a lot of extra, anyway.” I bring my hand up and rub my temples. “This is complete bullshit. Is there anything we can do?”
“The funding has already been set. For this year, we’re screwed.”
“Well, this makes no sense. I don’t get paid, so why can’t I keep teaching my classes? My ingredients are all donated or bought by me.”
“We’re required by our insurance to have a trained staff member present for cooking and baking activities. And my salary had to be cut, too, so…”
“Oh, Angelia.” I sigh softly. “I’m so sorry. You love your work here.”
“It’s all I have.” Her voice breaks and she looks down.
“It’s not all you have; you have me.” I wrap my arms around her in a fierce hug. “You can move in with me if you need to, and I can get you a job at Magnolia.”
She laughs bitterly, still staring at the floor. “I’d have to wear a turtleneck to hide my scars.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s the other way around, and you know it. Don’t let this set you back emotionally. Please.”
Tears shine in her eyes as she looks up at me. “I’m in a good place, Reese. I love it here. I feel safe here. But the thought of working with men again, of having to be close to them and take orders from them…it makes me feel sick.”
“I won’t let that happen. You can work under me, okay?”
She nods. “Yeah. But if I have to ride the El train to work, I’m carrying a goddamn machete.”
Angelia lives about a block from the shelter now, and she walks to and from work every day. Some nights, she sleeps in a cot in her tiny office. The elimination of her job at the shelter will affect more than just her. I’ve seen many women come through this place and draw their inspiration from this woman who survived an acid attack, testified against her abuser and helped send him to prison.
I move my chopped celery into a bowl, saying, “There has to be something we can do. How much money are we talking about?”
“I don’t know the exact number, but it’s around two hundred grand.”
“Well, shit.” I lean back against the kitchen counter, crossing my arms.
Angelia lets out a deep breath. “We’re funded through the end of October. Let’s not worry about it right now.”
“Okay. As soon as the chickens cool, we need to debone them.”
“Your chicken noodle soup is my favorite.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s better than my mama’s—but don’t tell her that.”
I smile. “Hey, I brought you one of the mini pineapple upside down cakes I made at the restaurant yesterday.”
“Thanks, girl. That’ll be a perfect way to drown my sorrows at the end of the day.”
“We’re not giving up yet.”
Angelia’s smile is wry. “I could sell all my belongings, and then we’d have our first eighty bucks or so.”
“I’d sell my furniture if it would help. All I really need is my bed. But my stuff’s not worth much, either.”
“I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.” Angelia looks down at the chicken she’s pulling the meat from. “This job, this place…it was too good to last.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true, though. More and more people just don’t believe in giving others a hand up anymore. They don’t care if people are out on the streets—they think it’s their own damn fault anyway.”
“Not everyone’s like that, my cynical friend.”
“You know what I’m saying, though.”
I hate to admit it, but she’s right. I nod solemnly.
“This place may not be much,” she says, looking around the kitchen with a hodgepodge of donated appliances and mismatched counters. “But for the residents here, three meals a day and a warm bed is a fairytale come true.”
“Isn’t it funny how relative fairytales are?” I say, passing her another bowl to fill with chicken. “I used to think marriage and kids and a home of my own was the fairytale. But I love where I am now.”
“You might end up having it all, you know. A good man, kids and work you love.”
I scowl at her. “I thought we were in agreement that good men are just mythical creatures.”
She chuckles. “I say that, but in my heart I know there are good men out there. My grandpa was one.”
“I don’t know…men who never cheat may just never have had an opportunity.”
Angelia scoffs. “Now who’s cynical?”
“I don’t deny I am. I expect to be hurt so I’m never disappointed.”
“Yeah, but you’re never not disappointed, either,” Angelia points out. “You’re never anything.”
“That’s true. But,” I point at her with a chicken-remnant-covered finger, “I’m having dinner with a man Sunday night.”
She gapes at me in surprise. “A real, live man? You?”
“It’s just as friends, but since he has a penis, I deserve some credit, I think.”
“How do you know about his penis?”
I can’t help it—I flush from my head to my toes. Angelia throws her head back in laughter.
“Just friends, huh?” she cries.
“We’re just friends now. Really.”
“Uh huh. And he just wants to be friends, too?”
I shrug. “Well, he’d like to be more, but he accepts being just friends.”
“Wait a minute!” Angelia’s whole face lights up. “Is this the guy who came here to see you that day recently? The one Tina said was tall, dark and handsome?”
“She said that?”
“Oh, yeah.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s such a gossip. Why didn’t you tell me she was talking about him?”
“I figured you’d tell me about him if you wanted to.”
“His name’s Knox. We met when I was on my solo honeymoon in Hawaii.”
“
Oooh, nice. Is he Hawaiian?”
“No, he just happened to be there at the same time.”
A couple of shelter residents walk into the kitchen, greeting us and walking over to the counter to get aprons and put them on for their lunch shift.
“Well, be careful,” Angelia warns. “Take pepper spray, let me know where you’ll be and don’t go down any dark alleys with him. But have fun.”
“We’re just friends.”
“I get it.” She tries to wink at me, but really she just scrunches up half her face.
“You’re the worst winker I’ve ever seen,” I say, laughing.
“Well, I don’t have anyone to wink at.”
“Maybe you will, though, someday.”
She snorts out a laugh. “I’ll leave the fairytales to you, my dear. I’m good where I am.”
We exchange a silent, solemn look, because we both know she won’t be where she is for much longer. And even though I’ll do everything I can to cushion the blow of losing her job, I can’t recreate the comfort zone she has here. At least, not overnight.
Chapter Thirteen
Knox
“What do you think? As good as the coconut shrimp we had in Kauai?” Reese asks me, her expression excited as she waits for my answer.
“It is; it’s fantastic. Who would have guessed you could get seafood like this in Chicago?”
“I’m telling you, the food in this city is crazy good.”
“I’m not convinced.” I wink at her. “We may have to try every restaurant in the city together.”
She smiles, but it only lasts a second before her lips slide down in a melancholy expression.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
She sighs softly and meets my gaze across the restaurant table. “When you winked, it reminded me of my friend who works at the shelter. She got some bad news the other day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. It was bad news for me too. Bad for everyone there, actually. But Angelia got hit harder than I did—she’s losing her job.”
“What was this news?”
“The shelter lost more than half of its federal funding for next year,” she says glumly.
Knox: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Page 8