Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 49239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
Practice ends early and Ford doesn’t forget his offer. We get Zane into a pair of skates and Sal takes his place in front of the net.
“I can’t ice-skate,” Zane reminds me as I lead him onto the ice, his hand on my shoulder for support.
“You just stand there; you’ll be okay.”
I keep him on his feet while Ford shows him the finer points of a slap shot. He lines up about a dozen pucks and moves out of the way.
“Give it a try.”
Zane blows out a breath. “I’m not very coordinated.”
“No one cares if you miss,” I assure him. “Just give it a try.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he still takes his place where Ford told him to. The first puck he hits slides about twenty feet.
“You made contact,” Ford says encouragingly. “Swing harder this time.”
I’m standing behind Zane, ready to catch him if needed. His next shot is wide, but it makes it to the net.
“See? Better,” Ford says.
Our team captain is a good teacher. He knows how to push people without discouraging them.
Zane shoots all the pucks, getting the last one airborne. It doesn’t hit the net, but it has power.
“Nice,” I tell him. “That’s a perfect shot. Now, just aim for Sal’s crotch.”
It takes him another five shots to nail Sal, and when he does, everyone cheers. A few guys hung around on the bench to watch.
Zane smiles. It’s an actual smile, teeth and all. I help him off the ice and once we’re back in the locker room, Beau claps him on the back.
“You made that shot faster than some of our rookies do,” he says. “Good job.”
“Thanks.”
I get my wallet from my locker and take out two fifties, passing them to Zane. He gives me a wary look.
“You don’t need to give me that.”
I push them toward him. “You earned it. Rookies get a hundred bucks if they make that shot.”
He makes no move to take the money. “Just take it off my tab. I can’t take it.”
“You’re taking it.” I push the bills into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Thanks.” He looks away awkwardly.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower and then we’ll get some food and I’ll take you home.”
He nods. “I can do something while you’re taking a shower. Fold some towels or something.”
“Nah, just hang out. I won’t be long.”
Ben showers next to me, and after I rinse the soap from my face and open my eyes again, he’s looking at me.
“Is that the single mom’s kid?” he asks in a low tone.
“One of them, yeah.”
“So you’re going there.” His tone is laced with displeasure.
“No, she shot me down.”
He nods. “Smart woman.”
I want to fire back and defend myself. Ben’s happily married, and now he’s high and mighty about what everyone else should and shouldn’t do.
Just because I’ve never been committed to a woman doesn’t mean I’m incapable of it. It just means I never wanted to commit. Not that it matters because I can’t even get Tess to have dinner with me.
I should move on and not ask again, but I picked up on something that day we ice-skated. She said she doesn’t date because she doesn’t trust men. Maybe I can change her mind about me.
Chapter Eight
Tess
* * *
“Hey, Aunt Tess, can you come to the bathroom?”
I glance over at my nephew as I’m hanging laundry from the makeshift clothesline I made by running a thin rope across the kitchen. There are a total of five ropes between the kitchen and living room, so when we do laundry, it’s impossible to see anyone or anything, but until we can afford to get the dryer fixed, this is how we dry our clothes.
“I’ll be there in just a sec,” I tell Tate. “Hey, tell your brother he needs to eat his grilled cheese; it’s getting cold.”
“Mom! Look, it’s so cute!” Hannah says from somewhere.
I have no idea where. I can’t see anything but Zee’s flannel shirts, which are hanging in front of me and behind me.
“Where are you?”
“In the living room. By the comfy chair.”
I make my way through the laundry jungle and find my daughter smiling brightly as she twirls in her new dance costume. Though I want to be supportive, it’s hard when my twelve-year-old is wearing what looks like boy short briefs and a sports bra.
“Cute, but...is there more?”
“We’re putting red sequined things in our hair when we perform.”
I furrow my brow. “Do you feel comfortable in this?”
“Yeah, I love it.”
“I guess...at least it’s black. Aunt Cam can sew pads into the bra.”
“Mom! I don’t want a padded bra.”
I sigh softly, having had this conversation with her many times. “It won’t be a padded bra. But you have to have a little something in the nipple area for coverage.”
“But nothing anyone can see.”
“Right.” I try to think of something nice I can say about this outfit, but I’ve got nothing. It’s too revealing for twelve-year-olds. “So your coach approved this costume choice?”