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I roll my eyes. “He wouldn’t yell at a kid.”
“Says you. The little one likes to chirp.”
“Chirp?”
“Trash talk. He’s determined to trip Ian.”
My lips curl in a smile at the image of my massive hockey player tumbling on the ice because of some tiny little boy. Well, not my hockey player, but whatever.
“I’m going to go check on him,” I say, handing Jack the bowl. “Stir this.”
“Stir this?” He looks at the bowl like I’ve handed him a bomb. “What do you mean ‘stir this’?”
“That spoon there? Pick it up and turn it clockwise.”
He’s still shouting at me when I start to walk off. “I’ve only got one hand!”
“Bet it doesn’t stop you from doing other things!” I toss back, laughing.
I can hear the kids start to volley questions at him as I pace away, their voices growing fainter and the much louder ones of the five hockey players who volunteered superseding them as I get closer to the rink. I lean over the railing as Jankowski herds a group of preteen boys to the crease to show them some defensive moves. I watch them for a moment, trying to pretend I didn’t come over here to get a glimpse of one player in particular, but it’s futile really.
Ian is huddled close to a small boy who can’t be any older than seven—Kyle, I think his name is—his expression serious and his hands gesticulating wildly as he explains something about his stick. I watch him straighten to his full height and bend at the waist as he shows Kyle how to strike at the puck; he’s showing him how to attempt a slap shot, I realize. I rest my chin on my folded arms as I watch them, and it takes several seconds for me to register the soft smile on my mouth as I do so.
Ian hands the stick to Kyle, folding his arms over his chest as he watches the little boy study the puck with all the intensity of a full-grown man. He bends just as Ian did, pressing the end of his stick to the puck and rearing back before suddenly slapping the shit out of it and watching it fly across the ice.
Ian’s face transforms into a blinding grin, clapping Kyle on the shoulder and nodding fervently as his mouth moves in what I assume to be praise, given the way the boy lights up. The entire exchange makes it feel like my ovaries are being tied up in a knot like a fucking cherry stem.
“Looking a little flushed there, Dee,” a voice says coyly.
I turn my head to catch a familiar face grinning at me. “Fuck off, Sanchez.”
“Wow.” He clutches his chest. “In front of the children?”
“How are they doing out there?”
“I think they’re having fun,” he says. “How’s the baking?”
“I’ve got Jack manning the icing station.”
Sanchez cackles. “Wow, I need to take my skates off and get over there. I gotta see that.”
“Make sure he doesn’t break something else,” I chide. “He always seems to when you’re involved.”
“It was one time,” he argues. “And he totally bragged that he could do a double axel.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I tease.
He narrows his eyes. “Jerk. I’ll leave you here to enjoy the view.”
“You know it’s not like that.”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard the PR spiel.” He leans in close, pinching my cheek. “Hasn’t stopped the big guy from glaring at me for the last sixty seconds.”
Sanchez is already skating off when I whip my head back to where Ian was working with Kyle, catching his eyes on me for only a second before he tears them away. Even from a slight distance, I can see his face get a little red, his lips pressing into a tight line.
Well, that is interesting.
I move from my spot to wander closer to the other end of the rink, wiggling my fingers in a wave that Ian returns before saying something to Rankin. Rankin comes closer to take over with Kyle, and then Ian is gliding my way, coming to rest just on the other side of the railing that I stop in front of.
