Page 185 of Twisted Needs

FIVE YEARS LATER

I can’t count the number of times I’ve been asked if it feels good to be back. There’s that same familiar chill mixed with the smell of sweat and tape and something almost like tears here on the ice.

Logan Bishop and I stand off to the side, and I can’t help but flick my eyes down to the flashy new wedding band on his finger. And of course, he catches me doing it. “Shut up,” he mutters, barely holding in a laugh.

“Hey, now.” I lift my hands in surrender. “You gave me so much shit about Anders…and now look at you—how old is the bride again?”

“Vasana is twenty-five and in med school, thank you very much. Man—should’ve made Malloy my best man instead of your old ass.”

I shake my head at him, but nearly get knocked to the ground by a six-year-old speed demon in hot pink skates. “Whoa,” I mutter, stumbling. A second later, her clone follows behind, trudging across the ice with her upper body bent over a walker made of white PVC piping and stick tape.

“Sorry,” she huffs, completely out of breath, then puts a hand up at me like I’m the problem. “My sister just keeps going too fast and running into people.”

At the same exact time, Robbie van Deusen slices to a stop and immediately throws himself backward, wailing his limbs like a cartoon character. He lands on his ass with a solid thud. The little girl immediately breaks into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand like her smile is something she’s trying to hide.

“Mr. Parker,” Vandy calls from a few feet away, grinning as he holds out his stick. “Can you pull me up?”

He does this every year.

“Of course I can, Captain Robbie.” Bracing myself, I grab the blade of his stick. Vandy winks at the girl before yanking just enough to send me off balance. I go down with him on purpose, landing on my back and splaying out in a starfish on the ice.

The little girl—Anatalia, according to the name tag I finally catch—laughs even harder, fully unrestrained now.

Forty-four and I’m still an idiot the second I hit the ice.

The rest of the morning blurs into drills, laughter, and the scrape of blades carving patterns over the rink. The Sentinels do this every year with kids from foster programs across the D.C. area. We teach them how to skate, load them up with sugar and signed jerseys, and send them on their way.

I don’t fly into D.C. for most of the other events, but I always make it a point to come to this one for Anders.

Even though he couldn’t make it this year, this event is for a cause that hits close to home. A lot of these kids have lived versions of what he went through. And even though Anders was lucky enough to have Luca, he still understands exactly what it costs.

Bish and I have joined all the retired guys now. More of us every year. And the Sents have been unstoppable lately, especially under Calvin Malloy’s leadership, with Vandy right beside him.

It’s almost surreal being back here. Seeing the guys who are still around.

Mickey Rogers and Graham Livingston still trading words while locking down defense. Malloy still a beast in net. Vandy still impossible to stop on offense—shifting between wings but clearly built for center.

“Parker!” a feminine voice calls.

Aviva skates out with my two-year-old goddaughter on her hip, heavily pregnant and already looking like she’s regretting every decision that led her here. Her auburn curls are pinned back with a bandana, while Lottie’s darker curls go in every direction.

“Thank God,” she exhales, handing her over. “Here. Watch her while I go pee.”

“I don’t understand why everyone keeps handing me their babies,” I laugh, adjusting Lottie in my arms.

“I have to pee,” she repeats, already turning away and cutting across the ice.

“Where the hell is your dad, Lot?” I ask the toddler.

I scan the ice and snort when I spot Malloy mid-argument with Coach Matthias. “Someone’s in trouble,” I sing under my breath, bouncing Lottie slightly.

And then it happens. Anatalia and her sister skate back up to me. A’Nayah, the other’s name tag reads. “Excuse me,” Anatalia says. “My sister wants to ask you a question.”

“Yeah?” I laugh.

A’Nayah just nods. “She wants to know if that’s your baby.”

“Oh—no,” I chuckle. “I’m afraid not. I’m just her uncle.”