Page 22 of Big Dill

“Not me,” he corrects. “Us. By tonight they’ll know your shoe size and whether you take cream in your coffee.”

“Terrifying.”

“You get used to it.”

We walk in companionable silence for a few minutes, our bodies brushing now and then. Every accidental touch sends a little spark straight through me, which is both thrilling and deeply inconvenient.

“This is the rink,” he says, stopping in front of a low, weathered building. “Where I learned to skate. And fell. A lot. But got back up again.”

I smile. “I can picture it.”

“Yeah?” His gaze softens. “You can?”

I nod. “Little Brody. Too big skates. Determined. Competitive.”

He huffs. “I was not little.”

“Relative to now,” I say, eyeing him.

He laughs, then pushes the door open and waves me inside. The air smells like ice and metal and childhood memories. The rink is empty, quiet, the glass ice freshly resurfaced.

“They don’t lock this either.”

“They do. But the parent/toddler skate is going to start soon.” He goes quiet, thoughtful as he looks around. “This place raised me,” he says. “Taught me discipline.”

“You wanted to play for the NHL?”

“I think all boys do growing up, but it wasn’t in the cards for me. I switched dreams. Physiotherapy. Iron man. Pickleball.”

I look at him, really look at him. The man who left. Who came back. Who knows exactly what he wants in life, now. And in that knowing there’s something achingly beautiful. Something steady.

“You’re…good at it, aren’t you?” I ask, my voice softening. Not just the sports, or the discipline. Him. Life. The way he carries himself.

He shrugs, almost bashfully. “I try.”

“Try?” I echo, a smile tugging at my lips. “Modest.”

“You ever wonder,” he says finally, voice low. “If we end up exactly where we’re supposed to be?”

A long beat of silence and then, “I don’t know, Brody.” I never in a million years thought I’d end up here, but suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad. Silence takes up space between us, both lost in our thoughts. “So,” I say lightly, breaking the quiet. “Where to next on this whirlwind tour?”

We step out of the rink into the fresh air. Snow crunches under our boots, crisp and cold, our breath sending little puffs into the air with every step.

We’re about to cross the street, when out of nowhere—WHAM—a rogue snowball smacks Brody square in the chest.

He yelps, slips on the ice beneath his boots, and goes down hard, sliding a few feet before landing in a heap in the snow.

“Oh my God!” I scream, racing over. “Are you okay?”

He groans, brushing snow from his hair, cheeks pink from cold and embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he mutters, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Mostly my pride hurts.” He glances around. “Who the hell threw that?”

I cover my mouth, working to hide a laugh.

“It’s not funny,” he shoots out.

“A man of discipline… and yet, utterly unprepared for a snowball attack.”

He sits up, brushing snow off his coat. “I never trained for a snowball attack.”