Page 3 of Put a Rink on It

“I could retire.”

“No.” His guffaw echoes through the speakerphone. “What would you even do with yourself if you weren’t playing hockey?”

“I’d still be involved somehow.”

“Okay, let’s stop entertaining this as a real option.”

I have zero say in what he does with his career, but he’s made it clear over the years he wants to play as long as he can. He wants to be a player who has a decade-long career. He’s well on his way, but if he quits now, the goal will go up in smoke.

“I could do it. I think. Give it up.” His voice loses the seriousness from moments ago because it’s not a real consideration. “Or I could accept it and live on the same coast as you for the first time in our lives.”

The idea has merit. Hartford is close to Vermont, and while it’s not around the corner, I’d get to see him more than I do now.

“That wouldn’t suck. Being in the same time zone would be worth it."

“So we think it’s a good thing.” It’s not a question but an acceptance.

Back to the “we.”

“What does your agent think?” I pick at the chipped polish on my thumb, reminded I’m supposed to be on the way to the nail salon. Pushing through the glass doors into the cold, December air, Nero still hasn’t answered.

“Uh, she didn’t seem to have an opinion either way.”

Which is how agents should deal with this kind of news, but in my experience, Ember never ends a conversation without blatantly expressing her opinion.

“I’m not sure my opinion carries weight,” I try.

“Why else would I call you first?” The exasperated tone returns, another question he shouldn’t need to ask.

I’ve always been supportive of his career, but not involved in the major decisions. For the life of me, I don’t get why he’s so interested in my opinion for something like this. A huge decision that will change the trajectory of his career.

“Because you needed to hear my voice.” I unlock the doors to my SUV and slide into the driver’s seat.

He blows out a resigned breath, his tell his brain is ruminating. “Well, true. I’m sorry today didn’t work out, but now you know why.”

“I’ll let it slide. Agents trump friends.”

“You’re too good to me.” The phone connects to the Bluetooth in my car, his hearty voice filling the emptiness. “What are you up to?”

“Driving to meet Ma, Ettie, and Tate at the nail salon.”

“Get something festive. But not red or green. Something flashy. Something that makes a statement.”

I can’t hold in my laughter as I navigate from work to the salon. “We’ll see what we have time for. I’m not sure what time they close, and you know, it’s late.”

“Think of it as practice for when you’re out at night games.”

“Night games?”

“Are you saying you won’t support me when I’m on your coast?”

“I’m not not saying that,” I hedge. At least they’ll start earlier in Hartford than in Minnesota. “Okay, I’m here. Seven tomorrow.”

“Fancy nails, Ships. That’s all I’m saying.”

“On it, Champ,” I agree to humor him. He’s not the boss of my nails.

Five minutes later, I can’t get Nero’s “fancy nails” out of my head. Deciding to treat myself, I go for gel candy cane nails with a unique pattern of red and white on each. To match, my toes get alternating red and white.