Bowling Dreams & Cheap Wine

Chapter 5

The Frederick Arena & Sports Complex is a hotspot for ice skating and hockey. We have a separate field for soccer, field hockey, tennis courts, plus a track for the runners on the second level. I have worked here for longer than I would like to admit. Before I got pregnant, I was an ice skater. Nothing big league. My older sister got me into the sport. She had skated competitively back in the day. Just when I had followed her path, a financially responsible miracle happened. I fractured my right hip.

Yup. My youthful hip socket knocked off my dreams when I was sixteen. Most people would have carried on but I didn't have the drive afterwards. I preferred to have a working hip. I didn't give up entirely on that route and had turned my misfortune into coaching young kids and managing their starry-eyed, gold-medal hopeful parents.

The arena is open early every morning for the adult hockey teams. Getting a coveted slot on the ice is more difficult than getting a barista to spell your name right at Starbucks and this morning's particular hockey team consists of manly, sweaty, body-odor-dropping guys refusing to give up this sport they love.

And I'm not complaining about all the grunting and F-bombs dropped on the ice. No, there's something about men playing hockey that takes my breath away. Once they're on the rink, they're no longer middle-aged men succumbing to playing cornhole and sitting on riding mowers. They are athletes. All that diaper changing and Moby-wearing baby harnesses are set aside. Out here, they work out their stress. And God love them for it.

Walking towards the entrance to the arena, I'm toggling my big bag, a box of donuts, and a coffee tray. My sunglasses slide down my nose, threatening to slip right off as I reach the front entrance to the arena. "Ooof," I gripe, lifting my knee for support to adjust the coffee tray at the same time a hand grabs the handle and pulls open the door.

"Noooo!" I watch in a helpless scramble of my hand and his catching the tumbling coffee tray. The whole thing hits the glass, smacking the lids off at impact exploding coffee all over the glass doors as the donut box smashes against my chest. "Not the donuts!"

The guy swoops down in a blur of a hockey stick. "Sorry." His voice is gruff. And painstakingly familiar.

I blink twice, still in shock, looking at the coffee dripping down the doors.

"I thought I was helping," he offers, angling his head up and holding a stack of empty coffee cups.

"I don't want those," I snap and shut my mouth at the same time our eyes meet. My stomach flips. Oh no. That face...the eyes and the dark hair and that uneven grin that sticks to my heart.

"Shit Changes?" He does a double take and stands, smacking me in the face with the end of the stick.

"Ow." I jump back, my free hand flying to my face.

"Sorry. Sorry," he says profusely, setting his athletic weapon aside and slipping his hand tenderly over my jaw. I'm lost in his worried gaze as he examines my face. "I didn't mean to call you Shit Changes. It was the first that came to mind when I saw you. Are you okay?"

I'm not entirely sure calling me that is a compliment if that's all he remembers along with my vagina, but his hands are strong and warm on my cheeks. His thumb swipes beneath my eye. I wince. "I'm okay. Just keep your stick away from me."

His mouth cracks a subtle grin and his hand flattens over my jaw but my face hurts so I leave it alone. "You should put some ice on it."

I put my hand over his, heat spreads through my middle at his touch, at the concern in his eyes. I step back from his man hands. "I'm okay, really. Your hockey stick barely swiped me. But Doctor Bhatt. Why are you here? Shouldn't you be out there? Delivering the next generation?"