The kid nodded, his hands on his knees, his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. “I took it...easy on...you.” He raised his head and grinned. “You know, so you didn’t...have a heart attack or something.”
“I appreciate that,” Neil said, wanting more than anything to challenge the kid to another race or a shoot-out, anything to prove that some smart-ass half his age couldn’t best him. Not at his own game.
But he was afraid that was his inner demons talking, the ones reminding him that each year he played in the NHL could be his last. That there were always more kids coming into the league, players who were younger, faster, better puck handlers.
Players who could push him right out of a job if he let down his guard.
Luckily, he was always—always—on guard.
And right here, right now, he was on the ice doing what he loved most in the world. Right here, right now, he was still one of the best players in the world.
He just wasn’t sure what or who he’d be when he no longer was.
CHAPTER FOUR
BREANNE MONTESANO GLANCED at the microwave clock. Three forty-seven.
Her dad was late.
“Maybe he’s not coming,” she said, then bit her lower lip, tasting chocolate there from the cookie she’d eaten a few minutes ago. She licked the sweetness off and wondered if her wistful tone had sounded disappointed. Or hopeful.
Wondered what she actually felt.
Standing by the table, Pops, her great-grandpa, moved his knight on the chessboard. “He’ll be here.”
The timer on the oven buzzed and Pops slid on the red-checked pot holders she’d bought him for Christmas two years ago and removed the last tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. Bree inhaled deeply and held her breath, keeping the scent of warm, delicious, chewy cookies inside for as long as she could.
Well, for as long as she could before her lungs started burning and she had to exhale or risk dying. Or at least passing out on the kitchen floor.
Bet she wouldn’t have to go with her dad then.
“I could call him,” Bree said, checking the driveway once more—still empty. “Since he’s already late, I could tell him I’ll just stay here for a while longer.” Or for the rest of the day. “That way I can help you clean the kitchen.”
She hung out with Pops a few times each week during the summer and they often baked in the afternoons. Her mom said they were nuts to bake on hot days, but the AC kept the house cool.
“I may be old and decrepit,” Pops said in his booming voice, still heavy with an Italian accent even though he’d been in America since he was her mom’s age, “but I think I can manage to wash a couple of bowls and cookie sheets. Especially if I take a nap halfway through.” He waved a spatula at her. “Come now. It’s your turn.” He transferred a cookie to the cooling tray. “Unless you want to forfeit the match...”
She knew what he was doing. Baiting her. Daring her.
Grown-ups were so weird. They tell you to be yourself and not give in to peer pressure and then they go ahead and pressure you themselves as if they want you to give in.
Dragging her feet, Bree moved away from the large window. At the sound of a car, she hurried back but the sound faded as a truck disappeared down the road.
She sat down, slumping in her seat until Pops gave her a raised-eyebrow look—which made it seem as if he had two huge, fuzzy, gray caterpillars levitating on his forehead. With a sigh, she wiggled a bit and straightened, pulling her shoulders back. He winked then set a plate of still-warm cookies between them as he settled in his own chair across from her.
She studied the board, tried really hard to focus, to think ahead like Pops always told her. It wasn’t enough to see what moves her opponent could make next—she needed to look ahead and try to figure out what options they had two, three, four moves down the line.
But it was hard to concentrate when all she could think about was that at any minute, her dad would be there.
Possibly.
Plus, those cookies smelled so good. She shifted. The waistband of her sweatpants cut into her waist so she lifted her hips and tugged her pants up higher, knew without having to look the tight elastic had made a mark on her skin.