The Parent Playbook (Love on Thin Ice)

23. Angel

CHAPTER 23

ANGEL

I ’m that girl who wrestles with makeup like it’s some kind of strategic game. I never would have made it as a princess.

I swipe on eyeliner, frown at the mirror, and then, with a huff that could stir the curtains, I scrub it off only to sigh and start over. Because, of course, tonight’s not any old night—it’s hockey night, and somehow, I’ve been suckered into caring about it.

All for a guy who is a self-declared just-friend .

I can’t decide if I’m more annoyed with the mascara clumping or with myself for being so knotted up over a guy. A guy who’s not even staying in Maple Falls. I slap on some lipstick, a shade too bold probably, but if I’m going down this road, might as well do it with some flair.

Happy Horizons is about to hit the big leagues, and that’s where my focus should be. Not on some fleeting, what-if fantasy that has me reapplying my makeup three times in a row like a teenager before a first date.

But then, Scotty isn’t any old fleeting fantasy, is he? He’s a full-blown what-on-earth-are-you-thinking-Angel kind of daydream.

I cap the lipstick, glance at my reflection, and let out a snort .

“Nothing like prepping for a heartbreak,” I mutter to my reflection, who, wisely, doesn’t mutter back. The fact that I’m even considering heartbreak as an option is proof enough that I’ve strayed off the sensible path.

After one last scrutinizing look in the mirror, I take my bag, tug at my jacket, and head out the door. Ready to cheer on the Ice Breakers and, alas, one coach whose smile knocks the cynicism right out of me.

Keep your eyes on the puck, not on the coach, Angel.

Yeah, easier said than done, especially when every part of me screams that Scotty is supposed to stay in Maple Falls. With me.

Ugh.

“But first things first, pizza with my boy,” I mutter as I head to the Rustic Slice, the one place in Maple Falls that claims to make a New York-style pizza that actually lives up to the name. I shove the door open, and I’m immediately swathed in the scent of bubbling cheese and the yeasty promise of dough that could make anyone happy about a calorie splurge.

Inside, the pizzeria is buzzing with pre-game energy, families and fans gearing up with carbs. I spot Andy waving at me from a booth, and my step falters when I see who’s with him—Scotty and Lily, already halfway through their meal. Scotty’s face lights up as our eyes meet, but his smile falters, dims into something more reserved, and then settles into a warm, if somewhat restrained, welcome.

I scoot into the vinyl seat beside Andy, and Scotty’s all business-like enthusiasm as he hands over tickets. “Got you seats right at the rink side again this time. Gotta love getting up close and personal as the players glide over the slick surface like spirits. Nothing like being on the ice, the blur of the game, the rush of cold air across your face. It’s like flying.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’d rather be out there, crashing into boards than strategizing behind one.”

His cheeks tinge pink, and he looks away briefly before shrugging. “I don’t know. Coaching has its own thrills. Besides, I’m where I need to be.” His voice is firm, but his eyes say something else.

The kids, meanwhile, conspire in whispers, passing tickets with the stealth of seasoned spies.

“See you by the ice,” Scotty says as he flashes his credit card on the machine. “By the way, you look wonderful.”

Now it’s me tinging pink. “This old thing? It was the best I could do, not sure it’s rink side seat worthy, but … you know.”

Why am I so awkward? We’re just friends now.

Yeah, right.

Lily leans over to pass the tickets to Andy, whispering something in his ear that makes him grin. I try to catch the tail end of their secretive exchange and narrow my eyes at them both, but before I can comment, Lily is hugging me goodbye.

“We’ll see you at the rink, Angel,” Scotty says, standing up with Lily. They gather their things, and Lily waves cheerily as they head out, leaving me with a fistful of tickets and a heart full of mixed signals.

Andy beams at me, eyes practically jumping out of his head. “I love rink side. We’re gonna have the best view, Mom.”

The best view. Of the man I can’t have.

“It’s going to be great,” I drawl, settling back, my gaze drifting to the door through which Scotty just disappeared.

And that’s that, Game Four. And now we’re tied at two games apiece.

Did I say we ?

Who knew I’d ever care this much about grown men chasing a piece of rubber on ice?

But there I was, heart pounding, as the Ice Breakers squared off with those annoying Canadian Lumberjacks again. Annoying because no matter what the Ice Breakers did, the Jacks were always right there.

They have some hot shot who played like he was personally offended by anyone wearing our team’s logo. The guy was a bulldozer on skates, slamming into our players with a smirk that made me wish I could jump onto the ice and show him what a real check looks like.

The game was a nail-biter, the kind that had me clutching Andy’s hand so tight I might’ve cut off his circulation. Every time that Canadian showoff rammed one of our guys, I felt it in my bones.

And then … Scotty. Behind the bench, his jaw set, his eyes tracked every move like a hawk. He’d shout, gesture, trying to orchestrate from the sidelines. But every so often, his gaze would drift to the open areas on the ice, a place where—as he said—he used to fly.

And fly he did, in a past life. After our dinner, I looked up some videos online and wow. Even with the little I know about hockey, I could tell the man was good. Many times over, his name was mentioned as a future Olympic contender, a man on the rise.

Even here in Game Four of a charity match, I could see it, the way his body leaned with the plays, the urge to jump over the boards and take control.

What is holding him back from trying again? Fear? Loyalty? Or something he hasn’t found a name for yet?

When the final buzzer sounded, and by some stroke of sheer grit, the Ice Breakers clinched it with a shaky win, a collective sigh released in the rink. Scotty’s face lit up like he’d won the lottery.

When he shot me that thousand-watt smile, my heart did a wild dance. For a second, it felt like he was smiling just for me.

If only he weren’t skipping town when this is all over. If only.

I may not be able to change his mind about moving back to Colorado—nor should I, as I totally get that family comes first— but maybe there is something I can share that will help him take the step to get back on the ice.

This might be my last chance. The Ice Breakers are about to break up. Tomorrow’s game is their last. A lot is going to end then, for Maple Falls, for Andy who has become incredibly attached to Lil, and—whether I want to admit it or not—for me.

If only I knew the right thing to say.

Under the muted glow of my bedside lamp, I toss again, the sheets tangling around my legs like some kind of cotton vine. The clock ticks insistently, mocking my inability to sleep. Outside, the night is too quiet, too still, as if it’s holding its breath along with me. I prop myself up on one elbow, staring at the ceiling before muttering another rehearsed line into the darkness.

“Scotty, you’re a natural on the ice. It’s like watching poetry in motion, and not the boring kind they forced on us in school.”

I flop back down, wincing. Too cheesy. He’d see right through that. I turn over, punching my pillow into a more agreeable shape.

“Okay, how about … Scotty, anyone can coach, but only a few can make the ice sing. You’re one of those few. I saw it.”

Ugh. Now I’m making the ice sing? What is this, a children’s movie? I flip to the other side, my mind racing faster than my comforter can keep up with. The mattress creaks and I groan along with it. When I sit up, dragging my hands down my face, the room swims slightly, fatigue blurring the edges of my vision. I glance at the empty half of the bed, an involuntary image of Scotty sitting there, listening, even smiling at my fumbling attempts .

That image is somehow inspiring. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the cold floor.

“I should tell him straight,” I murmur, practicing a simpler approach. “Scotty, you love the game. It’s obvious. And you’re good, real good. Don’t give up on something that makes you feel alive.”

That sounds a bit more like it—direct, honest. I nod slightly, feeling a trace of conviction stirring. It’s what I need to say. It’s what he needs to hear.

As I lie back down, pulling the sheets up to my chin, doubt creeps in. What if it changes nothing? What if I’m overstepping?

Or what if he realizes the error of his ways and decides to stay in Maple Falls forever and be the man of my dreams by my side every morning and every night?

I wish. Nothing I say could do that.

Tomorrow, one way or another, I’ll find the words. For now, I’ve got to catch some z’s or I’m going to be an inarticulate wreck.

That’s when I hear one loud bleat right outside my window.

“Go to sleep, Edgar.”

My car hums along the empty streets of Maple Falls, an old tune from the radio filling the space where Andy’s chatter usually does.

Once I’m pulled into the rink’s parking lot, I kill the engine and sit for a moment, gathering my thoughts—or trying to. I’m here on a mission. A mission to convince Scotty to stick to the ice, because heaven knows he belongs there more than anywhere else.

This isn’t about me. It isn’t about us. It isn’t.

The arena is already busy as I slip inside as the morning team practice is finishing up. I edge along the corridor, peering into the rink, and … Well, I’ll be.

It’s Andy. Knocking around a puck. With Scotty.

How did I not see that coming?

I’m frozen like the ice, watching them. Andy hangs on Scotty’s every word, every demonstration. His admiration for Scotty is written all over his young face.

Scotty demonstrates a slapshot, his movements fluid and sure, while Andy watches, wide-eyed and absorbing every bit of wisdom like it’s gospel.

The scene is so domestic, so utterly heartwarming that it tightens something in my chest. I duck behind a pillar, not ready to interrupt. Not yet.

Watching Scotty with Andy, it’s like seeing a window to what could be, to what should be if life played fair.

He laughs at something Andy says, and it’s that full-bodied, sincere sound that reverberates right through the cold arena into my hiding spot. I feel a lump form in my throat, unbidden. How can this man be all coach one minute and all dad the next?

A pang of something bittersweet tightens in my chest as I watch them laugh together, a father-son moment that Andy has often missed.

It makes a woman think thoughts—dangerous, treacherous thoughts about blended families and hockey weekends. This is what Andy needs, what he deserves. I wipe a rogue tear that has no business being there and chastise myself for turning into one of those sentimental types I’ve always mocked. But as I watch the boys, a part of me molds into something new. Something that wants this. That wants him .

I lean back against the cold pillar, letting the scene wash over me. The laughter, the instruction, the sheer joy of it all. It’s a beautiful sight, one that stirs up all sorts of ideas about futures I’ve never allowed myself to contemplate. But today, hidden behind this vending machine, I let myself dream a little.

I’ll let Scotty go. And I’ll tell him about why he needs to get back on the ice himself. But first, I need a minute. Just a minute to watch.

To see the life we could have had.

I take a deep breath, ready to step out of the shadows, ready to speak my piece … I think. Scotty looks up, spotting me. His smile is wide and welcoming, but my heart is stuck somewhere in my boots.