Page 16 of The Do-Over Girl

“Perfect.”

* * *

At the endof the school day, after I’ve spent most of my time on the computer and the phone, making arrangements for some extra games to fill out our schedule, I go out into the deserted hallway to head to the arena.

Kali is coming out of the classroom across the hall from me, locking her door.

“Well, what do you know? Looks like we’re neighbors,” I say.

She looks at me like I’m a ghost—not the friendly kind. She has a point.

“I was just on my way to see Nikki. I have a lot of work to do.”

I notice that her usual smile, a near constant adorning her face, is absent. Well done, Nash. Maybe you really are a hard-ass.

“Relax, Kali. I’m heading to the arena for the team’s first practice.”

“Relax? I’m relaxed. What makes you think I’m not? Wait—never mind. Have a good practice. Good luck.” She pulls the door shut with a bang and then rushes down the hall toward the administration offices as if she’s being chased.

Hell, maybe I should chase her. Fuck. What are you doing, Nash? Leave her alone.

Later, after practice, I miss dinner at the inn—maybe on purpose—because the question of what I’m doing with Kali lingers at the back of my mind for the entire duration of practice. It had the unintended but fortuitous benefit of making me scowl the whole damn time, even when I had the occasion to say something positive. Those positive comments were primarily aimed at Dylan, and I think Archie is right about him.

I don’t have an answer to the question of why the fuck I’m giving Kali so much shit that she’s practically afraid of me because I know it’s more than for the fun of it.

She’s afraid of me if that look she gave me outside her classroom was any indicator. I’m not usually a mean person.

I grab a bite at the local pizzeria and study film of last year’s team on my iPad until it’s time to show up at the Zappola’s house to meet with Dylan’s dad—hopefully, my contractor for refurbishing the arena.

Dylan answers the door with a young woman under his arm, and I can’t help raising my brows. I ought to warn him about the dangers, but kids never listen.

“Dad, Coach—uh, Mr. Lewis is here.”

His dad appears, and he has the air of a confident professional when we shake hands. He leads me to the barn behind the house to his office, and Dylan follows—with the girl, Shelly. If Zappola Senior is cool with the kids tagging along. I am, too.

Handing him the specs I worked on all day with the aid of a couple of friends who own rinks, I explain the deal to Zappola. “The catch is we need it completed by the beginning of the season—”

“Which gives me four weeks,” he says, nodding.

“Can you do it?” I don’t ask for the price because, let’s face it, money is no object to me. Not when I’m dug into a project I need to see it done. Then, there are no obstacles.

“We’ll hire the whole hockey team to get it done on time if we have to.”

“I can help, too,” Shelly says. Dylan looks at her and scoffs. I look her over and wonder.

“Of course you can,” I say. I even throw in an encouraging smile at the girl. Then, she throws a dark look at Dylan, daring him to disagree. He doesn’t. The kid is wiser than I was at his age.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Zappola Senior says.

“I’ll pay a generous bonus if we can do the work in two weeks.”

“You don’t even know my price yet,” Zappola says.

I eye him, giving him a thorough assessment. He has the hands of a hard worker, the office space of a professional, a decent son, and a good rep in town. Plus, now I know where he lives. Not that that’s a thing, but it’s good to know.

I put out my hand to shake his. “I know, but I trust you’ll give me a fair deal.”

He shakes my hand. Of course.