Page 15 of He Has Santa (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Yes!” Nicky squeals, tugging at my hand. “Let’s do it. Don’t be afraid, Mommy.”
I take both their hands, and with Nicky on the inside, I push off strong and quick, and we’re off. The straightaway of the oval isn’t long enough for me to go too fast, but Junie squeezes my hand as her long silky hair whips behind her.
Nicky says, “Faster, faster.” She’s on the inside and not going nearly as fast as we hit the corner, and Junie whips around, a screech escaping from her and her hand outstretched, every muscle in her body tense with the struggle to stay upright. Nicky’s laughing drowns out any concern I have and having mercy on June, I slow down, drawing her into my side as we coast to a stop along the boards.
“Oh. My. God. You are the very devil,” Junie’s face is a little pale, and I hold onto an arm keeping her tight against me. But her grin and bright eyes tell me she was exhilarated by the ride—the same as she’d been back in high school on our first date.
“That was awesome, Mommy. You didn’t even fall.”
June laughs almost hysterically and then covers her mouth. Her eyes warn me I’m on the edge between joy and fear, and all my feelings rush back. I remember which way she fell last time and how far we both fell. That date had been the beginning for us. Maybe today would be a new beginning.
“I’ll get you back for that,” she whispers.
“Can I have another ride? I want to be on the outside of the whip.” Nicky starts pulling my hand, and I look at June, but not for permission. I give her a wink.
“Be careful,” she calls after us as I take Nicky’s small sure hand in mine, her upturned face alight with anticipation, eager and happy rosy cheeks. And her mother’s eyes.
Whipping around the second turn, Nicky laughing and beside herself with enjoyment, the screech of a whistle interrupts us. A man in a black jersey with the rink’s insignia catches up to us, whistle in his mouth and a stern look on his face. I slow down, and as he takes the whistle out of his mouth; Nicky says in a loud whisper.
“Uh, oh. We’re in trouble now.”
“Don’t worry.” I take the hat off my head and smile at the young man as he scrapes to a stop. The sternness disappears, replaced by an incredulous look, and then he smiles.
“You’re…”
Putting out my hand to shake his, I say, “Logan Jones. Sorry if we were breaking—”
“No, no—don’t worry. Logan—I can’t believe you’re here. It’s an honor. You can do whatever you want. Of course.”
Glancing at Nicky as the young man continues to pump my hand, her puzzled scowl is priceless as she studies the rink guard’s face.
Tugging on my hand, she says in a loud whisper, “What is he talking about? Why isn’t he arresting you?”
I laugh, but my smile tenses when I see the crowd gathering, people pointing and snapping photos. “Nicky, how about if we get a hot cocoa?” I turn back to the rink guard, read his embroidered name and say, “Ed, thank you for your understanding. I owe you. How about a pair of tickets to the next game?”
He almost faints as some of the other nearby squeals and starts clamoring for attention. Skating with Nicky in tow and Ed following, I head to the gate where I see June watching everything, that tight look on her face, part concern, part annoyance. It doesn’t mar her beauty. Not in the least.
Okay, that’s it. I’m officially off my rocker. She’s not the same innocent girl I fell in love with when we were kids. In fact, she’s the opposite of innocent. She lied to me about Nicky all these years, kept me from her, kept my daughter from me, and I’d do well to remember that damning fact.
No matter how sorry she may be now, no matter how young and foolish and afraid, she was then.
As we reach the snack bar table to join June, who’s waiting with three hot chocolates, a couple of young ladies and teens run-up to Nicky and me. June’s smile tightens, and she gets that distant look. The girls ask me if I’mtheLogan Jones, and they wink and giggle when I confirm who I am, an amateur attempt at flirting. Watching June from the corner of my eye while I sign a piece of paper, I notice her drumming her nails on the table.
“Nicky, Mom has your hot chocolate.” She needs no further encouragement to drop my hand and sit at the table with June though the puzzled look doesn’t leave her face.
June never liked the attention I got, but I’m surprised she’s not over that. We haven’t been together in so long, but it’s strange how all the emotions—baggage and all—are still there underneath the layers of experience and life and maturing. Crazy how I feel all the same things I always felt for her, even now that she’s a grown woman and a mother. She’s still the same Junie I always knew. Right down to the discomfort with fangirls.
The girls leave when I dismiss them with a salute, and I sit down, waiting for June to face me. Before I have a chance to say anything, a little boy not too much older than Nicky approaches me for an autograph. He wants me to sign his shirt, and he hands me a pen.
“Can’t use a pen on your shirt, son.” I slip a sharpie from my pocket and hold it up. “How about if we use this? It should last longer and show up better,” I say.
“Cool.” The kid beams, and a couple of others who look like his friends line up.
Nicky watches while June sips her the hot chocolate, also watching surreptitiously. After a second, Nicky tugs on my jacket.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” she says. I laugh. She’s a pip. I’m so smitten with her that I hope June is up to being the disciplinarian because I have a feeling I’ll be one of those wrapped daddies. Right around her little finger.
“I’m signing autographs. Want one on your shirt too?”
