“Can you slow that down?” I ask with a smile.
“Teach me how to skate,” she repeats.
I furrow my brow. “You don’t know how to skate?”
Dakota slowly shakes her head.
“Why the he—heck not?” I’m aghast. Who lives in New England and doesn’t know how to skate? That’s just blasphemy.
“My mom only had enough money to send one of us to skating lessons, and Robbie’s older so he got to go. And he’s gonna be a famous hockey player one day so he needs to know how to skate.”
Although Dakota’s tone is defensive, I don’t miss the note of hurt beneath the surface. My heart does a painful little somersault. My siblings and I never had these kinds of problems growing up. Our family had plenty of money, which means we didn’t have to make any sacrifices. Summer got her ballet lessons and swimming certificates. Nick and I got our skating lessons and hockey camps and all the equipment we ever needed.
I hadn’t lied to Allie the other week—the Life of Dean is pretty fucking sweet. I’ve always gotten whatever I wanted.
Now, seeing Dakota’s upset face, I feel like a spoiled, ungrateful brat.
“I guess that means you don’t own skates?” I say slowly.
She gives another shake of the head.
“What size are your feet?”
“I dunno. Small?”
I chuckle. “Let me see one of your shoes.”
She quickly pulls off a neon-pink sneaker and holds it out for me.
After I check the size tag, I hand the shoe back and wander over to the large metal cabinet that holds the boys’ skates. Most of them are far too big for her, but after some rifling and digging around, I find a pair of Bauers on the bottom shelf that might fit her.
I hold up the scuffed black skates. “Try these on?”
Horror fills her big blue eyes. “But those are boy skates! I want girl skates.”
Another laugh tickles my throat. When her expression collapses, I sigh instead. “Okay. Don’t worry, kid. I’ll see what I can do, okay?” I tuck the evil boy Bauers back in the cabinet and firmly shut the door before she bursts into tears.
Coach Ellis chooses that moment to poke his head in the room. “Your mother’s here,” he tells Dakota.
I’m afraid he’ll notice her stricken face and have me arrested for upsetting a minor or something, but when I glance back at Dakota, she’s all smiles.
“Bye, Dean!” She hops off the crate and darts out the door.
Ellis grins at me. “Sweet kid, huh?”
I follow him out of the equipment room and we spend a couple minutes discussing what we want the boys to work on next practice. Once we wrap up, I leave the arena and check my phone on the way to my car. There’s a text from Garrett saying he’s crashing at Bristol House with Hannah tonight, but that he left his Jeep at home, so he’ll need a ride back from practice tomorrow.
When I stride into our kitchen ten minutes later, I find a note from Tucker on the fridge, informing us he’s spending the night at a friend’s. His mysterious non-girlfriend, I suppose.
And then? The trifecta. Logan wanders in to grab a bottle of water and says he won’t be home til late.
“Where’re you going?” I ask as I rummage around in the fridge.
“Boston. Grace’s dad got us tickets for this orchestra thing. Neither of us really want to go, but she says he’ll be hurt if we don’t.”
I grin over my shoulder. “So you’re spending your evening listening to classical music?”
“Yup,” he says glumly. “But there’s an intermission, so Grace promised we could fool around in the coat closet during it.”
“Sounds like a good tradeoff.”
“I know, right?”
Logan leaves a couple minutes later, and my in-dire-need-of-sex libido springs to life at the thought of having the house to myself tonight. I don’t waste any time contacting Allie, who must be as horny as I am, because she answers right away.
Her: YES! 3 days of stress = coming over right after my workout. Gimme a couple hours, tho.
Me: Favor to ask.
Her: ?
Me: Bring Winston.
The request earns me a laughing emoticon and a winky face, which could either mean “That’s hilarious but no” or “That’s hilarious and yes I will.” I hope for the latter.
*
I flip through a Sports Illustrated at the kitchen counter while I scarf down my dinner, which consists of leftover chicken and broccoli. The team nutritionist emails us a weekly list of suggested meal plans, but Tucker, our resident chef, seems to think the word “suggested” means “mandatory” because he refuses to keep any junk food in the house. Since he’s the only one who remembers to go grocery shopping and the only one who actually enjoys cooking, this is the healthiest house on the fucking planet.