I glance at her over my shoulder. “No, I don’t. And shouldn’t you be doing your homework right now?” Not that I mind her company. Dakota is highly entertaining.
She hops up onto the closed lid of a large storage container and sits cross-legged. “Don’t have any homework today.” Twirling the end of her blond ponytail, she chews loudly on her gum, blows a big pink bubble, then says, “Why not?”
“Why not what?” I shove the last helmet on the shelf and turn toward her.
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
“Because I don’t.”
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”
“Sure. I’ve had lots.” Well, not since I started college, but I don’t tell Dakota that. It probably isn’t appropriate to reveal to a ten-year-old girl that I’ve been single for the last few years because I was busy screwing my way through Briar.
Speaking of screwing, if I don’t get some action soon, I swear to God my balls will explode. I didn’t end up seeing Allie on Sunday, and she wasn’t able to meet up yesterday either. She’s been busy with rehearsals and mentioned something about needing to make an audition tape, but I’m starting to wonder if she’s dodging me. She’d better not be, because I’m not ready for this…fling? Sure, fling. I’m not ready for this fling to end.
“You know my brother Robbie?” Dakota asks in a hushed voice.
I snicker loudly. “No, kid, I don’t know Robbie. I just coach his team.”
A sheepish flush blooms on her cheeks. “Oops. Right. That was a stupid question.”
“Ya think?”
Giggling, she says, “Anyway, you can’t tell anyone, but Robbie has a girlfriend!”
I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah? And how do you know that? Are you spying on your big brother?”
“No, he told me, dum-dum. Robbie tells me everything. Her name is Lacey and she’s in eighth grade.” Dakota shakes her head in amazement. “That’s a whole grade higher than him.”
I stifle the laughter threatening to spill over. “Landed himself an older woman, huh? Good for Robbie.”
Dakota lowers her voice to a whisper and proceeds to tell me every single detail about her brother’s eighth-grade girlfriend. I listen obligingly, all the while trying to pinpoint exactly when it was that hanging out with middle-schoolers became the highlight of my days.
Don’t get me wrong, the time I’ve spent at Briar has been awesome. My hockey team won three national championships, and academically I’ve always been at the top of my class. The only course I had trouble with was an incomprehensible politics class in sophomore year, which I finished with a B+. But I don’t like to think about that grade, because it’s tangled up with a lot of other bullshit I’d rather forget. Despite that, I can’t deny I’ve had a successful academic career. I knocked the LSATS out of the park. I got into Harvard Law on my own merit instead of relying on my family name.
But I don’t remember ever being excited about my courses. I didn’t jump for joy when my LSAT scores came back. And I’m certainly not doing cartwheels at the thought of going to Harvard.
It was always assumed that I’d go the law school route. It’s not something my folks pushed me into, but I can’t pretend it’s something I’m passionate about. Not like my brother, who lives and breathes the law. He loves his job at the firm, says that every time he steps into a courtroom, he feels alive. It’s the same way Garrett and Logan feel about playing hockey.
Me? I’ve never had that feeling before. Loving something so hard that it buzzes through my blood and makes my entire body come to life.
Or at least I hadn’t felt that way before Friday night, when I witnessed the Hurricanes utterly dominate the division leader. And then again today, when I set up a passing horseshoe drill and watched every boy on the ice absolutely kill it.
“Dean, you’re not listening!”
Dakota’s aggravated voice jerks me from my thoughts. “Sorry, kid. I spaced out. What were you saying?”
“Nothing,” she mutters.
She’s obviously upset about being ignored, which tells me she must have said something important. I drag a metal chair toward her, twist it around, and straddle it, resting my forearms on the backrest. “Talk to me.”
Her bottom lip sticks out in a pout. “I was asking you a question.”
“Okay, then ask it again. I promise to listen this time.”
“Will you…” The rest flies out in a hurried rush. “Teachmehowtoskate?”
“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.