Cold as Ice by Charlene Groome

hips. She looks better in person, he muses, watching the screen change over to a Windex commercial.
    Maybe he should call her, but then what would he say? He squeezes his phone in his hands, staring at it as though it would decide for him. Should he ask her if she’s going to interview him? He promised she could interview him when he got back from his road trip. She followed the team, so there was no hiding from her, and no excuses that would warrant him an extension.
    Should he call? Shouldn’t he?
    If she wants me, she can call me.
    If only she wanted him, then maybe he would pick up the phone. He doubted she did. A woman like Carla had to be taken. Not that it mattered; he wouldn’t get involved with her anyway. She’s a reporter and probably talks a lot. The last thing he needs is to talk about his privacy.
    Besides, the interview would only serve the purpose of enlightening Carla. What would be in it for him? She could interview him at a game if she wanted to. What questions would she have for him anyway? He clutches his jaw at the question a reporter in Florida had asked. What was it like growing up playing hockey with your mom at every game? He answered, remembering how she made him feel. “That question is for my mom. I don’t answer personal questions. I play hockey.” His answer made the newspaper and Devin was considered rude. Devin thinks of his dad. How does a guy leave his family? Alcohol problem or not, no one deserves to be deserted; he left without a return date or contact information to keep in touch. It’s like dying and being left with a ghost. Where is his dad these days?
    Devin throws his phone aside and makes a sandwich for dinner. He sits at his island counter, taking a bite and thumbing through his mail. Utility bill, a real-estate flyer, junk ads and another letter. He picks up the white envelope and places it in a kitchen drawer, along with all the others. It was addressed to his mom and forwarded to him. He has no desire to read it. Maybe one day but not today. He was better off without his dad. He’s come this far without him, why would he need him at thirty years old? Devin rubs his eye, forgetting that he has a cut on his cheekbone. His hand feels the raised scar. He’d taken a good hit, but it was worth it. It was the best he’d played in weeks. Maybe opportunity or the luck of the draw. Whatever it is, he plans to play hard in the hope of staying on as a fan favorite, including Carla’s.
    Devin puts his plate in the dishwasher and settles in his living room, picking through the boxes left by the moving company that he hadn’t opened yet. There isn’t much to them; after all, he hasn’t had a permanent home in which to hang pictures and buy accent furniture.
    Now that he knows he’s here for six years, he decides that opening every box is a good way to make this new city feel like home. He opens the box labeled OLD STUFF. Devin peels the packing tape off the top and puts his hand inside to fish for the first object. It’s wrapped in tissue paper. Must be breakable. He rips the paper off to find a glass lantern and holds it up to the light. A little dusty, and the tea light is melted inside. Probably hasn’t been used since he played in Ottawa. He had a small condo there with a deck. Some nights he would light the candle and relax in a chair, taking in the city.
    Devin puts the lantern down and pulls out a blue box. His heart picks up pace as he opens the lid. He had forgotten about this box. It used to sit on a bookshelf in his room when he was a boy. It holds memories only a parent would treasure. A mold of his footprint when he was a month old, a clipping of fine hair and a silver rattle. Stuff he doesn’t need. He holds the rattle in his hand, imagining tiny fingers shaking it. A baby. How great would that experience be if he ever had the opportunity to be a dad? To see what his child would look like and grow up in a