Page 7 of This is a Kissing Book

Everything about Frank Andresen is like a dignified masterpiece—a pricey one, too. I want my legacy to be, “He crushed it on the ice.”

As I get out of the car, recalling the many times Mom and I would visit my father at work, I hesitate. Deep down, there is something I want more than the top NHL trophy or for my name to go down in hockey history.

My fingers find the penny I keep in my pocket.

The story goes that on my parents’ first date, my mother spotted a coin on the sidewalk, stopped, and picked it up. Happened to be from that very year. She considered it lucky. It could also be that she was a descendant of the man printed on the piece of US currency.

She always kept it with her. I have it now. Never leave home—or play a game—without it.

Dad scoffed, wondering what she needed with a penny when he’d made a mint. But I heard him calling her his lucky penny when they thought they were alone. So I guess the guy has a soft side somewhere under his gruff, Captain-Serious demeanor—one only she ever saw.

Standing on the sidewalk well before operating hours, I flip the penny. Heads, I’ll go inside. Tails, I’ll keep walking.

The copper coin catches the morning sunlight like a little wink as it flips in the air. The moment seems to slow down. A shiver cools my skin much like it did yesterday at the Outlaws’ practice facility.

However, before I catch the coin, I suddenly know what I’m going to do.

As far as my father is concerned, I’ll march in the corporate charade parade. But I’m going to use every connection, database, and resource to honor my mother’s memory and find the letters she always believed existed.

I’ll get answers. I’ll make a different sort of history.

Then I’ll win the Stanley Cup.

4

LINC

Dropping the coin safely into my pocket, the sun shines blindingly off the glass of the nearest door. I don’t want to make a spectacle by using the main entrance. Bīriņš wasn’t wrong about me being a nepo baby. Not that I’ve ever taken advantage of my father’s billions.

Then again, the car and place I have on Lake Shore are thanks to him. Though if I had my way, I’d stay in Ottawa or join Bīriņš on the river—his sister married an American, and she and some of his relatives live here too.

My hand closes over the handle of the side entrance door, but it doesn’t draw open. It could be locked, but through the glare of the sun on the glass, someone with long hair is on the other side. Again, I try to pull, but at the same time, she must be pushing.

In upscale buildings like this, there aren’t “push/pull” stickers to help those who don’t know how hinges operate. However, I’ve used this entrance numerous times and am certain the door opens outward.

Again, we’re both pulling—me inward, her outward—creating a ridiculous tug-of-war with a glass door between us.

Squinting my eyes through the reflective surface, I catch a vague impression of movement. Blonde hair catches the morning light. She seems confused about what’s happening. And I’m already irritable because I have to be here.

“Lady, it’s not like I’m trying to prevent you from exiting,” I mutter.

She must realize what’s happening and steps back. With an exaggerated flourish, she gestures toward the door to indicate that I go first.

When I pull it open, she steps forward when I do. We do an awkward shuffle, both of us deking in the same direction.

My father is here at dawn, and it’s only shortly after. The sooner I get our meeting over with, the quicker I can implement my plan. Not that I quite have that worked out. This foolish delay is throwing me off.

I expect her to say something snide like, Whatever happened to ladies first? Instead, with an amused smile, she asks, “Shall we dance?”

I stare at her blankly. My mind is already forty floors up in the corner office where my father is waiting, probably checking his watch and cataloging my failures. I don’t have time for cute strangers and their sidewalk comedy routines.

She huffs and her expression shifts from playful to annoyed. She mutters, “Sheesh. What’s with the major zero fun given vibes? It’s Monday!”

I indicate that she goes. I should say something. Instead, I just stand there like an idiot, caught off guard because that shiver slides over me again. I’m certain it doesn’t have anything to do with the cool early morning air or the climate control of the building.

“Tough crowd.” Her full lips form a slim line as she breezes past me.

As she hurries by, I get a brief look at her. Blonde hair with hints of strawberry and light freckles scattered across her nose like flecks of gold.