“The best ideas usually are.”
He sets up at the goal, showing me how to hold the stick properly. His hands cover mine, adjusting my grip. I’m very aware of how close he’s standing. How his breath fogs in the cold air. How his voice goes soft when he’s teaching.
“Just tap it. Don’t overthink.”
I tap it. The puck slides about three feet and stops.
“Pathetic,” he declares.
“I’m a piano teacher, not a hockey player!”
“Try again.”
I try again. This time I actually make contact but the puck veers off to the left, nowhere near the goal.
“Better,” he lies.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Fine. That was also pathetic.”
I try five more times. Each attempt is worse than the last. I’m slipping on the ice. My stick keeps hitting the ice instead of the puck. At one point I lose my balance completely and Jude has to catch me before I face-plant.
“This is humiliating,” I gasp, laughing so hard my stomach hurts.
“This is the best entertainment I’ve had all week.”
“Glad I could perform for you.”
“One more shot,” he says. “For real this time. I’ll give you tips.”
He positions himself behind me, arms around me, hands over mine on the stick. We’re pressed together from shoulder to hip. I can feel his heartbeat against my back.
“See the goal?” he murmurs near my ear.
“Yes.”
“Don’t look at the puck. Look where you want it to go.”
“That’s very Zen of you.”
“I have layers.”
We shoot together. The puck slides straight and true, right past where he would’ve been if he were actually defending, into the net.
I jump up, screaming. “I scored! Did you see that? I scored!”
He’s applauding, slow and dramatic. “Ladies and gentlemen, Sophie Kessler, future NHL star.”
“I’m accepting my trophy now.”
“Your trophy is not doing my dishes.”
“Best trophy ever.”
He skates over to take his shot. Lines up perfectly. Then completely whiffs it. The puck barely moves.
I narrow my eyes. “You threw that.”
