“You were offsides three times last game.”
“That’s different. That’s spatial awareness, not rhythm.”
“Pretty sure it’s both,” Jett Monroe chimes in, sauntering over to the shakers. He grabs two and rattles them like maracas, grinning at me. “Hey, Coach’s daughter. Do I get a solo section?”
I lean against the piano, arms crossed, trying not to smile. “Only if you can count to four.”
Zane Hayes, the team captain, laughs as he settles into one of the folding chairs. “We’re doomed.”
More players filter in, looking around the room like they’ve just been dropped in a foreign country. They’re all restless energy, used to moving at high speeds on ice, not sitting still in chairs designed for elementary school assemblies.
And then he arrives.
Jude stands in the doorway like he’s calculating escape routes. Hoodie zipped up, baseball cap worn backward, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His entire posture screamsdon’t talk to me.
The other guys light up immediately.
“Blockton!” Finn calls, waving him over with exaggerated enthusiasm. “You here to teach us rhythm or frown us into submission?”
Jude moves to the back of the room, silent as a shadow. He drops into a chair in the last row, slumps down, and mutters, “Depends who sits near the triangle.”
A few of the guys laugh. I press my lips together to keep from smiling.
Time to take control before this descends into complete chaos.
I clap my hands twice, sharp and clear. “Alright, gentlemen. Welcome to Music & Sticks.” I move to the front of the room, channeling every teaching instinct I’ve got. “I’m Sophie, and before you ask, yes, I’m Coach Kessler’s daughter. And that doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you.”
“Do we get graded on this?” Jett asks.
“Only by the kids you’ll be performing for.”
That gets their attention. A few of them sit up straighter.
I explain the concept: simple rhythm exercises using basic percussion. Three weeks of practice leading up to a fundraiser performance where they’ll accompany a group of children. Nothing fancy. Just enough to show the community that hockey players have hearts under all that padding.
“We’re keeping it simple,” I say, pacing like Dad does during pregame talks. “You’ll each handle one instrument for the recital. No improvising. No hockey sticks.”
Jett raises his hand like we’re in actual school. “What if we do a power play?”
“Then you sit in the penalty box,” I say sweetly, pointing to a chair in the corner that I’ve labeled with a sticky note that saysTIME OUT.
They laugh. Good. If I can keep them entertained, maybe they’ll actually participate.
I start assigning instruments, calling out names and pointing to tables. Finn gets the shakers. Zane gets the hand drum because he’s got decent rhythm when he skates.
Jude stays in the back, slumped in his chair, clearly hoping to be forgotten.
Not a chance.
“Blockton,” I call.
He looks up slowly, wary.
“You’re on triangle.”
Silence. Complete, total silence.
Then Finn whistles, long and low. “Triangle MVP!”
