All the kids were quiet, listening.
"Because sometimes my teammates need someone to stand up for them. And the best way to protect people is to make sure the other guys know there's consequences for being jerks." He shrugged. "But I only fight when I have to. The rest of the time, I just play hockey and make pigs."
Jeremy nodded, satisfied.
"Alright. Enough questions. Partner up."
They scattered. Hog stayed by the boards until I skated over and handed him a stick.
"Demo the drill. Show them how you do it."
He stared at the stick. "Rhett—"
"You'll be fine."
We skated to center ice, kids forming a circle. I snapped the puck to him. He caught it clean and sent it back. We fell into a rhythm—quick, efficient—and Hog muttered with each pass: "Stick down, eyes up, don't overthink it, Damn, why are children watching me—"
I sent the puck harder. He caught it and spun his stick. The kids cheered.
"Show-off," I muttered.
"You started it."
We ran it another minute before I sent the kids to practice.
The rest of our session went more smoothly than expected. Hog circled the rink, adjusting grips and fixing stances, cracking jokes that made kids laugh and listen. He showed Brit how totake harder shots without losing balance. Skated backward with Jeremy, patiently coaching crossovers until the kid's face lit up.
When Maren asked again about hitting, Hog crouched down and looked her in the eye. "When you're ready, you'll do it right. That means protecting yourself first. No one's tough if they're hurt, understand?"
She nodded, serious.
"Good." He tapped her helmet. "Now go practice your wrist shot. I wanna see you bury one top shelf."
Practice ended at seven. Kids peeled off one by one, with their parents waiting in idling cars. Hog handed out hot chocolates. Maren hugged him. Brit told him he was "pretty cool for an old guy."
Jeremy lingered, clutching his hot chocolate with both hands. He looked up at Hog, then over at me standing by the boards, then back at Hog.
"Coach Hog?"
"Yeah, bud?"
"Are you gonna come back? Or is this like when my aunt visited and said she'd come to my games but then never did?"
The question landed in the quiet rink like a puck hitting glass. Hog's face ran through stages—surprise, then something softer, almost hurt.
"I—" He glanced at me, and I saw fear there.
He crouched down to Jeremy's level. "You want the truth?"
Jeremy nodded, serious.
"I don't know if Coach Rhett wants me back. But—" His voice got quieter. "I'd like to come back. If he'll have me."
Jeremy looked at me, expectant like I was supposed to solve this right now.
Every parent still lingering in the parking lot was probably watching through the glass. Maren had stopped halfway to the door. Brit was blatantly eavesdropping.
I skated over. Stood close enough that Hog had to look up at me.
