He says, “You’re humming.”
Falling silent, I refuse to admit that “Little Drummer Boy” is a banger.
When we arrive, I’m surprised by how at ease Fletch is with the teenagers. There’s none of the awkwardness I’d expect between a professional athlete and a bunch of teens. Theyrespect him, hanging on his every instruction, but there’s also a genuine camaraderie.
“The key is follow-through,” he demonstrates a perfect shot that sends the puck sailing into the net.
They watch—we all do—with awe because of how smooth the motion is. How fast. Nothing and no one, probably not even the world’s best goalie, could’ve stopped that. It was like lightning. A comet. I’m surprised the ice didn’t melt.
To my surprise, he doesn’t turn back to the group, wearing a gloating smile or pause, waiting for a stream of accolades. No, he tells them everything he knows so they can be their very best.
It strikes me that Fletch, as bombastic and bold as he is, has been muddling through life lately without his livelihood, having been benched due to the jaw injury.
Even though I had been at a standstill with writer’s block, at least I could still try to do what I love. He can skate and practice, but not play a real game.
How does he remain so chipper?
His deep, resonant voice floats back to me as he continues, “Your body keeps moving in the direction you want the puck to go.”
The teens take turns as I watch from the bench, bundled in my warmest coat, oddly content to observe. Watching someone in their element is mesmerizing—confidence, ease, and joy radiate from Fletch as he shares his passion.
I’m not exactly sure why I’m here because he seems to have it under control. Moral support? Or maybe he wanted to show off even though he’s playing it cool. But that sounds more like the guy I knew in college and less like the man I’ve been getting to know.
He has a way of making everyone feel seen—these kids, the mayor, my difficult mother … me. He doesn’tjust fill spaces, he illuminates them. If I’m a star, according to what he said at my mother’s when they met, he’s a candle, providing light and hope. I’ve spent so long protecting myself from it because I’m afraid of the dark that comes when it’s gone.
After they’re done with the drills, Fletch says, “My wife, a published author, is going to come around to your small practice groups and give you some pointers to up your mental game.”
I glare, gawk.What?
“It’s one thing to stand on the ice and go through the motions. It’s another to show up, whether it’s skating until your muscles burn or plopping your backside into the chair every day to write. Performing at a high level takes discipline. Mental fortitude. Even though her work as a writer doesn’t require the same physical skills we learn out here, I promise, getting your head in the game is an entirely different beast and it isn’t easy. She’s a pro at that.”
My chin bottoms out, hits the ice—proverbially, not literally. We don’t need two broken jaws on our hands.
He could’ve prepared me. Might have mentioned something about wanting me to offer these kids some encouraging words. I’ve sat on several guest panels at writing conferences, but aside from open Q&A, I usually have a topic prepared to discuss ahead of time. My thoughts disappear. Head empty.
Fletch smiles at me briefly and just before he turns to continue with the workshop, I get a wink. Like a firefly in the summer, I want to catch it. Want its little twinkle to be mine, all mine.
Does that mean I want him?
Fletch sees something in me that I’ve hardly let myself recognize. His comments about discipline and fortitude filter back. Gaps fill in. A picture takes shape out of words.
“Mrs. Turley, the ice isyours.”
Several heads swivel in my direction, eyes wide with interest. I feel a flush creeping up my neck at the sudden attention.
Fletch turns, talking with a guy who I think is the Knights’ assistant coach and Redd, one of his fellow players. Since he volunteered me to talk to the teens, I don’t want to let them down, for them to feel like they’re not seen or that I’m not interested in them. I know the feeling all too well and like a pesky pimple, when I was around their age, it came to a head, resulting in me pushing back and wanting total independence from my parents. Since they weren’t going to fill our house with love or even acknowledge me in a meaningful way, I built a fortress around myself.
Yeah. I just realized that.
Sliding onto the ice in my boots, I make my way from group to group, asking if they have any questions about what Fletch called the mental game.
Of course, I have nothing to contribute about hockey, but being a professional author is on par with being a professional athlete as far as time and dedication go, so I suppose I have something to contribute in a general sense.
Most of the kids just want to practice, but while they’re waiting their turn, I tell them about how there will be times when they’ll want to stay at home, watch movies, play video games, or whatever it is the teen set does nowadays. But to get good like Fletch and Redd, if they want to rise to the top, they have to give more than a hundred percent, especially when they only feel like they have fifty percent in the tank.
One asks, “What if I need a rest day?”
“Take it. But always be honest with yourself. Is it rest because your body and mind need it or is it because when you reach a certain level, it gets hard? And hard is, well, hard.”
