I’m halfway down the steps before I even realize I’ve moved. My jaw is tight, the muscles aching from how hard I’ve been clenching it.
Why this—position drills, for heaven’s sake—of all things has me so incredibly pissed, I don’t know. But I am, and I don’t have time to look too closely at it. If I did, I’m sure it would have something to do with all my fears about Jamie and hockey taking over his life.
But let’s not go there.
Anger is a much easier emotion for me to tap and handle than fear.
That smug smirk on the coach’s face, and the flash in those Montana-sky eyes when I first saw them together comes to my mind.
Yep, anger. That’s the way to go. It flares hot in my chest.
I have never once, not since Jamie set a skate on the ice, talked to a coach about their coaching choices. That may be about to change. No way some guy is going to get all up in Jamie’s head about who he’s supposed to be, on or off the ice. Making him think he has to be some hotshot player, or that he has to be thestar of the show to be a legitimate player in what is supposed to be a team sport.
Hell no.
“Jamie,” I call—calmly, I think. Too calmly.
He turns, head tilted at my tone, which must be off. Or was it that my voice cracked?
“Just finishing drills, Dad. I’m done if we need to go.”
I nod. “We have the town council tonight. Why don’t you go hit the showers when you’re done?”
I’m talking to him, but my stare doesn’t leave the man he’s working with.
Jamie throws a look at the man beside him—dark-haired, smug, familiar. Those full lips smirk and it looks so natural I wonder if the man has any other expression. My stomach twists, but I manage to say nothing, content to stand in the awkward silence while they quickly finish and Jamie heads to the locker room.
“What is this?” I ask the guy. “These drills. This setup.”
He shrugs. “It’s practice. Standard control drills. I’m just helping Jamie with a few things.”
“With my son, Jamie,” I clarify. “You didn’t think to talk to me first? Maybe get a parent’s permission before running private coaching sessions? He’s twelve, man.”
“This isn’t anything formal. It’s not like that, and his coaches are aware.”
“Then what is it like?” I snap, stepping onto the ice. “He’s not even running position drills with his team yet.”
The man smirks, clearing any clouds from those sky-blue eyes. “So, you know your hockey.”
That grin, that tone—it pushes every damn button I’ve got. I want to wipe that smirk off his face.
Something here is dangerously close to making Jamie’s future in hockey much more real than it was a few minutes ago, and that leaves me unmoored.
Anger, I remind myself. Stick with that.
“And who the hell are you to make that call? A new coach? Because I haven’t seen you at his practices, let alone met you.”
He ignores my question, and his blue eyes light up with emotion.
“Jamie’s destined to be a center,” he says, skating closer. “Smart. Hardworking. He could go far. Kids would kill to have what he’s got. And that’s the position that’ll take him there. Trust me.”
I realize I’ve changed our positions and backed him up to the boards without thinking. I probably started closing in on him somewhere around his third word.
“Trust you? I don’t even know you, man. Jamie’s not looking for that or even thinking about it right now,” I grit out.
The guy laughs. “Are you serious? Every kid his age who can handle a stick is thinking about that right now.”
His eyes are intense. Curious. And yeah . . . still smug.
