“Who are you watching?” I don’t plan on talking, but I guess my curiosity gets the best of me.
“Number nineteen.” She nods toward the ice. “My son.”
I follow her gaze.
The kid she’s pointing to is flying across the ice. He gets the puck after only a few seconds, and he takes an open shot, missing the goal. Rough. That was an easy shot. The kid has got raw speed, but not much else yet. “He’s got wheels,” I say, as I don’t have the heart to tell her how bad that shot was.
She beams like I’ve handed her a gold medal. “He’s played since he was three. I didn’t know anything about the sport. He found an old puck at a yard sale, and the lady gave it to him. He’s been obsessed ever since. Hockey's his dream, you know? But the scouts haven’t shown any interest in him. I knew when I heard about these tryouts, it was meant to be.”
I flick my gaze back to her kid but stay more aware of her than I probably should. There’s something in the way she talks about him as her voice fills with pride. Like she’s forcing herself to staypositive for him. “He’s lucky to have someone who believes in him.”
“That I do,” she says. “I believe in showing up. Even when it’s cold and my toes are numb, I’ve been at every single game.”
“That’s dedication.”
“I guess it is.”
Her hand hovers midair for a second before she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m Ruth,” she says. “Ruth Miller.”
I hesitate for a second too long.
I don’t usually have to introduce myself. I get I’m not dressed in my usual clothes, as I’m wearing a plain blue windbreaker and jeans. I don’t need her to know who I am for any ego boost, but something about her makes me want to tell her the truth. “Bill,” I say finally. “Bill Baker.”
She tilts her head, and I count, one second. Two. Then—bam—recognition hits. Her eyes go cartoon-wide.
I smile, bracing for the inevitable wave of awkwardness.
She gasps, a hand flying to her mouth. “Oh no! I handed you garbage!”
Chuckling, I smile wide. “You did.”
“I’mso sorry,” she says quickly. “I thought you were staff. I wanted to do my part to keep the park clean, and I didn’t see a trash can!”
“It’s okay,” I reply, amused. “Honestly? It was kind of nice to have a regular conversation. I don’t get too many of those. Most people are too nervous to say much around me.”
She groans, covering her mouth with both of her palms as she mutters, “This is so embarrassing!” She turns away from me, as if facing the other direction will make her disappear.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” I lean in slightly. “You made my night more interesting—”
“Hey, Bill!” One of the organizers is waving me over with a clipboard in hand. “Can you come look at this real quick?”
I sort of want to talk to her more. She’s facing away from me, but I can see the back of her cheeks growing rosier by the minute. It’s oddly adorable, but regretfully duty calls. “Excuse me, ma’am” I tell her, “I need to check on something.”
“Right.” She throws up her hand in a wave, still shaken as she’s struggling to not look at me.
I step to the side, calling back, “You’ve got a good kid out there, and he’s got a good mom.”
She tosses a quick glance over her shoulder, and my chest heats as she holds my gaze for a moment. “Thank you.”
I lift the empty cocoa cup in a little salute. “And thanks for the garbage.” Then I walk away, fighting the stupid grin that won’t leave my face.
The clipboard’s waiting for me before I even make it all the way across the ice. Coach Carlson, my head coach, shoves it into my hands like he’s handing over a death sentence verdict. “These are the cuts we’re thinking of for the first round,” he says. “Bad timing, no control. We’ve got enough talent out here, we don’t need to waste time on these kids.”
I scan the list. A dozen names. None of them are surprises, but I see #19 Noah Miller on the bottom of the list.
My gut tightens.
I flick my gaze across the ice. Ruth’s eyes are locked on the ice like she’s willing something magical into existence.
