Mason, practically hockey royalty with a father, uncle, and older brothers who all played in Canada professionally, says, “I think I was born in skates.”
“My dad started me out in our yard, freezing it over in the winter, before I could even walk.” I hadn’t thought that far back in years.
I shake it off. My phone buzzes with a text and an attachment from my assistant.
RENAE: 19 kids today. Roster attached. Try not to swear in front of the kids. Also—good luck, Sir.
I snort.
ELI: Me and 19 kids? I’m in my element. What could go wrong?
RENAE: That’s what I’m fucking worried about, sir.
I grin at my phone, not that my virtual assistant can see. One of the reasons I hired Renae was her penchant for swearing like a soldier—because she was in the Army, military police, narcotics division, now retired. Honestly, her no-bullshit attitude kind of scares me, but she’s so damn good at her job as a virtual assistant. I hardly look over the roster. Renae is the detail person, not me.
In front of the families, the team rookies demonstrate how to put the hockey gear on, and how to lace up the skates. When they finish, the group of boys and one girl are ready with their skates laced.
“Let’s split off with three kids each, and get them comfortable on the ice for today. This is just an introduction, all for fun,” I order. Between the rookies and Mason and Sean, we have enough people to go around.
Once we each have a team of kids, I skate over to mine and scan the group. “Hi everyone, I’m?—”
“Eli Lewis! Captain of the Aspens.” One boy shouts and points like he might vibrate straight out of his skates, with dark hair sticking up everywhere, in an Aspens jersey several sizes toobig. When our eyes meet, his whole face lights up. Was I that excited when I was younger?
“What are your names?” I ask.
The boy continues. “I’m Aiden. And you’re number six. Best defenseman in the league. You had seventeen blocked shots last game and two assists, and you totally wrecked Flynn Peterson from the LA Vipers when he tried to?—”
“Whoa, Aiden.” I laugh. “You know your stats.” Bouncing on his skates, he might explode from excitement. He reminds me of myself at that age.
“I like hockey, Mr. Captain Lewis,” he grins.
“Just Eli is fine, okay?”
“Okay, Mr. Eli.” The kid is cute.
Timmy and Tessa rattle their names off next. They’re twins, and how cool is it to see a girl taking interest in the sport?
I get my group lined up on the ice with assistive bars, which helps them keep upright with something to hold on to. They can push these bars around as they work their feet and get used to gliding along on the blades.
“Now, let’s start off with basic skating.” I demonstrate, and the kids move around, taking my lead. Aiden follows me closely. He wobbles though, arms windmilling, but he’s laughing. Not scared, but happy.
“You’re gonna face plant a lot; that’s just how it goes until you’re used to it. That’s why we have you each wearing your new masks today,” I tell him, steadying him back on his feet. “Falling is only life teaching you how to get back up and shit.”
Aiden’s eyes grow big, and I wish I could take it back. “My mom has a swear jar. I have to pay twenty-five cents each time I swear.”
“Oh yeah? Your mom sounds smart, so you should always do what she says.”
“She is. She works really hard. Goes to school. Takes care of me and Grandma and?—”
He crashes into my legs while looking up at me and talking. I catch him without thinking.
“Oops, falling again,” he giggles.
Then Tessa and Timmy follow suit, right into my legs. I pretend I’m a tree, making noises and flailing my arms, like they’re cars crashing into me. My group roars with fits of laughter. And just like that, we bond. If this were an actual little team, I’d call us the Crashers. Too bad this is only a one-day event.
For thirty minutes, we work at getting the kids comfortable skating on the ice. And holy hell—Aiden is a natural. He trips, sure. But he gets back up every time. No whining or fear, just grit and determination.
“You’re doing great,” I say, my face splitting.
