“Yeah, good one.”
Johnny and Victor join the rest of the boys and head over to what appears to be our team’s designated area. I think it’s called a dugout. Or maybe that’s for football. Or maybe I’m just confusing it with a secret hideout for superheroes.
Scanning the arena, I quickly identify a cozy spot a few rows back where I can sit and catch up with my book while the boys unpack their bags of gear.
“Think fast!”
Oof. Something hits me in the middle of my chest. Hard.
“Mother of pearl!” The words come flying out before I can think, and the impact of whatever hit me registers. My eyes land on the culprit—a black disc lies at my feet.
“You were supposed to catch it,” Darius says.
“I told you, I’m here as a chaperone only. Why are you lobbing sports paraphernalia at me?”
“It’s called a puck. Come on, Peterson. You’re not getting off that easy.”
Coach Hill hooks his arm in mine and drags me toward the dugout superhero area, where the boys are already unpacking and covering their bodies with various pads. My elbow leads the rest of my body as he tugs me along, and why does he take such delight in tormenting me?
“I was going to sit over there and read until the game’s over,” I say, eyeing the seat I was heading for a few rows up.
“And miss all the action?”
His hand rests just over my chest, and he slaps me three times.
“No way. The boys and I need your help. Right, team?”
“Right, Coach!”
I’m not exactly sure if they’ve heard him or are conditioned to give that response whenever he asks a question.
“Mr. Peterson,” Johnny says, “Coach Applegate usually sets up the cones for warm-up drills, gathers the pucks, and runs the penalty kill and defense.”
I blink a few times, trying to decipher the nonsensical words he’s uttering.
“I have no idea what any of that means,” I say with a shrug.
“Sit here.”
Darius’s hands are on my shoulders, guiding me to the end of a long wooden bench overlooking the rink. When he gets me where he wants me, he pushes down, and my ass hits the hard surface.
“Just watch. Listen. Got it, Coach?”
“I’m not . . .”
“When you’re here”—he points to the ice—“with them, you’re Coach Peterson.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Darius Hill has rendered me speechless. I’m tempted to retrieve the novel from my satchel. I’m tabbing character arcs for the coming week’s lessons. My intention is to highlight theflaws and explore how they influence character motivations, propelling the plot forward. I think it’ll help students with their writing as well.
A loud whistle interrupts my train of thought. The metallic culprit falls from Darius’s plump lips and bounces against his sternum. When I catch his gaze, his mischievous wink sends a flurry of butterflies fluttering in my stomach, and my eyes dart away.
He’s giving directions, yelling in that PE teacher way that mostly sounds like he’s screaming, but the kids don’t seem bothered in the least, and I surmise this must be how he regularly communicates with them.
Victor and Craig skate onto the ice, plopping orange cones down. Before I can take my book out and resume tabbing, the rest of the boys flood the ice, skating around them with their sticks and pushing pucks around. There’s an almost balletic quality to the entire endeavor, and I wonder if any of them have ever seenSwan Lake.
Next to me on the bench, Darius finishes lacing up his skates and rises. He doesn’t wobble or hold on for balance; he simply stands above his blades. Before he joins the boys, he turns and says, “Maybe if you can keep your nose out of that book for a minute, you’ll learn something. I’ll quiz you later in the hotel room.”
He winks, turns, and zooms off. Heat flashes from my chest, creeping up my neck, and overtaking my face. Is Darius Hill flirtingwith me?
