The crowd roars, and I can see how invested they are. Whether they’re here cheering on a friend or family member, they’re all here for the hockey. Unlike me.The boys need you.Darnelle’s words echo in my head.
Darius paces in front of the bench with furrowed brows. There are lines on his forehead I’ve never seen before. He’s always intense when it comes to the Sharks, but this is different. It’s not only about the game. This is about everything he’s invested in these boys. To say he cares would be a gross understatement. Regardless of what happened between us, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s an outstanding teacher and coach.
I try not to look at Darius too much. It’s hard enough to be here, let alone share the restricted bench area with him. Things have been . . . well, tense between us since the Mariners game. The bus ride down was a reminder of that.
When I got on the bus, I saw Darius had a seat open next to him. He had that little smile on his face, the one that used to make me think maybe things could work between us. But I couldn’t sit with him. Not now. Not after everything I did. So I sat up front with Johnny. He spent the entire ride talking my ear off, explaining the “interconnectedness” of all the Marvel movies like it was critical information he needed to pass on to his English teacher. His passion for it was . . . a lot. My head was spinning trying to keep up, but it was kind of sweet—how excited he was to share it with me. I guess it was good to have someone to focus on other than Darius. But even then, I couldn’t help but feel guilty.
I’m here for the kids—not him. I’ve made thatdecision. I’ve been ignoring him for a reason. And I’m sticking with it.
We are too different. He’s from sports land, I’m from English class—he counts points, and I count semicolons.
But I feel bad. I know how hard he’s working with the boys and how much he cares, and perhaps that’s why I’m regretting avoiding him. The way he is with these kids—it’s something special. Something I didn’t expect to see, but now I can’t look away. I catch myself glancing over at him, watching him crouch down to give instructions to Johnny, who’s bouncing on his skates, ready to jump in. The way Darius’s voice is soft, calm, patient—so different from the man I thought I knew before Rhode Island. So similar to the one he began to reveal to me.
The game unfolds with the excitement ten-year-old boys bring to most activities. Fans cheer during the second period, as both the Sharks and the Cougars score. It all happens so fast, I don’t even catch the details, but here we are in the last period, tied. The clock has dwindled down to the last thirty seconds, and tension fills the arena as both coaches huddle for a last minute push with their teams.
Darius summons Johnny to his side, but before he goes, Johnny turns to me with wide eyes and a bright grin. “This is it. Coach is putting me in.”
“You’ve got this, Johnny,” I say, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re the team’s secret weapon.”
Johnny nods, and gosh, this is why Darius loves coaching them so much. It’s not that different from when I’m teaching, and I see a lightbulb illuminate over a child’s head when something finally clicks intoplace. It’s those small connections, thoseaha momentsthat make it all worthwhile.
Johnny lifts his hand to my shoulder, returning my squeeze. “Coach Hill is a good guy. Give him a chance.”
I blink, confused for a second. What does Johnny know about Darius and me? Does he know what’s been going on between us? Does the whole team? Wait—the entire school? Can he sense the tension between us? My heart skips a beat, and suddenly, I’m not so sure. Maybe Johnny means to give Darius a chance as a coach. A friend. But the way he says it makes me wonder.
Johnny steps toward Darius, who is surrounded by the rest of the team, standing with his whiteboard and pointing to a play on the ice as he explains something. I watch the way Darius interacts with the boys. He’s so gentle, so careful. He puts his arm around Johnny’s shoulders, leans in close, and for a split second, something in me shifts.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the way Darius’s eyes are soft when he looks at Johnny. Maybe it’s the warmth of the moment, the way the rink hums with energy. I realize something I don’t want to admit to myself: Darius has always been more than I’ve given him credit for. Sure, he loves sports, but he’s been patient. Kind. Understanding. He’s good with these kids. He’s more than just a coach. He cares. And maybe, just maybe, he could care about me, too. If I let him.
The game continues, the tension high. I’m at the railing beside Darius, watching Johnny skate down the rink with the puck. The opposing team’s defense is tight, but Johnny doesn’t hesitate. He dodges one player, fakesa second, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he sends the puck flying past the goalie. The arena grows silent as it slams into the net with a whoosh. The crowd erupts. With only seconds left, the Sharks have scored.
For a moment, everything goes silent. The ice shimmers in front of me, and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart. The boys are going wild. Johnny’s pumping his fists, skating around, and then Darius walks onto the ice, lifting him into the air like he’s the MVP of the world. And right now, he is. The buzzer blares and everyone is on their feet. The Sharks won.
The boys are all cheering, throwing their gloves into the air, high-fiving the other team, but I can’t look away from Darius. I watch as he steps to the back of the line of boys, and then he catches my eye. He smiles, a little timid, but there’s an air of confidence from the game.
“Coach Peterson,” he calls out, a hint of that warmth in his voice. “Come join us.”
The locker roomis filled with the chaos of the boys still buzzing from their win. They’re jumping around, making noise, full of energy. The room smells like sweat—and not in the good way. Darius has already corralled them into a huddle, all of them chattering about the game. He stands tall, his arms raised, and within moments, the room suddenly hushes.
“Listen up, guys,” he says, his tone firm but proud. “We’ve worked our butts off to get here. And today, we showed what happens when we trust each otherand play as a team. Every single one of you did your part. When it mattered, we pulled together—no one did it alone.”
The boys, still catching their breath, look up at him, wide-eyed. Darius’s voice softens slightly, a small smile creeping onto his face. “You’ve earned this moment—every bit of it. So take a second to enjoy it. But remember, it’s teamwork that brought us here—and it’s teamwork that will keep us moving forward.”
The boys stand a little straighter, their earlier chaos settling into something quieter—pride, maybe—as they take in his words. Something about the way they look at him, like he’s given them more than just advice, settles any lingering uncertainties. And then it hits me: maybe there’s more to this whole sports thing than I ever gave it credit for. Maybe it’s not just about winning or the noise or being coordinated enough to catch flying balls or the rules I never learned. Maybe it’s about connection. Belonging. Something I’ve spent a long time convincing myself I didn’t need.
But then Darius’s tone changes. He looks directly at me, and the weight of his gaze makes my stomach flutter. “On the rink, we work to score on the ice. But what about scoring in life? Trusting in each other, giving each other a chance . . .” His words linger, almost too heavy to bear. He glances at the boys, making sure they’re all paying attention, but then his eyes lock onto mine again. “We deserve a chance, Harry.”
A lump forms in my throat, his words hitting me harder than I expect. Is he really doing this in front of the team? There are a few parents gathered around the perimeter, and everyone’s staring at me. The tension inmy chest, which I’ve been holding onto for days, finally starts to crack.
“Whaddya say?” Darius moves toward me, and that lump in my throat has taken up permanent residence.
I nod and realize tears are stinging the corners of my eyes.
“Go for it, Coach!” Johnny shouts.
I’m pretty sure he’s talking to Darius, but I step forward anyway and pull their coach into a big hug, warmth and quiet support radiating from him. The rest of the boys clap and cheer, and I’m momentarily caught off guard by their reaction to his spontaneous words to me. Or maybe he planned this. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the deep gratitude I feel—for his hard work with the boys, for his quiet dedication. And that smile, the sweetness he tried so hard to hide—it seals the deal. But mostly, it just feels amazing to have him in my arms again.
Darius pulls back from our hug and shouts to the team. “Okay, boys, who wants waffles?”
