He grumbles something under his breath, but I can see he’s starting to laugh. I can’t help but poke the bear a little more. “Maybe I’ll even take a page from your book and bring some cookies for the snack table. Nothing says, ‘I’m a fun guy’ like baked goods.”
“Yeah, until they realize you can’t bake to save your life,” Barrett chimes in with a laugh. “Those cookies will look like hockey pucks.”
“Alright, alright,” I say, straightening up to channel my inner coach. “Let’s show these kids what top-tier dad skills look like. Remember: enthusiasm over technique!”
The rink ischaos the second our blades touch the ice, but the kids’ energy and excitement is infectious. We’re not just here to show off our skills; this is one of the ways we give back to the community. I started Pucks & Blades five years ago as a way to give the young kids in the area a place to learn the rules of the game and a little basic skill on the ice. Sometimes we get kids who already have a strong foundation and sometimes we don’t. Either way, hanging out with young fans never disappoints.
I look around at the sea of tiny, mismatched jerseys, and suddenly I feel like a giant standing among a bunch of pint-sized hockey prodigies ready to conquer the world, or at least the snack table.
“Alright, kids!” I call out while making sure I don’t sound too much like a drill sergeant. “Who’s ready to learn how to deke like a pro?”
A chorus of tiny voices erupts into enthusiastic shouts. If only I had that kind of enthusiasm when it comes to doing laundry, my practice bag wouldn’t smell so bad. Kids zip around like caffeinated pigeons, pucks flying in every direction. Griffin wipes out spectacularly within thirty seconds, letting a six-year-old “bodycheck” him into the boards. He sprawls on the ice, moaning dramatically. “Coach, I’m injured!”
Barrett pounds his stick against the post, cackling. “Down goes Ollenberg! Highlight of my week.”
Meanwhile, August is barking orders like he’s coaching game seven of the Cup finals. “Skate harder! Backcheck! No, that’s not backchecking, that’s—Christ, do any of you listen?”
Oliver is actually doing drills properly, his dad mode fully engaged, and Bodhi? He’s got a group of eight-year-olds lined up practicing celebration dances. He demonstrates a ridiculous shimmy-fist pump combo, the kids mimicking him like he’s gospel. Ledger’s kneeling by the bench, retying a kid’s skates for the third time while he chatters about his dog. Honestly, the guy’s a saint. And me? I’m trying to run a passing drill when I notice the strongest adolescent skater on the ice.
His name is Connor and for a kid who can’t be older than nine or ten, he’s really fucking good.
Too good.
Quick stride, smooth stick handling, head always up. He makes a perfect tape-to-tape pass like he’s been doing it for years and when I blow the whistle, he pulls up sharp, snow spraying around his boot. He looks straight at me, focused, hungry, and competitive. Something about him hits me in the chest. Honestly he reminds me of myself at that age.
I crouch. “You play?”
He nods. “Travel peewee, sir.”
“Figures. You’ve got instincts, kid. You want to try something with me?”
His smile grows so wide it takes up his whole face. “Heck yeah!”
I slide him the puck. “When your teammate is passing to you, try angling your stick a little more on the reception. It cuts the bounce and lets you keep control a little better. And if you can keep control, you can own the ice.”
“You mean like you do?”
I chuckle lightly. “Something like that.”
He does exactly what I tell him and, of course, nails it, grinning wide and proud.
“Nice job,” I say, clapping his shoulder pad. “Keep that up, you’ll be going places in no time.”
The kids swarm around us like a pack of excitable puppies before our last set of drills, all limbs and loud voices. I can’t help but grin. Their enthusiasm could power a small city. I take a moment to survey the rink, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline. It’s just practice, but it feels like stepping back into my childhood. A bright arena filled with laughter, shouts, and the unmistakable smell of ice. I’ve always loved doing this in the summertime. Giving back to the community in this way, sharing the ice with tiny ice-pro potentials…it’s so much fun and always has me looking forward to the day when I finally find someone to settle down with. To have kids with.
Hockey is fun, yeah, but I’m ready to be a dad.
Because I have to imagine being a hockey dad is unlike anything else.
I wouldn’t know since I had an absent asshole for a father, but my stepdad was there for me. He was happy to be involved and was always excited to cheer me on as I learned to play.
I love being that guy for other kids now and I can’t wait to be that guy for my own kid one day. Whether it’s hockey or football, or cheerleading or dance, I’m going to be the best fucking dad the world has ever seen.
“Now don’t forget,” I remind the kids, “after tomorrow’s scrimmage the whole Anaheim Stars team will be here. You’ll get to meet everyone, and you’ll have the opportunity to get your picture taken with your favorite player.” I clear my throat. “Which means Barrett here will be all alone and I’ll be ridiculously busy.”
The kids laugh as Barrett slowly turns to look at me and then rolls his eyes as if I’m the most ridiculous piece of shit he’s ever met. I’m not, by the way, but he’ll play it up for the kids anyway. He’s good at it. He’ll make a great father one day too.
Practice winds down with the usual circus. Griffin pretending to get checked into the glass, August nearly combusting when a drill collapses, Bodhi teaching a kid how to dab mid-goal. But Connor? That kid stays sharp till the very end. He even helps me gather pucks.
