His voice is small, worried.
This kid carries everything on his shoulders and I recognize it instantly. I kneel so we’re eye level.
“I think you’re good enough for anything if you want it.”
His eyes widen, hope lighting them up like a scoreboard. “You mean it?”
“Yeah, I mean it,” I tell him quietly. Placing a hand on his shoulder, I look him square in the eye and take this precious opportunity to make him a promise. “I’ll never lie to you about hockey, Connor, okay? Well,” I shrug, “I’ll never lie to you about anything, but when it comes to hockey, I’ll never be dishonest because I know how much it means to you…and I know how much it means to me. If I tell you you’re going to be great, it’s because I see greatness in you, okay? I believe in you. One hundred and seventy gazillion percent.”
He freezes, his stick tucked under his arm, shoulders small and tight, eyes fixed on the scratched ice at his skate. He’s quiet for a moment and then his chin wobbles.
Fuck.
Oh hell.
Did I say the wrong thing?
I instantly regret saying anything that sounded even remotely serious to a ten-year-old.
“Hey,” I say gently, tapping my glove against his elbow. “C’mere.”
He sniffles once—just once—but it hits me harder than a cross-check to the ribs. I drop to the ice, sitting right where we are, legs stretched out in front of me like an oversized kid. “Sit,” I tell him, patting the ice beside me. He hesitates, embarrassed, then plops down next to me with a quiet thud.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The rink is mostly empty, just the hum of the ventilation system and the faint echo of his skates shifting nervously beside mine.
“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
He wipes his nose with the back of his glove. “I just…I reallywantthis,” he whispers. “I want to be good. I want to be on that travel team. I want to be like you someday. And when you said you wouldn’t lie about hockey…that you believe in me…” His voice cracks again. “Nobody ever says stuff like that to me.”
A slow ache spreads through my chest.
God. This kid.
“Connor,” I say, forcing past the tightness in my throat, “you’re allowed to want things. Big things. And you’re allowed to care about them. That’s not something you ever have to be embarrassed about.”
He nods, but his shoulders stay tense.
I lean back on my palms. “You know why I said I wouldn’t lie to you?”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve honesty. Because you work hard. And because…” I swallow, the truth too big to fit into words. “You remind me a lot of myself at your age.”
He looks up, eyes wide and shiny. “Really?”
Fuck, his glistening baby blues are killing me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Same determination. Same fire. Same…tendency to overthink every little thing. Same willingness to do silly little dance moves on the ice.”
He cracks a tiny, watery smile.
Phew.
That’s better.
“So,” I add, bumping his shoulder with mine, “if you’re ever scared you’re not good enough, or confused about something, or you just need someone to talk hockey feelings with…” I gesture between us. “I’m right here. You don’t have to hold all that in.”
His throat bobs and he bows his head. “I don’t like Mom to see me cry.”
