Coach pointed toward the noise. “Yeah, that one. Textbook. Kept us ahead, Callahan. But you’re not off the hook yet.” The talking simmered down. “Management’s got a youth clinic lined up downstairs. You’ve got fifteen to change and meet the kids on the ice.”
The room groaned.
“Come on, Coach,” Mason muttered, “we just played—”
“You think those kids give a shit?” Coach cut him off. “They’ve been in the stands all morning. You owe ‘em something. Get moving.”
Sticks clattered as guys shuffled to strip out of their gear.
A few weeks ago, I’d have been right there with them. Half out of my pads, already thinking about food, a beer, maybe some down time before the next travel day. But as I unlaced my skates and reached for the spare pair in my bag, I realized I didn’t mind. Not even a little.
Shawn slumped on the bench beside me. “These things always drag. Last time I ended up chasing some kid who kept falling on purpose just so I’d pick him up. Thought it was a game.”
“Yeah,” I said, tugging my shirt over my head, “but that kid probably still talks about it.”
He snorted. “What is this, therapy hour? You’re supposed to agree with me and we go out there unhappy together.”
I grinned, tossing my sweat-soaked jersey aside. “Just saying. Imagine if Patrick Roy hadn’t shown up for one of those things when we were kids. You’d still be playing floor hockey in your mom’s basement.”
He flipped me off, and went to talk to someone who’d commiserate with him.
By the time we hit the tunnel, a few of the guys were still grumbling, but the air changed the moment we stepped toward the rink. You could hear the chaos before you saw it. The slap of pucks, a whistle, the squeal of skates too sharp for little feet. Then the boards opened and twenty or so kids in mismatched gear nearly lost their minds when they saw us coming.
“Surge!” one of them yelled, stick raised like a sword.
The coach from the local youth team — couldn’t have been more than twenty-five — started shouting orders over the noise. “Okay, pros, thanks for joining us! We’ve got five stations: passing, shooting, balance drills, and two goalie zones. Split up wherever you’re most comfortable.”
The guys drifted, some more willingly than others. I caught Holly standing just off the ice near the benches, skates on but her arms folded like she was growing roots where everyone else was a blur of motion.
I hit the ice, took the goalie zone, and within thirty seconds I had two kids sliding around in pads twice their size. One was determined to block every puck with his face mask. The other just wanted to fall down dramatically and laugh about it.
“You ever see a butterfly save?” I asked.
The smaller one nodded hard. “Yeah! But I can’t do it, my pads get stuck.”
“Here,” I said, crouching. “Show me.”
He tried. He flopped sideways like a fish.
“Not bad,” I said, and his grin was instant. “We’ll get there.”
For a while, it was just that. Skates scraping, laughter echoing off the rafters, pucks skidding wild. And then I felt it: the faint pull of someone watching.
Holly hadn’t moved far, still at the edge, pretending she was invisible. I knew that posture by now. The way she watched people like she was cataloguing details she didn’t want to admit mattered to her.
I waved a kid back into the drill and then angled toward her.
Her brow furrowed. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to leave your station until the coach calls a break.”
“I’m getting reinforcements.”
Her eyes went wide, and she looked around as if she wanted to call for help. Nobody was around for that, everyone was embroiled in some other activity. She hugged the boards. “I’m fine right here.”
“Yeah, no.” I extended a gloved hand to her “Come on. You know you want to.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You skate, right?”
