“Would you hate me if I go celebrate with my friends instead?”
“But Mom, we came all the way out here to celebrate with him.”
“And we will, but not tonight.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Go, son. You deserve it.”
And I never saw their smiles again.
Izzy skates over last, taking the longest route possible, and adjusts her helmet, snapping me from my thoughts.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You were testing wind resistance this time?”
“Exactly,” she replies, totally serious. “And I passed.”
I shake my head. “Okay, let’s finish strong. Quick game. Two lines now.” The girls swiftly split into two groups, and we rearrange them by skill. They’re good at spotting when one of them has an uneven advantage, but sometimes, it still happens. “Okay, first to one goal.”
“Sudden death!” Izzy cries.This girl.
“Let’s stay alive, though, yeah?” Liam pats her helmet. “Nobody’s dying out here today.”
“Coach King is correct. This is our second practice; don’t make me have to find replacements already.”
We split them up, drop a puck at center ice, and let the chaos begin.
Skates scrape. Girl's shriek. Someone falls, probably Ansley again, judging by the dramatic “Oof!”, and Izzy takes off with the puck like she knows what she’s doing. She doesn’t, not really, but she’s got grit. She weaves through two mostly confused defenders, then winds up for a shot that looks more like a golf swing.
The puck bounces.
And then, by some miracle of physics and determination, it slips under the goalie’s pads.
Goal.
Izzy throws her gloves in the air like she’s won the Stanley Cup. “Let’s gooooo!”
The delusion is strong here, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Liam blows the whistle. “Alright, alright. Bring it in!”
The girls slide and shuffle toward us, out of breath, flushed, buzzing. Izzy’s smile can light up the whole room, and my chest fills with pride.
“Not bad,” I say. “Who remembers how to take their gear off without looking like you’re in a fight with it?”
Groans all around.
“I swear, this elbow pad has a vendetta against me,” Laurie says.
“Mine smells like cheese,” someone mutters.
“Don’t blame the gear,” Liam says. “That’s allyou.”
They scatter toward the benches, tugging off gloves and tossing sticks into bags. I linger near the boards, watching Izzy sit cross-legged on the ice, helmet still on, cheeks red from the cold and effort. She looks up at me.
“Coach Clay?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I could, like…actually be good at this someday?”
I smile at her and try to find the most coach-like words I can muster. Crouching and resting my elbows on my thighs, I say, “You’re already good. You care, try, and get back up every time you fall.”
