"Always," I say.
"Okay good. Because this part is important."
Everything is important when you’re seven.
The rink parking lot is already in full swing.
Minivans.
Coffee cups.
Tiny hockey bags bigger than the children carrying them.
Inside, the air hits cold and sharp. Rubber mats. Wet laces. That faint smell of ice and metal and old arena coffee.
It’s not glamorous.
It’s perfect.
Maddie drops her bag on the bench in the kids’ changing area and starts digging through it like she packed for a two-week expedition instead of a one-hour skating practice.
"I can’t find my other glove."
Natalie reaches into the side pocket without looking and pulls it out.
"Magic," Maddie says.
"Competence," Natalie replies.
A few of the other parents say hi.
One dad gives me the nod men give each other in rinks everywhere. Half greeting. Half caffeine-based survival pact.
Maddie plops down on the bench and thrusts one skate toward me.
"Dad."
"Yeah?"
"Lace me up."
I kneel in front of her.
Pick up the skate.
Thread the laces through.
Pull them snug.
Her little foot wiggles impatiently.
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You absolutely are not."
Natalie leans against the boards watching us, arms folded, smiling like this scene is better than television.
