“Emma,” she whispered so quietly I had to lean closer to hear her.
“Emma’s a great hockey player’s name,” I said solemnly. “You know what? I could really use an alternate captain today. Someone to help me keep an eye on all these kids and make sure everyone’s having fun. Think you might be interested in that job?”
Her entire face transformed. The fearful expression melted into a smile that could have powered the arena lights, and she straightened up with newfound purpose.
“I can be your alternate captain?”
“Absolutely. Alternate captains are very important. They help the captain notice things and make sure everyone feels included. What do you think our team needs right now?”
Emma looked around the ice with new authority, taking her role seriously. “Maybe we should help that boy over there? He keeps falling down.”
“Excellent observation, Alternate Captain Emma. Lead the way.”
For the rest of the clinic, Emma was a different child—clinging to my side, engaged, helping other kids, and beaming every time I introduced her as “Alternate Captain Emma” or asked for her input. The transformation was remarkable, and exactly the kind of moment that made community outreach feel meaningful rather than obligatory.
I glanced toward Wesley, expecting to see himphotographing Emma’s breakthrough, but his camera was lowered. He watched with a soft expression I’d never seen on him before, his attention entirely focused on our interactions rather than documenting them. Something about his discretion—his instinct to preserve the privacy of a genuine moment rather than exploit it for content—made my chest tight with an emotion I couldn’t quite name.
As the clinic wound down, I noticed Wesley working with a boy, camera forgotten and dangling from his neck. The boy was probably four, and Wesley quietly showed him how to hold his stick properly. Wesley’s instruction was clear and patient as he demonstrated the grip and explained the reasoning behind it in terms the child could understand.
“See how your hands go like this?” Wesley positioned the boy’s small, gloved fingers correctly. “Now you have more control. Try it.”
The improvement was immediate. The kid’s next attempt at shooting the puck was infinitely more controlled, and his face lit up with pride.
Wesley had clearly played serious hockey. The technical knowledge, the teaching instincts, the way he moved on ice—none of that came from casual recreational skating. I found myself curious about his background, about what had led him from hockey to public relations.
When our hour was almost over, Coach Johnston called out, “Okay, everyone! Let’s line up for a group photo!”
This was always the tricky part with young kids. Getting twenty children to stand still and look in the same direction simultaneously required either superhuman patience or divine intervention.
Wesley positioned himself with his camera while the coaches arranged kids in two rows. “Everyone say ‘hockey!’”
“Hockey!” the kids shouted in unison.
And then it happened, like dominoes falling in slowmotion. One child fell into another, who stumbled into a third, who grabbed onto a fourth for balance. Within seconds, half the group was tangled on the ice in a giggling pile of black jerseys and flailing limbs.
Instead of trying to restore order, Wesley kept shooting, his camera capturing the genuine laughter and chaos. The photos would be infinitely better than any posed group shot—real joy instead of forced smiles, authentic moments instead of staged perfection.
“That’s going to make great promotional material,” I called out to him.
“The real stuff always does.” He snapped pictures as Coach and I helped the kids to their feet, still giggling.
After we’d helped the last child off the ice and the parents had begun the complicated process of removing skates and pads in the locker room, several children and adults approached me for autographs. I signed jerseys, hockey sticks, and even a few cell phone cases, chatting with each family about their kid’s experience and their hopes for their young player’s future.
“Thank you so much for doing this,” one mother said as I signed her daughter’s helmet. “Sophie hasn’t stopped talking about becoming an alternate captain like Emma.”
“Hockey needs players like Sophie,” I replied. “She’s got great instincts.”
When the last family had departed and the coaches were loading equipment into their cars, Wesley and I found ourselves alone in the quiet locker room. The contrast to the earlier chaos was stark—just the hum of the ventilation system and the distant sound of Zamboni preparations.
“That went really well.” Wesley reviewed the images on his camera. “I got some great shots.”
“I noticed you held back with Emma.” I packed my gloves in my duffel. “That showed good judgment.”
He looked up from his camera and raised an eyebrow. “Some moments aren’t meant to be content.”
The simple statement revealed something fundamental about his character—an understanding that not everything was material for consumption, that some experiences deserved to remain private and authentic. Wesley was turning out to be far more complex than he appeared.
“Where did you learn to skate like that?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Most PR people I’ve worked with treat ice like it might reach up and smack them in the face.”
