"I was thinking if you put Brady at goalie, he’d have a better shot at making a college team."What? The kid is eight, and we are thinking about college?
"Uh, yeah… maybe. But at this age, we like them to learn all the positions." Thomas looks at his too-expensive watch and raises an eyebrow at me, so I continue, "I wouldn’t lock him into a specific position just yet. He’s got potential, but it’s a little early to tell what his sweet spot will be."
Thomas huffs and crosses his arms. "Do youknowhow much I’m paying for this?"
"I do." I stand at my full height, skates still on, putting me at least a foot taller than this jerk. Backing down from an overzealous parent isn’t my style. If he’s not above trying to pull strings, maybe our size difference will make him back off. "And frankly, that’s cheaper than it’d be in Golden City, Tommy"—I pat his shoulder—"you aren’t gonna get very far making demands in this sport."
His cheeks turn pink, but he glares at me anyway. "You’d know, sinceyounever made it out of this rink." With that, he walks away, and I squeeze my hands into fists so hard that my nails bite into the skin on my palms.Fuckin Asshole!
I sit back down and finish removing my skates, skin still vibrating with rage from the reminder that I did not, in fact, fulfill my dreams. I’ve spent most of my life working to be the best hockey player I could be, but like most professional sports, it’s not that easy to break in. You have to be either incredibly lucky, know someone, or just be so talented that there’s no denying your ability. For me, I’m good, some would say great, but it never panned out. On top of that, hockey isn’t a gentle sport. When I suffered my last concussion, one of many over the years, my doctor gave me an ultimatum: quit or risk seriousbrain damage. I chose to keep what’s left of my functioning brain cells intact.
It hasn’t been easy. I still find time to pass the puck around with my former teammates, and I coach the little kids, but nothing will ever give me the high that came with stepping out onto the ice prepared for battle. And finding a job that makes a decent wage beyond the private lessons I teach is even harder. Unlike my older brother, Sam—he left the sport to open his own tattoo shop—I never considered anything outside of the rink, so looking now just feels like settling.
"Hey, Max. Good to see you back out there." Coach Perkins smiles at me as he walks toward his office, clipboard in hand.
I hurry to follow, wondering if maybe he knows what I should try next. He was in a similar situation back in the day, and let’s be honest, I promised my mother I would ask. Mabel hasn’t stopped worrying about me since the MRI results came in.
"Coach, wait up. Do you have a second?"
He spins on his heel, checking the time on his phone before nodding. "Sure, but only five before I have to meet with the league affiliates to discuss the schedule for next season."
We duck into his office, where he takes the worn rolling chair behind his grey desk, and I slump into the single metal folding one opposite.
"I was wondering if—"
"Max, I can’t pay you." His face twists, mirroring the way my stomach feels.
"No, I know. I was just wondering if you knew of any openings. Something that would keep me close to the sport but also put me somewhere above my mom’s leftovers and ramen."
He scans his computer, likely prepping for his next call. "Maybe… let me do some digging and see what I can find." Perkins turns his lips in, pausing as if he doesn’t know how to tellme what’s coming next. "But you’d probably have to move. And I don’t know if I want to be on Mabel O’Reilly’s shit list."
"I’ll handle Mabel when the time comes. Just let me know if you find something. I can’t lose hockey altogether, Coach." He nods at me in understanding while pity forms on his face. Over the years, we’ve spent so much time together that I know he gets what this means to me.
Walking out of his office, a knot forms in my throat. I don’t want to leave Mage Hollow, but it was always the plan. If I had made it to the NHL, the closest I would have been able to stay was Golden City—and the chances of that were slim. Coach Montgomery only recruits the best—not twenty-eight-year-olds with more concussions than years left playing.
That’s life, though. If being an athlete has taught me anything, it’s how to pick yourself up and set a new goal. Now, I just have to figure out exactly what that is.
Waltzing through the back door of Union Tavern, it’s immediately apparent that the lunch rush is over. There are a couple of locals lingering at the dark wood bar, but most of the place is empty. I enjoy coming here on a summer afternoon. It’s peaceful in this lull—one we rarely get during the fall tourist season, with people pouring in from all over to learn about Mage Hollow's witchy past. It’s an opportunity to catch up with my friend without having to fake a smile.
Howie and I have become pretty close over the last several months, and he’s helped me through some of my darkest days. Most of them when I was four beers deep and stuck in my head. On top of that, last fall he helped my future sister-in-law,Olive, when she was unexpectedly cursed by a witch named Irina—that witchy past isn’t as far back in history as most believe. Between knowing our secrets and always showing up for me, he’s practically family.
"Max, how’s it going?" Instead of standing across from me, Howie grabs two beers from the cooler, pops the tops, and rounds the bar to slide onto a stool next to me.
"Pissed off a dad at practice, and asked Coach Perkins if he knows of any job openings, so… an average day. You?" I shrug and take the first sip of my lager.
"I had to host the town meeting, and a few of the elders hung out after lunch. I also got a weird text from my cousin saying her sister’s back in town." He chugs down half his beer, and it takes everything I have to stifle my laugh. I know for a fact that Howie hates hosting the town meeting. All the shop owners flood his space, make him race around for food, and then forget that tipping still applies at a private event.
"Do I know this cousin?" I rack my shitty memory to figure out who it could be. There’s one that works here. I’m basically a regular in her section on Saturdays for lunch. But I didn’t think I knew there were more actually living in Mage Hollow.
He runs a hand through his red hair, releasing a long breath. "Remind me exactly how many times you’ve been hit in the head with a skate." Howie shakes his head before continuing. "She tutored you in high school."
I don’t correct him on his assessment of how I got my concussions. A skate to the dome would have been more scarring, but he doesn’t need to know that.
"Does she have red hair?" His mouth gapes at my question, but to be fair, I had a redhead phase and at the time a handful of girls would have called themselves my tutor—even if studying wasn’t typically the priority. I remember having anactualtutor junior year, but it was only for a few weeks to prepare for exams.She was incredibly smart, so intelligent that I was nervous to be around her. She was witty too, and would work on crossword puzzles while I was finishing whatever assignment she gave me. But she was nothing like Howie. I would be surprised if they were related.
Howie drains the rest of his beer, stands and moves to the POS machine behind the bar and punches something in. Once he’s done, he spins on his back heel, pulls another beer for me out of the cooler and uses the gun to fill a plastic cup with Diet Coke.
"No, Max. She does not have red hair, and she definitelywasyour tutor. Does the name Sadie ring any bells?" He shifts on his feet, staring at his shoelaces. "I’m worried about why she’s here."
