“Well, I bet they can probably skate just as fast if not faster than your hockey players, and with less chopping and more gracefulstrides.”
He looked out onto the ice, rubbing his jaw, thinking. I was about to start skating away when he finally spoke again.
“What I’m thinkin, little lady,” he started, but I pursed my lips in disapproval at this name. I deserved the same amount of respect as any hockey coach. Calling me “little lady” was not necessarily a title that was up to my standards here in my workplace.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly.
I motioned for him to get on with it.
“Okay…” he drawled. “What if hockey players used this technique of yours? I’m just thinking… The quicker guys fit in a lot of strides, if they had even more power behindthem…”
“They’d be much faster, exactly. That’s why we train stroking techniques,” I said matter-of-factly.
He whistled to himself then looked back at me with serious eyes. “I kind of have an idea if you’d be up for it…”
24. TJ
Coach’s whistle pierced the rink yet again, and I internally groaned and dropped my head. I blinked hard against the sweat dripping into my eyes and leaned forward against my stick. I mean, for real? What now? He was proving to be the pickiest coach I’d ever skated for.
We all skated slowly back over toward the team box where Coach was standing on the bench watching us as he made us bag skate- which basically meant skating suicides up and down the ice til we felt like puking. Most coaches I’d had in the past laced up skates to be on the ice with us, but I had a feeling something to do with his leg probably stopped him from doing that.
“Slow. Sloppy,” he called out to us. “I’m done with this shit, today. Y’all need someone else to yell at you because you obviously don’t listen to me.”
I cut my eyes to Duke and Griff to see their reaction. Was negative motivation his usual style or something? Their stoic faces looking back at him gave nothing away.
“I’m kicking ya’ll off this ice. Get to the east side,” hesaid.
We allhesitated.
Was he joking?
Everyone was so silent you could actually hear the air blowing around in the rink. Everyone seemed to look around at each other, wondering if he was serious.
“But sir…” One of the defensemen started but stopped when they noticed the pissed off look on Coach’s face.
“Did you not hear me?” he yelled; the veins in his neck seemed to bulge, like they were protesting as well.
“Isn’t that…” Campbell began.
“Isn’t it what, Chicken noodle soup?” Coach asked.
I heard someone whisper it.
“What was that?” he motioned to his ear.
Griff cleared his throat. “Figure skating, sir?”
Coach crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t give anything away. “Get a move on. The Coach is waiting for you.”
We all shuffled off the ice in a line. I took up the rear and just followed as we walked through the skate-safe, rubber-floored tunnel that connected the two rinks. Whatever drill this was, I’d figure it out. I alwaysdid…
As soon as the ice came into sight, I heard guys ahead of me murmuring and looking back at me. Now, I’m not a self-conscious guy, but it was making me feel weird. I frowned, wondering what I’d done that would garner attention and what they could possibly be saying.
As soon as I pushed forward and stepped onto the ice, it felt like I’d been hit in the head with apuck.
Because I realized why they had been looking at me and whispering.
Standing there waiting for us… the so-called Coach… wasHer.
