Page 112 of Pucking Daddy

We let the topic drop and shift gears, talking about the families she’s worked for—and somehow, she actually makes me laugh.

She tells me about a five-year-old who insisted on wearing a superhero cape to school every day.

“He refused to take it off,” she says, smiling into her coffee. “The teachers gave up after a week.”

“Sounds like a smart kid.”

“He was impossible,” she corrects. “But also kind of great.”

“You liked him.”

“I like most kids,” she says. Then, after a beat, “But yeah. I liked him.”

I nod.

I tell her about my first year as a coach. The pressure. The mistakes. The nights I didn’t sleep because I couldn’t shut my brain off.

She tilts her head slightly, studying me in that quiet, curious way she has. “What do you prefer? Coaching or playing?”

I lean back a little, exhaling through my nose. “I love both. But playing takes a different toll. I’m glad I got out when I did.”

That feels like a lifetime ago.

Her brows lift slightly. “You make it sound like survival.”

“In some ways, it is.” I glance at her. “You’re in your twenties, making more money than you ever thought you would, playing in front of twenty thousand people every night. Everyone wants something from you—coaches, media, sponsors, fans.”

“And you just… handled that?”

A quiet huff leaves me. “Not always well.”

That gets her attention. “What does that mean?”

I run a hand over my jaw, thinking.

“It means I made mistakes,” I say. “On the ice. Off the ice. You think you’re invincible at that age. Like nothing can touch you.”

“And then?”

“And then something does.”

Her expression softens. “Injury?”

I nod once. “Yeah.”

I don’t go into detail right away, but she doesn’t push. She just waits, giving me the space to get there.

“It wasn’t one big moment,” I say after a second. “Not some dramatic hit that ends everything. It was smaller stuff. Wear and tear. Things not healing right. Playing through pain because that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“God,” she murmurs. “That sounds brutal.”

“It’s part of it.” I shrug. “But it catches up with you. Eventually your body stops bouncing back the way it used to.”

“And that’s when you stopped?”

“Yeah.” My mouth tightens slightly. “I could’ve pushed longer. A year, maybe two. But I wasn’t the same player anymore. And I knew it.”

“That must’ve been hard,” she says quietly.