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“Have you ever interacted with people before? Your behavior isn’t any better than the kids’!” I kick my legs in frustration, but his large, strong hands don’t even flinch at my movements.
“I can’t just let you get a brain injury. If you want to yell at me, do it after practice.”
He finally puts me down, and I feel my shoes land on carpet instead of ice.
“Oh, I will,” I say in a menacing tone, but he doesn’t even spare me a glance over his large shoulder as he slams the door and skates away.
As I stomp back to my seat, I can still feel the warmth of his arm where it was just wrapped around my thighs. Of course someone would finally give me warm, tingly feelings, only to end up being a complete jerk. Right before I sit down, I realize all the parents are blatantly staring at me. My cheeks heat when it hits me that the big guy and myself just entertained the entire crowd of onlookers… as well as the photographer and his friend… who are also staring at me. I settle back on my spot on the bleachers and distract myself by looking for my brother on the ice.
Finding Noah in the slew of kids, I notice the entire group of boys the annoyingly handsome coach has been working with are engaged in a full out brawl. Gloves are off, sticks are flying, it’s madness.
Maybe I was a little too quick to judge about the yelling? No, I won’t give him the benefit of the doubt here. The man is a complete ogre! Not just with the kids, but also with me.
Releasing a heavy sigh, I try to get comfortable on the cold, hard bench. I came straight from work, and I forgot to pack a change of clothes, having left the house in such a rush this morning. The thin fabric of my scrubs isn’t nearly enough of a barricade between my bum and the freezing cold metal bleacher.
I mentally make a note—for the millionth time—to keep a blanket and some fuzzy boots in the car for hockey practices. I shiver and rub my hands up and down my arms in an attempt to keep warm. Noticing a flicker of movement next to me, I slowly swivel my head to investigate. To my surprise, I find not one, but two hockey moms looking at me with wide eyes and devilish grins.
I squeak in surprise to see them so close. Neither of them was here when I sat down. And they’ve never even noticed me before… but then again, I’m always here late, or Ronda picks Noah up for me.
One with red hair, I’m assuming she must be the red haired boy's mom, speaks in a hushed voice. “Oh, my gosh. What was it like being carried by Mitch ‘The Machine’ Anderson?”
The woman with dark hair and bronze skin next to her squeals and claps her hands together excitedly. “Yeah, what was he like?”
My eyebrows pull together, I never have been good at hiding what I’m thinking. “Umm, infuriating? Aggravating? Rude?” I huff a humorless laugh when their smiles drop. “Why did you call him the machine?” I make dramatic air quotes when I say the machine.
“You mean, you don’t know who he is?” the woman with amber skin asks, bringing a hand to her chest. I notice she’s wearing fleece gloves and make a mental note to add some of those to my car-bag for hockey days.
“Who? The new assistant coach?”
They look at each other and giggle.
“Mitch Anderson is the top defenseman for the D.C. Eagles. AKA pro hockey player and total stud muffin,” the red haired woman explains. “I’m Steph, by the way.” She smiles before jutting her chin in the brunette’s direction. “This is Tori.”
Tori gives me an awkward little wave. “Hi.”
“I’m Andie. It’s nice to meet you both.” I smile back. “So, if he’s some famous person, why’s he even here?”
“He got suspended for getting in a fight. The other guy ended up with a concussion,” Tori answers casually, like it’s no big deal.
A look of horror must be etched on my face, because Tori jumps in, shrugging. “It’s hockey.” As if that’s a reasonable explanation.
Steph gives me a smile-grimace. “He has a temper, sure. But when will the kids ever have another opportunity to work directly with an NHL player?”
The two women sigh dreamily. “Plus, he’s so nice to look at,” Tori says at the tail end of her sigh, looking in Mitch’s direction.
“He’s pretty… but there’s not much going on upstairs,” I say, crossing my arms defensively. “Aren’t you guys married?” I ask, remembering I’ve seen at least one of them here with a man before.
“I’m newly single,” Steph jumps in. “And ready to mingle… especially if it’s with Mitch.” She sighs.
Tori scoffs. “I’m married, not dead. Just admiring God’s creation.” She waggles her eyebrows.
I snort a laugh, wondering if her husband would agree.
Tori and Steph turn their attention back to their boys, but my eyes are drawn to movement at the other end of the bleachers. The fancy photographer who’s been taking photos of Coach Anderson this entire time is tearing down his equipment and putting it away. The man beside him—dressed in business casual attire—is not only way overdressed for a kids hockey practice, but doesn’t even offer to help. The photographer continues to zip up his bags and strap them to himself like a pack mule, and then they walk past to get to the exit. The man with the short, brown hair stares at me as he passes. My skin prickles uncomfortably, like he’s literally shooting daggers at me with those angry eyes. What did I ever do to him? Sheesh.
After practice, the kids file out of the rink with all of their gear. By the time I make my way through the throng of kids and parents, I attempt to find the notorious Mitch Anderson and finish our conversation, but he’s long gone.
Coward.
