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The little asshole skates into position beside me and throws me a cocky smirk.
“This is how you do it,” he says to the other thirteen-year-olds who are currently watching him.
“Less talking,” I mumble. “And just shoot the damn puck.”
He offers me his best look-at-me smirk again and pulls his stick back to swing it hard at the puck. But before it connects to it, I effortlessly pull the puck to me with my hockey stick, so all he ends up hitting is air.
“Hey!” he shouts exasperated. “That was my shot.”
“No. If it was your shot, then you would have made it.”
“That’s not fair. You took the puck away from me.”
“That’s the game. Remember that, on the rink, there will always be adversaries who are bigger, meaner, and faster than you and won’t think twice before taking what they want. So, if you want to win, you’ll have to rely on your team. And guess what? That won’t happen if you don’t treat your teammates with respect. Act like a little shit on the ice, and you best believe your teammates will treat you like the little shit you are. You feel me?”
The boy scowls but doesn’t say anything to the contrary, preferring to skate back to the rest of his teammates.
“Next,” I order to the boy next in line.
Thankfully, the rest of the hour flies by without any more incidents from wannabe bullies. But all throughout, I feel Lottie’s eyes on me, watching my every move.
It’s… distracting.
“See you next Wednesday, Coach!” the kids say as they skate back to their parents.
Of course, not every parent is in a hurry to leave though.
Devon’s father is furiously waiting for me when I skate towards the rink’s entrance. He has such a pissed-off expression on his face that it doesn’t take a genius to know he’s foaming at the mouth to lay it on me.
“I didn’t appreciate you calling my son out in front of the rest of the other children,” he says, blocking my exit when I reach him.
I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t appreciate him making fun of one of his team members.”
The corner of the man’s lips curls in disgust.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he blurts out, infuriated. “This isn’t a team. It’s just kids goofing off.”
“If that is really what you think, then why bring your son here at all?” I frown. “I’m doing this to teach these kids how to play hockey. That means teaching them everything they need to know about the game. Or do you think it’s all about putting a puck in the net?”
“Devon knows how to play,” he rebukes with a snarl.
“Not from what I saw. He may know how to use a stick and hit a puck, but there is more to hockey than that. Being a good teammate is just as important as being skillful on the ice. Plus, I don’t tolerate bullies in my class. Either you have a strong word with your boy, or don’t bother showing up for the next practice.”
“Bullies?!” The man’s eyes go wide. “That’s fucking rich coming from you. Come on, Devon. There’s nothing to learn from this has-been, anyway. Pretty soon, he won’t even be playing for the Guardians. In fact, I don’t give him until the end of the season. Soon enough, he’ll be flipping burgers at some fast-food chain instead of wearing a jersey.” The father smirks, putting his arm around his son and pulling him away.
Sadness coats Devon’s eyes as he glances over his shoulder towards me while his father continues to talk smack about me as he ushers him away. A part of me wonders if I was too strict on the kid. After talking to his dad, it’s no wonder he acted the way he did. I bet he’s heard more of his share of bullying being done at home. Damn kid is just a product of his upbringing.
How can he not be an entitled little shit when his own father is one, too?
Not all boys grow up to be like their fathers.
You’re proof of that.
Even as I tell myself that, there is this nagging voice in the back of my head that refuses to agree—one that likes to pop up every once in a while to remind me that no matter how far I’ve come in life, I’ll never truly outrun where I came from.That sometimes, our past is more ingrained in us than we let ourselves believe.
I try not to let it get to me how the few strangling parents that stayed to watch the showdown between me and Devon’s father hurriedly scatter away their kids. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of them don’t show up for the next practice.
