That swell of pride I get every time something clicks with one of these kids hits me again, and I give him a small smile. “No problem. Now get out there and stop the next one, yeah?”
He skates back into his crease, ready to go, and I make my way to the center of the ice, where the other kids are lined up to practice their one-on-one shots. I blow the whistle and watch closely as the eight-year-old beside me takes off full speed—or as fast as a kid can at that age—and charges in for the shot. He’s going for the same move the kid before him just did, probably because he saw how successful it was.
Marshall is prepared this time.
He drops at the exact right moment, and the puck soars through the air and straight into his glove.
“Yes!” I shout, clapping for him. “Well done, Marshall!”
Much like his idol, Arthur Fox, he nods in response, then gets set to go again. I love the dedication and that he doesn’t let it go to his head, especially considering his young age.
He plays well the rest of the session, and when I finally call time on it, he’s in a much better mood than earlier.
“Still want to quit?” I ask him when he skates to the open door.
He shakes his head, his grin wide and damn near contagious. “Not a chance in hell, Coach.”
I should probably say something about him sayinghell, but I can’t find it in me, given how happy he is.
So instead I pat him on the helmet and tell him to get out of here.
I help the other coaches clean up the equipment, and we prepare for the next set of kids to arrive.
By the time I make it back to the cidery hours later, I’m beat, and my hip is aching in a way it hasn’t in a long while. I spent a lot of time getting up and down on the ice today, and I know I shouldn’t have done it, but dammit, I’m supposed to be teaching these kids. I need to be able toshow, not justtell, them how to play. I’m just going to have to push through and keep up on my meds.
I head to my desk first, waving at some of our regular customers on my way. I pop a few ibuprofens before things get too out of hand and I’m back at the doctor’s office, begging for another cortisone shot.
“Hey, man.”
I lift my head to find Noah standing in my doorway. We haven’t really had a chance to talk much this week, so we still haven’t cleared the air about the whole Summer thing.
Summer.
I know she’s here somewhere. There’s no way she isn’t, seeing as it’s a Friday night, and all hands are on deck.
Besides, I’m like 95 percent certain I smelled vanilla cupcake on my way in here.
I also swear I can still taste that incredible mac and cheese she made, which only makes me wish I could bring her on as our new kitchen lead even more.
“Can I?” Noah asks, pointing to the chair across from my desk.
I wave him in, and he closes the door behind him. “Sure.”
I take a seat opposite him, forcing myself not to grimace as I do.
Fuck, I really overdid it today. Maybe I can talk to one of the other coaches tomorrow and see if they can handle it on their own so I can take an actual day off.
Maybe.
“So,” he starts, folding his hands together behind his head and reclining. Something about the relaxed position puts me on edge, which is funny. But that’s Noah for you. He acts like everything is good, then he hits you with the real shit. I have a feeling this will be one of thosereal shitconversations.
“So,” I repeat in the same calm tone.
“You got another ticket, huh?”
And there it is.
“In the end, no. I was threatened with one, and the idea of taking it to court because there’s no way it wouldn’t land there. So I chose the lesser of two evils and hired Summer. Are you mad?”
