“Right. The thing you’re actually good at,” she says, and there’s genuine warmth in her voice that makes my chest tight.
“Debatable,” I mutter, thinking about how spectacularly I’m failing at simple human conversation.
As I skate away to deal with whatever chaos the kids have created in my absence, I catch her reopening her laptop, but not before I see what’s definitely a smile tugging at her lips.
I am so fucking bad at this.
Practice endsand I’m helping kids with gear when I notice Golda approaching the bench. Tyson’s struggling with his skate laces, and she kneels down to help him, her movements efficient and practiced.
“Need help?” I ask, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment.
“I’ve got it,” she says, but there’s no edge to it. “These laces are always impossible when they’re wet.”
“Tell me about it. I swear they design them to be as complicated as possible.”
She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound hits me like a physical blow. It’s the same laugh I heard in the coffee shop months ago, genuine and unguarded.
“There,” she says, finishing with Tyson’s skates. “All set, buddy.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Tyson gathers his gear. “Coach Dex, are you coming to practice Thursday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell him, then look at Golda. “Unless you have any objections to my coaching methods.”
“None so far,” she says, shouldering Tyson’s gear bag. “He’s definitely improving.”
“Good to hear.” I pause, remembering Elliot’s advice about actually getting to know her. “How about you? How are you finding the hockey parent experience?”
“Expensive,” she says immediately, then looks embarrassed. “Sorry, that’s probably not what you meant.”
“No, that’s honest. I appreciate honest.” I lean against the boards. “It is expensive. Especially when you’re just starting out.”
“Tyson loves it though. That makes it worth it.”
“What about you? Do you enjoy watching?”
She considers this. “I’m still learning the rules. But seeing him confident on the ice... that’s pretty amazing.”
“He’s gained a lot of confidence since he started. You must be doing something right.”
“Just trying to keep up,” she says with a self-deprecating smile. “Single parenting doesn’t come with a manual.”
The admission feels significant somehow, like she’s letting me see something real.
“For what it’s worth,” I say carefully, “you seem to be doing a great job. Both kids are... they’re good kids. Happy kids.”
“Thank you.” Her voice is softer now. “That means more than you know.”
There’s a moment where we’re just looking at each other, and I feel like we’re on the verge of something. A real conversation, maybe. The kind Elliot said I should be having.
Then Tyson reappears at her elbow. “Mom, I’m starving. Can we get food?”
“Of course.” She turns back to me. “Have a good evening, Coach.”
“You too.”
I watch them walk toward the exit, Tyson chattering about practice while Golda listens with patient attention. When they reach the door, she glances back once, catches me watching, and gives a small wave.
It’s nothing. A polite goodbye between a coach and a parent.
