Page 47 of Lovefool

I crouch down to meet him at eye level, placing a hand on his shoulder and offering him an understanding smile. “You learn all those skills with time. Some of your teammates might be further ahead than you, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re any less worthy of being on the ice.”

Max sniffles. “I just want to make my mom proud.”

“Trust me, buddy. I know what that feels like.” I straighten my knees, jerking my thumb toward one of the unoccupied goals. “How about we start off simple, okay? Just try to score while I’m in the goal so I can assess your quick-release shooting and the accuracy of your aim.”

Although he gives me a nod, he drags himself over to the net like he’s already accepted defeat.

Situating myself in the goal zone, I bend my knees, broaden my wingspan to take up as much of the net as possible, and track the minute twitches of his body to predict his next move. Darting eyes, clenched dominant hand, the placement of his front foot.

He takes off as if he’s an out-of-control firework, and the speed of his skating…could be improved. His small size gives him an advantage to be more aerodynamic on the ice.

There’s a moment when I think I’ve greatly underestimated him, but his setup for a slap shot is too premature, and the crook of his right arm supplies me with all the indication I need of where the puck’s trajectory will end—the lefthand corner of the goal. Unfortunately, I don’t have to move much to block the disc, and it bounces off my shin without so much as a dent.

Max throws his arms up in exasperation. “See! I can’t do it. You blocked that so easily.”

“That’s just because your body gave too much away. I knew where you were aiming, and you gave me plenty of time to act before your blade even hit the puck.”

“I don’t have fast hands like you.”

“You don’t need to have fast hands. You just need to catch the goalie off guard, and you need your opponents to underestimate you.”

Max glances up at me with his cartoonishly big eyes, and his helmet tips to the side a bit. “How do I do that?”

I’ve never had someone look up to me before. I’ve never been a role model for anyone. It gives me a sense of purpose that I thought had been lost to a murky hinterland. Hope—still a foreign feeling—waxes in the pantheon of my chest.

“Read their body language. See which side of the net they instinctively favor. You have to be three steps ahead of them. Whatever you think they anticipate you might do next, do the exact opposite.”

Color me surprised when Max skips his wallowing and resumes his previous position, fetching the puck with his stick.

After that single talk alone, I can already tell there’s something different about the way he carries himself. This time, he has something to prove, and that can light one hell of a fire under someone’s feet.

I brace myself for Max’s slap shot, and he takes a few calculated strides toward me before turning around, concealing the placement of the puck, then hurling it with his non-dominant hand. The force is uncontrolled as it flings into the upper righthand corner of the net—deliberately lacking in coverage—and propels off the frame into the nylon.

Did I let him sink that shot? Maybe, but he doesn’t have to know that.

Max bursts into cheers and hops around haphazardly on his skates while I hear Lake whistle from the sidelines, backing his well-deserved win.

I slip my helmet off and wrestle my hair free. “That was awesome, Max. I —”

Suddenly, my sentence is interrupted by two small arms squeezing my tree-trunk thighs, and I don’t move a muscle in fear of scaring him off. His show of gratitude, ironically, has my tongue feeling like sandpaper in my mouth. I’ve only known this kid for two days, and I’m already so protective of him.

I see myself in Max—someone who just wants to belong despite his familial hardships. Someone who inadvertently flaunts his flaws like a butcher showing off a high-quality cut. Someone who wants to matter.

“Thank you! My coach never tells me what I’m doing wrong, so I can’t fix anything. But you helped me fix it!”

I pat the kid on the back. I don’t know how to describe it, but a malaise of self-doubt lifts from my body in the same way steam emanates off the rim of a scalding, stainless steel pan.

I think I needed this moment of reflection more than he did.

My eyes find Lake’s one last time, and peaceful serenity has never been so close within reach before.

“You’re going to do great things, buddy. I’m just the lucky guy who gets to be in your corner.”

19

A LITTLE BLOOD NEVER HURT ANYBODY

LAKE