Page 46 of Break Points and Face Offs

He dismisses us, the sound of the hose being turned back on following us up the stands and out of the main doors to the equipment room.

I don’t even care what Priestley thinks of this place. I know it’s a little rough around the edges. That the equipment room, and the locker room, and most of the hallways, stink of old hockey gear. But it doesn’t matter. This place is important to me. It’s where I first learned how to skate. Where I’d bond with my dad over nasty $2 hot dogs and giant cups of Coke.

After checking what shoe size Priestley is, I grab him the least disgusting pair of skates and hand them to him. He does give them a snooty once over, but to his credit, he doesn’t complain. I have my own skates, skates I haven’t worn since my last game at BC. When I slip my feet inside and lace them up, it’s like putting on an old pair of comfortable slippers.

When we get back out to the rink, I’ve got a bag of pucks, some clip-on targets, and a borrowed stick for Priestley. Jimmy’s set a goal up on either side of the ice. “You need anything else?” he asks.

“Nah, we’re just doing some accuracy shooting.”

“A little competition?” Jimmy asks, eyes lighting up. Despite never having won very much in his life, Jimmy’s still a competitive motherfucker.

“Yeah.”

He chuckles, slapping Priestley on the back. “Good luck, kid. Accuracy was always O’Reilly’s strong suit.”

“Was it now?” Priestley asks as Jimmy leaves us alone.

“Don’t act all innocent. You bragged about being the captain of a championship-winning tennis team.”

He shrugs. “Touché.”

Priestley’s pretty elegant on the ice, of course. But when it comes to stick handling, he’s a mess. Every time I pass him a puck, it gets away from him and he gets frustrated.

“It’s the way you’re passing them,” he complains. “I’m getting my own puck this time.”

“Be my guest.”

I skate backward to give him space. He scoops a puck out of the pile and tries to keep it under control. He manages for a second before it gets away from him again.

“Hold on, you’ve gotta do it like this.” Before I even know what I’m doing, I skate over and show him where he’s going wrong.

Grabbing his hands in my gloves, I move them down the stick to where they should be. I skate in behind him, adjusting his stance, kicking his legs open a little wider and pressing my weight against his knees to get him to bend his legs.

Priestley’s frozen up and I tell him to relax.

“I am relaxed,” he pushes out.

“Are you cold? You’re gritting your teeth.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“When you handle the puck, you’ve gotta keep touching your stick to it, like this …” I show him, moving the stick with his hands around it while the smell of his hair and his cologne makes my head swim. I need to move away from him, but I don’t want to let him see that I’m rattled. I think he might be rattled, too. Blood rushes south again and I ignore it.

“Got it?”

“Yes, yes, I’ve got it.” He clears his throat. “You can stop manhandling me now.”

I force a laugh and skate back to give him space.

He handles the puck a bit better this time. It doesn’t get away from him and he even manages to move closer to the net with it.

“That’s close enough, cheat.”

“Humph.”

“That wasn’t a very gentlemanly sound,” I say, just as he lets rip.

He’s made a rookie mistake and gone for sheer power, but that won’t help you in an accuracy drill.