Page 177 of On His Team

“Yes.”

“Locker assignments posted?”

I point.

“Emergency contacts?”

I point again.

“Good.” She walks away.

I stand there waiting for something else. She told me earlier in the week that she would not hover unless I needed her. Apparently she meant it.

At seven-thirty-five, the first family arrives, then there are four, then eleven. By seven-fifty, the lobby looks like someone has tipped over a truck full of hockey bags.

Children are everywhere. Parents are everywhere. Some of the kids are already half dressed because their parents apparently decided hockey pants were appropriate car attire. One little boy is walking around in shoulder pads with no jersey on, looking like a turtle.

The volume in the room doubles every three minutes.

“Gianna?”

I turn.

One of my volunteers is holding a stack of wristbands. “Blue ones for group one?”

“Yes. Green is group two.”

“Where are the pens?”

“Second bin under registration.”

A father steps in front of me. “My daughter isn’t on this list.”

“Name?”

He tells me. I scan the sheet. He’s right.

I ask, “Did you register through the youth program?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Give me one second.”

I find Lisa, who finds the confirmation email in approximately forty seconds. Problem solved.

Before I can turn back around, somebody says my name again. A mother wants to know whether siblings can sit in the stands.

“Yes.”

A kid can’t find his helmet. His father looks considerably more upset about this than the child does.

“We packed it,” he tells me. “I know we packed it.”

The boy is maybe ten and is looking down at the floor in pure sadness.

“It’s okay,” I tell him.

His eyes come up.