Page 178 of On His Team

“What size?”

He doesn’t know. His dad does.

I call Donovan, who has already warned me twice this week that he is not participating in my event, and he appears four minutes later carrying two helmets.

He holds one out to the kid. “Try it.”

The helmet fits, and the kid smiles. His dad exhales.

Donovan looks at me. “That’s one.”

“Thank you.”

He walks away.

I barely have time to register that we fixed it before Cole appears. “We have a problem.”

My entire nervous system lights up. “What?”

He points toward the entrance. Two girls are standing beside their mother wearing full hockey gear. And figure skates. I stare at them.

The mother smiles apologetically. “They skate recreationally.”

I look down at the blades. Then at Cole. Then back at the girls. For approximately four seconds, my brain offers absolutely nothing. This is the thing I have been afraid of all week. Not the figure skates specifically. The moment where somebody asks me a question and I have no answer. Then I realize I don’t need the answer immediately. I need the next thing.

I crouch slightly. “What sizes are you?”

Five and six.

I look at Cole. “Rental counter.”

He nods.

“Five and six?”

“Yeah. Hockey skates.”

“Got it.”

He leaves.

The mother starts thanking me.

“It’s fine.”

And it is. Five minutes ago, I would have imagined this exact scenario as evidence that my event was collapsing. Now it is just two pairs of skates.

The whole morning becomes that.

Something happens. I make a decision. Then something else happens before I have enough time to congratulate myself for fixing the first thing.

Deb is late. She comes through the doors after eight, looking mortified and apologizing before she has even taken her coat off.

“I thought you said eight.”

I say, “I said I needed you until eight.”

“Oh.”