Page 179 of On His Team

“That’s okay.”

It isn’t useful to be mad at her now. I put her at registration.

Cole takes the bench assignment she was supposed to cover. Done.

A parent brings a waiver they printed at home. Another parent forgot theirs. One kid refuses to wear the jersey because he hates the color. I tell him everybody has the same one. His father backs me immediately.

Thank you, Bryce’s father.

The sponsor jerseys are enormous on some of them. Eleven kids need theirs tucked into their hockey pants, and once they’re on the ice, nobody can tell. Nobody except me. I can tell from forty feet away. Every time I see one, I think, I should have asked for sizes. Then somebody needs me, and I stop caring.

That might be the biggest thing I learn all morning. Nobody except the person running something knows what it was supposed to look like. They only know what is in front of them.

By the time the last group is dressed, I have stopped feeling like I am waiting to be exposed as someone who does not know what she is doing. I am too busy doing it.

“Group one to the gate!” My voice echoes down the hallway.

Gary comes past carrying three sticks. “You’ve got one still tying.”

“Which one?”

“Number fourteen.”

“I’ll get him.”

“I’ve got him.”

“Okay.”

I turn toward the gate. The kids begin filtering out. One by one. Then ten at a time. Then suddenly there are forty-eight children on the ice wearing jerseys I ordered, skating during an event I made up for a class.

I stand at the open gate and stop moving. Only for maybe ten seconds and take it all in. The sponsor logo stretches across every chest. Parents are lining the glass with their phones up. Gary’s son is at center ice explaining the first drill. Two volunteers are moving cones. A little girl skates past with her jersey tucked almost to her armpits. It looks ridiculous, but I love it.

Nobody in the building knows about the wrong insurance certificate except me, Lisa, and Ives. Nobody knows Deb misunderstood the schedule. Nobody knows that Cole agreed to come early only after texting me three paragraphs about why six in the morning is immoral. Nobody knows that I spent Thursday night on the phone dividing children into categories based on whether a youth-large jersey would swallow them whole. Nobody knows Duane had to come in before sunrise to cut the ice.

They just see kids skating.

Ives is standing halfway up the bleachers with her coffee and clipboard. She looks down at me. Our eyes meet. She gives me one nod. That one nod does more for me than if she came down and hugged me.

I turn back to the ice. It worked.

I make myself move. Parents still have questions. The stations need timing. Two volunteers are supposed to rotate in fifteen minutes. Photos are later. There are snacks that need to be moved.

I check the clock. I turn toward the far end of the rink and stop. Rowan is standing at the boards. For a second, I think my exhausted brain made him up. He has a Camden hoodie on, coffee in one hand, and Trent Mackey beside him. They look enormous standing next to a group of ten-year-olds.

I stare.

Rowan sees me. He smiles.

Something in my chest loosens so quickly that I hate him a little for it. I hurry toward them before somebody else calls my name.

When I reach them, I say, “You came.”

“Yeah.”

I look at him. “You said you’d see.”

“I saw.”