Page 27 of Take Two

His smile grows, and this time it reaches further than the polished version he walked in with. Something warmer underneath, something that pulls his whole face into it, and my heartbeat does something I take careful note of and immediately set aside.

Something tells me this is going to be considerably more interesting than I prepared for.

Cyaire disappears into the locker room after a quick tour, leaving me to return to the ice alone. I use the time well enough, pulling a spare stick from the rack near the bench and skating slow, unhurried circles through the offensive zone, letting my body settle back into the rhythm while my head runs through what the next two hours are supposed to look like. By the time he makes his way out to the ice, I have already decided where we are going to start.

Cyaire steps onto the surface carefully, one hand resting lightly on the boards as he finds his footing on the blades. The caution does not surprise me. Anyone returning to the ice after a significant gap would take a moment to locate their balance, to remind their body of the particular physics involved. That part I expected entirely.

What I did not quite expect is that he makes no attempt to hide it.

That distinction matters more than it might seem. Most people arrive at situations like this with their pride already engaged, determined to appear more capable than they are before common sense has any opportunity to weigh in. I have spent enough years working with sponsors and media appearances and the occasional celebrity charity event to understand exactly how that particular process unfolds. The bravado arrives first, followed closely by the wobble, followed by the wounded dignity.

Cyaire pushes away from the boards and glides toward me with the deliberate, attentive concentration of someone who is paying close attention to what their body is doing rather than performing for an audience.

“How bad is it?” he asks, coming to a careful stop a few feet away.

I watch the stop. Note the weight distribution, the position of his hips, the small recovery he makes before settling. Then I answer.

“Honestly?”

He nods.

“You look like somebody who hasn’t skated regularly in a few years.”

Relief moves across his face so visibly that I am briefly taken aback. He exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “I thought you were about to tell me I looked terrible.” He blows out a slow, calming breath.

A laugh escapes me before I have a chance to consider whether it should.

“You don’t look terrible,” I say, waving one hand in a gesture that probably communicates precisely nothing reassuring.

“That sounds encouraging,” he says slowly, a careful, self-aware smile appearing.

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

His grin widens at the speed of the reply, quick and unfiltered, and the expression is so close to the one I remember from the night we met that something inconvenient shifts in my chest.

I clear my throat and point toward center ice. “Let’s start with something simple.”

Cyaire pushes off and falls in beside me as we skate toward the red line. He is quiet for a moment, finding the rhythm.

“I like simple,” he says, more to himself than to me.

“You say that now.”

He shoots me a sideways look. I ignore it and pull to a stop near center ice, turning to face him.

“The first thing you need to understand is that you are not playing a hockey player,” I say.

He nods immediately. “I’m playing a coach.”

“Exactly.” I point the blade of my stick briefly in his direction to confirm it, then tap it lightly against the ice. “Players and coaches move differently. A player is constantly in a state of preparation, protecting the puck, reading space, managing contact, reacting to pressure. Everything about how a player carries himself on the ice is built around being ready to act. A coach spends most of his time watching everyone else. The attention flows outward. The movement is different because the relationship to the game is different.”

Cyaire listens without once appearing to prepare his response. His eyes stay on me, steady and attentive. It is one of the more disarming things about him, and I noticed it the first time we met.

Most people hear instructions and spend the duration composing their reply.

Cyaire actually listens. The distinction is larger than people tend to appreciate.

“Daniel Mercer was not the kind of coach who stood behind the bench and directed,” I continue. “He was involved. He demonstrated drills. He skated with the team. He corrected things while they were happening, in real time, at ice level. That is the version of him you need to carry in your body.”