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He nods, his gaze connecting with mine for a moment before he diverts it back to the net. “I’ve been practicing for a long time. Kids pick on me. Say I’m too small to have a powerful shot.”
Kids are fuckingbrutal.I remember those days. I was a small kid, and it took a lot of practice and hard work before anyone took me seriously.
“Nah, not true. I know plenty of guys who aren’t built like a brick shithouse and have powerful slap shots.”
Jake looks at me with wide eyes, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes again. He quickly pushes it out of his face to watch me.
“It’s not just about your size, it’s about technique. The trick is to keep practicing. Every day, do a hundred shots back-to-back in the net. But do it with the opposite hand. You left-handed?”
He nods, so I take the stick and put it in his right hand.
“Do it with your right hand. Your body has muscle memory, and your muscles are used to you shooting with the left. You practice with your right hand, a hundred shots a day, then you’ll get that permanent muscle memory. It’s all about repetition. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t; prove ‘em wrong. Show them that you can.”
Using my stick, I shoot with the opposite hand, and the puck hits the net so fast Jake’s eyes can hardly watch as it flies.
“Holy shit,” he whispers in awe.
“Language,” I say sternly, even though I was saying way worse shit at his age. “Another thing, when you’re at home, practicing with the net, make sure you’re bending your knees, just like you would on the ice. Don’t stand straight up, use the power from your legs and your body to get that shot in there.”
“This is awesome. Thanks, Coach.”
I nod, feeling pride swell in my chest. It feels good to teach these kids; it feels good to give back after all the fucking up I’ve done.
“Your ride coming?” I ask.
“Yeah, my foster dad has to work late sometimes.” He shrugs. “I’ll just practice some more while I wait.”
“Want me to give you a ride?”
He looks shocked that I would even offer. With eyes slightly wide, he asks, “Really?”
I shrug. “Got nothing else to do.”
“I can just walk. I do sometimes, from school and stuff. It’s not a big deal.”
“Where do you live?”
“Southside. 42nd Street.” His voice is low. He’s been walking to the Southside at night? That’s at least thirty minutes by car.
“It’s on the way. Here, call your dad and let them know I'll drop you off.”
Jake nods, then takes my phone that I’m extending toward him. While he’s talking to his parent, I get my skates off and put on my Nikes, then shove everything back into my hockey bag.
I’m finishing up when he skates over, off the ice.
“He says thank you. His meeting ran over at work. Thanks for bringing me home. I appreciate it.” He looks down at his skates.
“No big deal. Let’s go.”
I unlock my truck as we walk toward it, and he climbs in the passenger seat. Before I even have to tell him, I hear the seatbelt click. The drive to the Southside is quiet. Jake stares out the window, his hands folded in his lap.
“Keep practicing that shot, and you’ll have it down in no time. If you ever want a little extra time on the ice, or one-on-one practice, just let me know,” I tell him as I drive.
“You... you’d do that?”
I shrug. “I’m the coach. I gotta make sure you know what you’re doing; otherwise, I’ll look bad.”
He grins, nodding. “Okay. Cool.”
