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Derek finished buckling his skates. “Oh, man.”
“Did you think I’d forgotten?”
“Yes.” The kid punched the seven numbers and waited for the axe to fall. The grim line of his mouth turned to a smile and he whispered, “It’s going to her voice mail.”
Lucky break.
“Hi Mom. I went on a bike ride and ran into Coach Mark. I’ll be home by six. Love you. Bye.”
Mark let Derek’s little lie go for now.
The kid shut the phone and handed it to Mark. “I can skate backward now. I’ve been practicing in my basement.”
Mark dumped his phone in his back pocket. “Show me.”
Derek stood, and his ankles fell inward. He held his arms out to the sides and slowly moved his skates back and forth until he rolled to the center of the drive. He used a one-foot drag to stop. Much better than the snowplow he’d been using last summer, but his balance still sucked.
“That’s pretty good.”
Derek smiled as the late afternoon sun caught fire in his hair and bounced off his white forehead.
“Watch this.” He bent his knees, hunched over, and put pressure on the insides of the skates. He rolled back a couple of inches and beamed like he’d just scored a hat trick. What Derek lacked in skill, he made up for in heart. Heart was the one indefinable element that made a good player into a great player. No amount of drills could teach heart.
“You’re getting there.” Too bad heart wasn’t enough. “But you’re bent over looking at your feet. What’s the number one rule in hockey?”
“No whining.”
“Number two.”
“Keep your head up.”
“That’s right.” He pointed his cane at the boy. “Have you been practicing your step-overs and jumps?”
Derek sighed. “No.”
He lowered his cane and looked at his watch. “Keep your head up and get going to the end of the driveway and back.”
Chelsea pushed back the heavy drapes and watched Derek lift one knee and then the other. He marched toward the end of the driveway, his arms out from his shoulders. As he attempted to turn around, he fell on his skinny behind.
“Keep your head up,” Mark yelled.
Derek dusted himself off and marched all the way back. He reminded Chelsea of Rupert Grint in the first Harry Potter movie. Only geekier.
Mark met him in the center of the drive and handed him a half-full bottle of Gatorade. Chelsea couldn’t hear what Mark said to the boy, just the deep timbre of his voice. Derek nodded and drank.
Mark took the bottle and returned it to the shade of the porch. “Two small. One big,” he called out to the kid, and Derek began jumping in place. He immediately fell.
Chelsea let go of
the curtain and moved from the office. She walked outside and stood next to Mark. “I thought he was going to show you a few stops and go home. Why are you making him march and jump up and down?”
“The kid needs to learn balance.” He pointed his cane at the boy and hollered, “Now change it up. Small jump. Big jump. Small jump. Big jump. Bend your knees, Derek.”
“Who are you? Mr. Miyagi?” She held her hands up in front of her, palms out. “Wax on. Wax off. Bend your knees, Derekson.”
He chuckled. “Something like that.” He walked to the center of the driveway, a slight hitch in his otherwise fluid steps and his cane a smooth extension of his arm. Chelsea folded her arms beneath her breasts and sat on the porch. Mark pointed down the driveway, said something about pushing and gliding. Falling down and getting back up again.
“Use your hips. Head up,” Mark called after him. After about fifteen minutes of pushing and gliding, the kid was clearly winded. His cheek had turned a bright red, one of his knees was skinned, and Chelsea almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but the little liar had made her look bad.
