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I smirk at her as I see Travis skate out, my gaze remaining on him. “Hey… I told you I had nightmares and that I never saw a therapist. Even told you a little about my family, which is why I didn’t see a therapist.”
“Touché,” she mutters and then pulls her arm free as she notices Travis on the ice. “But I know better than anyone that it takes more than a five-minute conversation to process trauma and grief.”
“Touché,” I reply, nudging her playfully with my shoulder. I don’t have any intention of opening up wounds that I believe are fully healed. Sure, things might be a little ugly under the scabs, maybe a bit infected. But I can live with that. Seems a lot less painful than ripping at the sores and letting that shit ooze out.
I’ll gladly take her friendship. She’s easy to be with, not just because she’s warm, funny and kind, but because we share something big in common.
The crash.
Would I take more? If we’re both feeling this mutual camaraderie, could it be something other than mere friendship? I know I’m attracted to Danica, although I’d only ever admit that to myself. But does she feel the same? I swear there was a moment last night when I felt like she wanted me to close that small distance between our mouths.
I think she wanted me to kiss her but what the fuck do I know? That could have been the beer talking.
For the next hour, we watch Travis’s practice and I specifically pay attention to the coach. I looked him up on the youth league website, a man named Dan Kantor who has been coaching kids for several years. By all accounts from watching him, he knows his shit. He knows exactly what kids this age should be able to accomplish and his direction is spot on.
But I do see that he’s a little hard-assed and light on the praise. While he’s apt to say, “That was good” for a job well done, that’s about all the affirmation he hands out. On the flip side, mistakes or substandard play is called out and a spotlight is shone on it. One kid had a bad transition and tripped, falling to the ice. He popped right back up, but the coach made an example of him.
“That right there is the difference in playing for fun or moving on to travel hockey. Your transitions have to be perfect.”
And yeah… they do. I’m just not sure they have to be that way at age nine, in a league that most of the kids here are playing in for fun or to learn a new skill.
What makes this coaching dynamic trickier is that some of the parents seem to like the coach’s style. The kid who fell got an earful from his dad. After the coach made an example of him, his father called him out.
“Kevin… come on, bud. We’ve practiced this a hundred times. You can’t be making stupid mistakes like that.”
I heard a low but distinct growl of disapproval from Danica when we heard that, and while Travis played well and was never targeted by the coach, it clearly upset her to see him do it to other kids. Even if that type of coaching feedback isn’t aimed at Travis, he’s operating under the assumption it will turn on him eventually and that can be stressful.
When the practice is over, all the kids skate off to the locker rooms and the parents start clearing the bleachers.
“What did you think?” Danica asks as we traverse our way down the stands.
“I think he’s a tough coach. He’s not big on positive reinforcement.”
“I hate the way he humiliates the kids if they do something wrong. There’s a nicer way to deliver the message.
“I don’t disagree with you there.”
“What should I say to him?” Danica asks, her expression fretful and uncertain. “I don’t want him to come down on Travis by thinking I’m a complainer.”
“Why don’t you let me talk to him? I’ll have a friendly chat that I was watching and some thoughts I have. It won’t be confrontational.”
“Yeah? You’d do that?” she asks in such a tentative way.
I’d probably do anything for you.
I give her a smile of assurance. “You two get out of here. I’ll call you later and let you know how it went.”
Danica appraises me, seeming as if she has a million questions but doesn’t quite know where to start. She looks bewildered, slightly trepidatious and at the same time, a little exultant. I don’t know… maybe she’s fucking confused as to why I’m helping her, but my offer stands.
“Okay,” she finally says with a nod. “I’ll talk to you later.”
When Danica is out of sight, I head to the edge of the rink where the coach is talking to a couple of parents. I hang back slightly, waiting for them to clear out, but his eyes cut to me over their shoulders.
He clearly recognizes me as the shock is evident on his face but returns his attention to the conversation he’s embroiled in. It’s thankfully short and as the parents walk off, he turns my way.
I walk up to him with my hand out to shake. “Coach Kantor.”
If he’s surprised I know his name, he doesn’t show it. Merely pumps my hand exuberantly. “This is quite the surprise. Great to meet you, Camden.”
