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I eat breakfast on autopilot and compulsively check my phone for new messages. Still nothing, though. Adele messages once I’m on the ice to tell me she’s on her way.
She shows up fifteen minutes late, which is a heck of a lot better than her usual half hour. She’s dressed in a black leotard and a black skirt. Her makeup is done as if she’s ready for an actual performance, not just a practice skate. She’d probably be on time if she left it at mascara and lip gloss, but I keep that to myself since there are zero good reasons to make her feel shitty.
She falls into stride next to me. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re good. I can only stay until nine forty-five, though.” I booked the ice until ten, but then saw she’d added an extra hour.
She frowns. “Oh, I thought your schedule was open today.”
“My friend is playing her first game today, and I want to be there to support her.”
“Oh.” She does a two-foot turn so she’s facing me. “What friend is that?”
“Winter. I’ve been giving her lessons. You met her at the beginning of the week.”
“The girl with the long, dark hair?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
She chews her bottom lip. It’s a little raw, like she’s been doing this a lot. “You’ve given a lot of those girls lessons, and you’ve never bailed on practice for a game before.”
I cross my arms. “You’re chronically late and you’re on me about cutting a Saturday practice short so I can support a friend?”
She props a fist on her hip. “I just want to get this combination right so we don’t have to switch up our routine!”
Fighting isn’t how I want to start practice. “Let’s just make the most of the time we have.” I cue up the music and end the argument before it escalates.
I reach for Adele’s hand, and she slips it into mine, letting me lead, because Adele is more comfortable following cues than giving them.
She starts out strong, but as soon as we reach the triple twist, she misses her cue and we get the angle wrong. This happens on repeat for the duration of practice.
At nine forty-five, I call time. “I need to hit the shower soon if I’m going to make the first face-off.”
“Can we try a couple more times? I know I can get it, BJ.” Adele wrings her hands and gives me doe eyes.
I’m trying my best to be patient. I’m aware that this competition is a lot of pressure, especially since we need to place to move forward. But we can’t spend every practice struggling through combinations that might be too difficult, and this is two days in a row that she’s having trouble with the same element. It’s the common denominator, and we need to fix it while we still have time. But I concede so she doesn’t get upset.
“We can try it twice more. Then I gotta go.”
“Okay. Twice more through.”
She fumbles on the first attempt, but the second time she gets it. And of course, because she had success, she wants to try again. But it’s better to end on a positive note with her feeling good.
I rush through my shower, but by the time I’m dressed, I’ve missed a few minutes of the first period. I take a seat behind the bench. There’s a good crowd; the local hockey lovers are all about supporting their teams. I knock on the plexiglass barrier and my dad excuses himself to come talk to me for a second.
“How’s it going?” The scoreboard indicates our team is up by one goal.
“They’re playing tight.” Dad doesn’t take his eyes off the ice.
I scan the rink and find Winter heading for the opposition’s net. The puck slides behind the crease, and she hits the boards before she can stop herself.
“Shake it off,” I mutter. “You got this.”
“She’s off today,” Dad says quietly.
“First-game jitters?” I ask, even though I know it’s more than that.
“That’s what I thought initially, but she’s…on edge.”
