Twenty-five expectant faces stare up at me.
When Hart asked me to step in for him at PeeWee practice this week, I didn’t think agreeing would be a big deal. According to Conor, the team’s actual coach, Josh Cassidy, handles all the logistics of drills and Conor’s job is just to retrieve wayward pucks and help kids who are having extra trouble.
I’ll never know if that was a lie or not, because when I showed up to assist, I learned that Coach Cassidy came down with a stomach bug and so the sole authority figure on the ice is…me.
When Hart gets back from wherever the hell he was going on his class trip—I was texting Rylan and not really paying attention at the time—he’s going to get an earful. This is not what I signed on for.
But there’s nothing I can do about it now.
It was either run the practice myself or tell a couple dozen little kids who already had several pounds of equipment on that they wouldn’t get to skate today.
“Let’s start with laps,” I announce. “Just…yeah. Skate in circles.”
One of the little kids raises his hand. “How many laps, Coach Aidan?”
“Um…I’ll let you know when to stop.”
I expect that answer to go over about as well as canceling practice, but the kids surprise me by not voicing a single complaint.
I’m even more surprised by their skill level. Better than I was at this age.
Hastily, I tug my phone out of my pocket and search kids hockey drills. I scan through the results, grimacing when the first five all involve using cones.
I don’t have any cones, and leaving the kids unattended to go search the rink for some seems like a bad idea.
I try to think of the drills Coach has run us through during practice recently, but my mind is blank. It’s like driving somewhere yourself versus sitting in the passenger seat. I remember certain details, but not the whole drive.
We practiced zone entry and stick handling yesterday. I don’t think I can replicate that at a less advanced level.
I’m not keeping close track, but they’ve probably skated at least twenty laps by the time I decide they can’t do that all practice.
I stick two fingers in my mouth and whistle, enjoying the awed looks as the kids skate over.
“We’re going to play a game of three-on-three,” I decide.
Playing a game is better than drills, right?
The kids seem undecided.
“Who is playing on first line?” one kid asks.
I have no clue what his name is. They all introduced themselves at the start of practice, but there was no way I was going to memorize names and faces in one go.
“What’s your name?”
“Cody.”
He says his name like I should know it. His confidence kinda reminds me of Hart.
“Why are you asking me which line you’ll play on, Cody?”
“Uh…” He glances around at his teammates. “’Cause I wanna know?”
“The only thing you need to know is that I’m the coach today. Everyone on the center line.”
They all skate toward the red streak instantly. Even Cody.
I pick up the bucket of pucks and skate after them.
“Change of plans. Make the shot, stay standing. Miss, sit.”
I skate down the line, handing each of them a puck. Stop at the home bench and whistle.
“Go!”
The first player shoots. Misses, grimaces, sits.
The second player shoots. He misses too.
Third does too.
Maybe this was a bad idea. I’m trying to teach them an equalizer—it matters if you make the shot, not what line you’re on when you take it—not decimate their confidence.
“That whistle looks good on you, Phillips.”
I glance over one shoulder, shocked to see Rylan standing a few feet away. She’s wearing her pom-pom hat, hands shoved deep into her pockets.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
I wanna step off the ice and kiss her, but I’m guessing that’ll set off a chorus of “Ews” from the peanut gallery, and I have no idea where her dad is.
Rylan’s eyes are bright and sparkling as she glances at the ice. Takes in the scene. “You’re coaching?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Hart helps out with the team but had a conflict this week. Asked me to step in. The usual coach got sick, so…yeah. Going terribly so far.”
I glance at the net. Empty still, a quarter of the way down the line.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” she tells me. “They look like they’re having fun.”
I’m used to hearing the opposite. That I’m too easy on myself, that I don’t care about anything important. I thought Rylan believed the same thing. That I’m the campus playboy in her eyes, same as everyone else’s. I don’t know when that changed. I didn’t know that had changed.
Impulsively, I say, “I missed you.”
I haven’t seen her since I went over to her house on Wednesday.
Before Rylan can reply, I hear a familiar voice.
“Hey, honey.”
Immediately, I stiffen. I should have guessed she was here because of her dad, but it didn’t occur to me. I have a tendency to focus on nothing except her, whenever she’s near. I was just happy to see her, not wondering why she was here.
“Hey, Dad.”
I swallow, turning to watch Coach approach the bench. His Holt Hockey cap is pulled low, shading his eyes and making it harder to read his reaction to finding me talking to his daughter.
“Phillips.”
“Coach.” I’m tenser than a wood board, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
“You’re running the PeeWee practice?” He sounds surprised, understandably.
“Hart recruited me. And the normal coach is sick.”
“How’s it going?” He looks out at the ice.
I wince, certain he’s looking at a lot of misses. “Not great.”
“Try two lines. Zig zag passes. Or have them race from one end. Goal line, blue line. Goal line, center line. Goal line, blue line. Goal line, goal line. That’ll wear them out fast.”
“I will, Coach. Thanks.”
He nods, then glances at Rylan. “You ready to go?”
“Yep.” She glances at me. “Good luck. I’ll, uh, see you on Tuesday.”
“For tutoring,” I clarify. Unnecessarily.
Because I’m hoping I’ll see her sooner, and that no math will be involved. And since we’re nowhere I can actually say that, I’m overcompensating.
“Right. For tutoring.” Rylan gives me a weird look, then follows her dad toward the lobby. I watch her until she’s out of sight, wishing she would turn around the whole time. I want her to stay. To pull her around the ice with me after this practice ends, same as I watched Hart do with Harlow.
I push away from the boards.
They’re halfway down the line now. By the time the last kid shoots, only two pucks have gone in.
I pick one up on my stick and skate back toward the center line. Skid to a dramatic stop, spraying a bunch of shavings toward the opposite end.
Then shoot.
The netting bulges from the impact.
“Two lines!” I bark.
They all scramble to listen.
And I skate after them, filled with fresh determination.
