Page 9

The ice crunches beneath my skates and the cool air smacks me in the face as I skate another lap around the rink.

My lungs are on fire and it tastes like blood every time I swallow.

Damn, I am out of shape.

For as much as I’m in the weight room these days blowing off steam, I shouldn’t be sucking air like this.

As I finish my lap, my knee threatens to scream at me if I don’t slow it down soon.

I stop pushing myself so hard and lift my hands up to rest my stick on top of my head.

It’s a trick we learned in Mini Mites to open up our lungs any time we’d lose our breath.

Still works like a charm too.

Gliding around the rink, I take in my surroundings and try to focus on what I’m doing here in the first place.

Ellie Montgomery is making me lose my mind.

My job is to fix this team and make a playoff contender out of it again.

I can’t do that if every other second Ellie’s blue eyes are flashing through my mind.

This girl will be the death of me.

Always has been.

Even when we were fifteen years old.

But back then the threat was more tangible .

My dad put his hands on me a lot when I was a kid.

It became my normal around age ten when my mom walked out on both of us.

But the times I remember most clearly, always happened after a hockey game.

More specifically, after I played against Ellie.

For whatever fucked up reason, my dad was always pointing out that Ellie was a better hockey player than me and he always loved pointing out that she was a girl .

The hits to my face, the belts to my back, always hit a little harder after those games.

I remember one time when we were sixteen, we were playing each other right before the playoffs.

The puck bounced right over the defenseman’s stick at the blue line and I took off like a bat out of hell.

It was a race between me and Ellie to get to the puck.

I was about half a stride ahead of her and I beat her to the puck by a fraction of a second.

My strides were a tad longer than hers at that point.

Sure, she was tall at five-ten, but she was already done growing.

I was about six-foot by that time, and wouldn’t stop growing until I hit six-three.

I outskated her and went down on a breakaway and scored the winning goal.

Ellie made some snide remark about me losing my girlfriend to my goalie.

But that didn’t matter.

I beat Ellie to the puck and won that game.

If only that mattered to my dad.

I walked out of the locker room and was congratulated by all my teammates’ parents.

My coaches gave me pats on the back.

The teammates who were already out gave me fist bumps and high fives.

Then, I made it to my dad.

He was waiting by the exit and took off out the door as soon as he knew I was close enough to follow.

He turned right when we got outside, and proceeded to stumble over the curb, which could only mean one thing.

He’d been drinking again.

The hits always came when drinks were involved .

It didn’t matter that I played a hell of a game.

It didn’t even matter that we won the game.

I was never going to be good enough for my dad.

After having to physically remove the keys from my dad’s hands and shove him into the back of his truck, I drove us home.

He passed out on the fourteen-minute drive and I was praying to God he’d stay that way until morning.

Luck was not on my side.

He woke up as soon as the car turned off and proceeded to berate me the entire walk into our house.

He didn’t stop yelling when we got inside.

He only got louder.

“You almost let a girl catch you on the ice. You’re an embarrassment. I don’t even know why you play this stupid game when you’re not any good at it.”

That was the last thing I heard him say to me before I turned around and saw his fist coming at my face.

I struggle to shake myself from the horrible memory, and realize I’m breathing harder reliving the memories than I was when I was skating laps.

Struggling to stay upright, I somehow manage to skate to the boards.

Throwing off my gloves, I grip the boards and hold on for dear life.

My fingers dig into the panel’s edge as I continue the battle to stay on my feet.

My breaths are short and painful, skin clammy, my pulse rioting in my ears as the blood rushes to my head.

I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing.

I take a deep breath, and on the exhale I feel a hand on my shoulder.

After that unusual encounter with Link in my office, I was left full of questions and uncertainty.

Link has never been one to support me, but as the head coach, it gives me hope that we’re on the right track.

If only my memories weren’t still creeping in, giving me doubts.

I’ve never really understood why Link hated me so much when we were growing up.

We didn’t even go to the same school.

We just played against each other in our travel league.

It doesn’t even make any sense.

He didn’t even know me.

Hell, he still doesn’t.

That’s why I can’t seem to get my head on straight right now.

Why is this man, who has made my life a living hell every step of the way, confusing the heck out of me?

It should be simple.

I should hate him.

End of story.

God, I need to clear my head.

The ice has always been my sanctuary.

I lace up my skates in the coaches’ room and head through the players’ tunnel to the ice.

I’m about to step onto the ice when I hear a sound coming from the far end near the goal.

It almost sounds like someone is hyperventilating.

I turn my head to see where it’s coming from.

When I finally see the source of the sound, panic ensues.

Link.

Leaning up against the boards.

Gasping for air.

What the fuck?

I skate over to him as fast as humanly possible.

Trying not to startle him, I gently place my hand on his shoulder.

In the calmest tone I can possibly muster, I ask, “Link. Are you okay? Is it your knee? Breathe for me.” I begin rubbing soothing circles on his back to try to calm him down.

Well, at least I hope they’re soothing.

It doesn’t seem to be doing much for him though.

I’m not sure what to do here.

I look around, panicking, to see if I can flag down anyone to help us.

The rink is deserted.

It’s summertime, and no one uses the ice unless the players drop by to get a session in.

I’m so out of my depth here.

It’s hard to keep my anger in check sometimes and I most certainly don’t know how to calm someone else down either.

So I do the only thing I can think of.

I start singing.

Yes, you heard that right.

Loud, proud, and impressively off-key, I start singing to this gorgeous man who seems to be having some type of crisis on the ice because I have no fucking idea what else to do.

“Skidamarink a-dink a-dink

Skidamarink a-doo

I love you

I love you in the morning

And in the afternoon

I love you in the evening

And underneath the moon”

I stretch out the word “moon” like my mom used to do when she’d sing to me every night before bed.

I’m about to start the chorus again when Link turns his head to look at me.

His words come out one at a time.

“Ellie. Stop. Fucking. Singing. That. Song.”

At least he’s beginning to breathe better?

“Ope. Yep. Right. No more singing,” I stammer out.

I don't even notice I’m still rubbing Link’s back until he barks out another command.

“Stop. Fucking. Touching. Me.”

I pull my hand back like I just touched the burner of a hot stove.

Link turns and repositions himself so his back is against the boards. Slowly, he slides down onto the ice and rests his head between his knees, taking deep breaths.

I’m not sure what to do with myself at this point, so I decide to just take a seat next to him. “Wanna talk about it? ”

He pauses his deep breathing and picks his head up to look at me. “What do you think, Blondie?”

Is this guy for real? He was just having what looked to be either a heart attack or panic attack on the ice. I don’t know which one. I’m not a doctor. All I know is, it wasn’t good. He seems pretty calm now though, and I can’t help but wonder if this isn’t the first time it’s happened.

“I think you were just gasping so hard for air, it almost knocked you off your feet. I think you should probably talk to someone about what just happened, and I’m the only one here.”

Link takes another deep breath and I can almost feel the anger radiating off of his body.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. If I’m going to talk to anyone, you’re the last person I’d ever consider talking to.” He says it with such hatred, I swear he spits at me when he says the last part of that sentence, like I’m the worst fucking human on this planet and he’d rather die than talk to me.

Someone make it make sense. Did he not just come into my office, fully supportive of me as a coach, and offer encouragement?

Here I am, trying to do the exact same thing, and Link lashes out at me. What happened in the last ten minutes that suddenly made me the evil villain again? Anger bubbles to the surface, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest.

“Fuck you, Link. I came out here to help you. Next time I’ll leave you here to pass out.” I stand up and turn to leave the ice when his deep voice stops me in my tracks.

“Good. Leave me the hell alone. I don’t need your help. Why don’t you worry about fixing the power play? That should keep you busy enough.”

I turn and skate toward him. He’s standing up now with his hands crossed over his chest. I know I shouldn’t poke the bear, but I literally do just that. I poke him in the chest. His firm, glorious chest.

“Don’t you dare come at me with power play shit. I’ve been working my ass off on that power play. I actually set a meeting with Niko to go over prospective new wingers for his unit before we hit the ice tomorrow. Weren’t you the one who just told me we have time? Don’t stress, we’ll figure it out? You seem to have changed your tune rather quickly. Don’t take your shit out on me.”

With one last poke, I turn and skate off the ice without looking back.

That man is so hot and cold, he’s giving me whiplash. Just when I thought we were starting to turn the page, he’s back to being the world’s biggest prick.

Again, I’m left wondering how the hell I’m going to make this work.