Page 4

3

Luke

T he familiar bite of cool air and smell of fresh ice is bittersweet as I stand beside the rink as the team files on one by one. It’s been over two years since I set foot in a rink. Honestly, there was a time when I thought I never would again. Too many memories. Some bad, but most of them good.

And that’s what makes it hurt worse.

I don’t miss the way many of the girls are looking at me. Their curious and hungry stares follow me as Alice runs them through their first set of drills. Each time one of them does something well, they flash their eyes to me, gauging my reaction and then looking disappointed when I don’t show interest. It’s best they learn to be disappointed now.

Not only in what they might want from me as a coach, but also as if any of them have any shot of actually catching my eye.

Burying my hands into the pocket of my hoodie, I silently observe the start of practice. Alice asked that I watch this week, specifically the goalies, and take note of how the team operates and how she leads them. Then once I feel comfortable, I can jump in and be more hands on.

Fine by me.

The tip of my nose grows cold, the sensation so familiar it’s like a homecoming. The scrape of sharp blades against the ice is music to my fucking ears but also has me wanting to block it all out.

The ice used to be my sanctuary, and now it’s just a reminder of a life that is no longer mine. The desire to leave, to walk out, to never look back, grows more and more appealing with each passing moment.

As if she can sense I’m about to run, Alice comes gliding over and stops on the other side of the boards right in front of me. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

She waves a hand toward the rink. “The girls, the team, any of it.”

I glance toward one of the lines running a simple weaving drill down the length of the ice, and one of the wings mishandles the puck, completely disrupting the flow.

“I think it’s the first day of practice, and it clearly shows,” I state.

Alice purses her mouth, clearly not the answer she was looking for. But she shakes it off and says, “I want you to meet your goalies.” She blows her whistle, and everyone on the ice immediately pauses, skates scraping and coming to a complete stop, as they turn their full attention to her.

I have to admit I’m impressed by the clear respect and authority Alice has with them. Even coaches at the highest level can struggle with garnering that instant obedience from players.

“Kilcrease! Miller! A minute, please,” Alice calls out. The two of them are instantly out of their respective nets and glide smoothly over to us. “The rest of you, follow Coach Packley’s instructions for your next drill.”

Coach Packley, the other assistant, gathers the team up and starts doling out instructions as the goalies reach us.

Almost in perfect sync, they lift their helmets and ask, “Yes, Coach?”

“I wanted to more properly introduce you both to Coach Holloway, as I’ve asked him to specifically work closely with the both of you,” Alice says.

The one with curly auburn hair has trouble holding my gaze. Good . Her already bright cheeks redden further, and she averts her eyes back to Alice and keeps them firmly planted on her.

The other one however, the one with the long dark brown hair held in a neat braid that falls over one of her shoulders, not only holds my stare, but seems to challenge it, like she refuses to be the one to look away first. Her chin is tilted high with her shoulders pushed back.

“Luke, this Grace Miller,” Alice says, gesturing to the shy one. She gives me a small dip of her head and a little smile. “She’s a junior and backs up Miss Kilcrease here. Lennon”—Alice points to the one still refusing to break my stare—“is a senior and has been our starting goalie since her freshman year.”

Lennon smiles brightly at that and pulls her right glove off, holding out her hand to me. “It’s nice to meet you, Coach Holloway.” Her voice is confident, smooth, just like her posture.

It’s off-putting.

I’d love to deny her request for a handshake, just to see how it rattles that confidence and how that might translate when she’s on the ice, potentially exposing a weakness. But as much leniency as I think Alice is capable of giving me, she won’t tolerate blatant disrespect to her players.

I uncross my arms and take Lennon’s hand. Her grip is strong, which at this point doesn’t surprise me. I barely grasp it enough to give it a half-hearted shake before I tuck my hands in my pockets.

Lennon’s eyes narrow, clearly not impressed, but I just stare blankly at her. What does she expect from me?

“I’ve asked Coach Holloway to observe this week, specifically the two of you, before fully jumping in,” Alice tells them. “So don’t be surprised if you find him watching over your shoulder or if it feels like his eyes are always on the two of you, alright? I really think he’s going to be a huge benefit for you.”

Lennon looks suspicious, while Grace still can’t stop blushing.

“Any questions?”

“No, Coach,” Lennon responds, and Grace shakes her head in agreement.

Alice dismisses them, and as practice goes on, I find myself drifting toward the right end of the ice, where Lennon sits in goal. She’s not the biggest goalie, but she’s quick. Her movements are sharp as she alternates between dropping out of her stance to her knees and back up. She’s got quick reflexes and moves effortlessly throughout the crease.

But as the team runs a shooting drill, that’s where I start to see the cracks. When she’s challenged head on, it’s almost as if she panics. Or maybe flustered is the better word for it. She misses pucks she should be able to stop with how fast she is. And with each shot, instead of looking more and more zoned in, it’s almost as if she spacing out.

She’s clearly got raw talent. A few of the saves even stop me in my tracks momentarily, and the way she embellished some of them, adding in a little extra flair kind of reminds me…of me. A younger, hungrier version. She has confidence in the crease, but it falters when pressured. And if this is what happens when it’s just a drill, how’s she going to look in a game when there’s real pressure?

Not my problem.

But then a small voice in the back of my mind reminds me that yes, that actually is supposed to be my problem now.

Whatever.