Page 33

Nate

Coach Mackenzie is late for practice, which has never happened before.

We’re hovering uncertainly on the ice, nobody quite sure what to do without him here to guide us.

Vas is glancing up at the clock so often, it looks like he has a tic.

I skate closer to Micky, who looks so nervous he’s going to make himself sick.

“Hey, Micky Mouse.”

“Do you think Coach got in a car accident or something?” he asks, sounding scared. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“No, fuck. Why do you automatically assume something bad happened? Maybe he’s just running late. Maybe he was interviewing potential assistant coaches and the time ran over.”

Our AC was recently hired for a head coaching position out in Texas, and had left last week. Coach Mackenzie has had Nigel St. James filling in temporarily, but we all know he’s actively looking for a more permanent member of staff .

“Maybe,” he agrees, although he doesn’t look convinced. I shake my head, opening my mouth to try and talk him down when Vas catches our attention.

“Coach Lawson!”

“It’s just Lawson, Vas. We talked about this,” a low, amused voice responds.

I turn around, and watch Anthony Lawson and Coach Mackenzie walk around the outside of the practice arena.

Lawson is a couple steps ahead of Coach, who’s staring at his back and not out at us.

I relax at the sight of him. Just because I was trying to make Micky feel better doesn’t mean I wasn’t actually worried.

Coach Mackenzie is as reliable as the sunrise—he’s never once been late before.

“Oh, look,” Micky says on a soft exhale, bumping against my shoulder as he skates closer. I follow his line of sight and immediately smile. Lawson is carrying a puppy.

That does it for me, and I skate over to the boards as quickly as I can.

I fucking love puppies. So do my teammates, apparently, as every member of the team makes some variation of a cooing noise and moves in for a closer look.

Lawson hands the little red bundle off to Coach Mackenzie, grinning as he does.

He reaches over the wall to put a hand on the back of Max’s neck and give him a little shake.

Max grins at him, muttering something I’m too far away to hear.

“I apologize for being late,” Coach says seriously. The puppy snuffles against his neck and attempts to lick his chin. “It won’t happen again.”

“Is that your dog?” Chris Timmons asks, craning his neck to see around Vas. Nobody cares about the time anymore. We care about the puppy.

“Yes,” Coach replies, looking down at the dog and sounding faintly surprised. “He’s new to the family. I thought you might like to meet him.”

There is a general murmur of consent. If there is one thing we can all agree on, it’s a desire to meet the puppy. Coach smiles faintly, squinting around at us all clustered around him. His gaze lands on Micky and pauses. Silently, he holds the puppy out to him.

“I don’t want to drop him,” Micky says immediately, shaking his head. “I might hurt him.”

“You won’t,” Coach replies. The puppy wiggles in his outstretched hand, giving a sharp little bark as Micky takes him carefully.

He clutches the puppy to his chest protectively, chin tucked as he stares down at the little face.

I skate a little closer to look, wanting to know what kind of dog it is.

Vas moves nearer as well, facial expression soft as he watches.

He leans down to put his face on the same level as the dog, and reaches a finger out to stroke gently between the puppy’s eyes.

“Hello, little one. I am Henri,” he introduces himself. The puppy chews happily on one of Micky’s fingers, unconcerned.

“Is that an Irish setter, Coach?” I ask. I really want to hold that fucking dog, but definitely won’t be the one to take him away from Micky. Lawson smiles at me.

“It is! Good eye.”

“Badass. They’re cool dogs. Crazy smart.” Lawson nods, eyes flicking toward Coach, who’s watching Micky and Vas with an inscrutable expression on his face. He clears his throat and Vas straightens immediately, snapping to attention.

“He’ll be staying with friends of ours until he’s big enough to go to obedience school,” Coach tells us carefully. Lawson moves a little closer to him, leaning against the boards casually and watching.

“You must learn your manners?” Vas asks the puppy.

“Is he a hunting dog?” Juno, one of our senior forwards, asks. Coach Mackenzie inhales slowly, bringing his shoulders back and looking as though he’s preparing to give us a speech. The puppy yips, the sound echoing over the ice, and a few people laugh.

“No. He’s just a family dog. But he’ll be trained as a support animal. A…a Seeing Eye dog.”

Max breathes in so sharply, I can hear it even though he’s several people away from me. Confused, I look from the puppy to Coach Mackenzie. We’re silent as everyone tries to figure out what he’s attempting to tell us.

“For your friend?” Timmons asks. “The one you said would be taking care of him?”

“No, for me,” Coach says, an almost painful undercurrent to his voice.

Uncomfortable, I fidget with my glove. I stay silent, and so does everyone else.

Uneasiness radiates from the group, but Coach soldiers on.

“I don’t have great vision, so he can’t stay with us full-time until he’s trained to not walk under my feet. ”

Vas’ face is scrunched up as though he’s in pain listening to this. Micky still has the puppy cupped in his big palms, held up to his face to receive cheek kisses. The puppy is the only living thing in this room who’s not uncomfortable right now.

Everyone waits for Coach to continue, but he looks like the admission took something out of him.

I’ve never once seen Coach Mackenzie looking less than confident and resilient.

He’s the one who holds us up. It feels strange to be confronted with the fact that he’s just as human as we are. I clear my throat.

“What’s his name?” I ask, aiming for a way to get the heat off of Coach Mackenzie for a second.

Behind his back, Anthony Lawson smiles at me and just like that the tension is gone. Coach squints in my direction, before looking back at the puppy. Micky holds him out as though thinking he wants him back, but Coach waves him away.

“We don’t have a name yet,” he tells me.

Immediately, everyone starts talking at once as opinions are given on the best name for the dog. Max skirts the edge of the group, and Vas moves back to make room for him. Again, Micky holds his arms out.

“Do you want to hold him?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Max agrees, dropping his gloves carelessly on the ice and smiling as the puppy is placed into his hands. He wiggles and tips his head backward, trying to lick Max’s face.

“This is very adorable,” Vas says, watching the puppy. I laugh and reach a hand out to stroke silky ears.

“You should call him Liam,” I suggest. Max perks up.

“Yeah! Like Liam Walsh, right?” He lifts the puppy up in front of his face, looking him in the eye. “Are you a Liam?”

“He doesn’t root for Boston!” someone protests, and another round of laughter ripples through the group.

“Or perhaps he is a Draisaitl?” Vas asks, throwing the name of a German NHL player into the mix. The puppy wiggles in Max’s grip, and I watch him longingly. I really, really want to hold him. Max, perhaps seeing the naked desire on my face, chuckles and moves closer .

“Your turn,” he says, before placing the warm little body in my arms.

I’m an animal lover, but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to resist the pretty brown eyes and deep red fur. He’s impossibly soft. Like all puppies, he’s got layers of skin rolls and his feet appear to be two sizes too big for his body. I want to squeeze the shit out of him.

“You wouldn’t mind being a Boston puppy, would you, buddy?” I whisper, as he chews on the neckline of my practice jersey.

“Can he run around on the ice?” Timmons wonders aloud.

“But what about his tiny feet?” Vas asks, concerned. “It is too cold and slippery, I am thinking. He is only a baby.”

“It would probably be fine,” Lawson says, chuckling at the expression on Vas’ face. “But if you guys just want to carry him around, that’s fine too.”

“We do need to practice today,” Coach Mackenzie puts in, to immediate protest.

“I haven’t gotten to hold him yet!”

“Me either!”

“Come on , Coach!”

“Everyone can take a turn,” Coach says patiently, which has Anthony Lawson biting back another smile.

Bending my head, I bury my nose against the crown of the puppy’s head and inhale. Puppy smell is right up there with horse smell, if you ask me.

“Stop sniffing the puppy, Bas, it’s my turn.”

Obligingly, I hand off the little guy. Micky moves closer to me. When I turn to him, his eyes are on Coach and not the dog .

“Did you hear what he said?” he whispers.

“Yeah.” It sounded to me like there’s a lot more to the story, but it didn’t look like Coach was enjoying telling us. “I guess it makes sense,” I muse. “Him not being able to see well. He squints a lot.”

“Yeah. I always thought he was really mad at us.”

“Well, he probably is,” I say fairly, nudging Micky with my elbow. His gaze is now on the puppy, who is down on the ice and attempting to rid Max’s skates of his laces. “We’re pretty annoying.”

“Speak for yourself. I never cause any trouble,” Micky retorts. I snort, tipping my head in acknowledgement. He’s not wrong.

“All right,” Coach Mackenzie says. We look over to see one of our teammates morosely handing the puppy back to him.

Happily, the puppy licks Coach’s neck as he moves back over to Anthony Lawson.

Once he’s safely handed off, Coach turns back around and stares at us in exasperation.

“No need to look so glum, we’ll bring him back. ”

“But he will be bigger,” Vas points out sadly. Lawson chuckles.

“How about we have another team barbecue,” he suggests, and immediately everyone brightens.