Page 23 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

ERIC

“Let's go, look alive out there!” Toby yells at the start of the second period. The score is tied one-one, mostly because of a couple of missed opportunities on our part.

This is my first time at a non-professional hockey game since I left college to turn pro.

But watching these kids skate like it’s game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals, even though most of them have no chance of a hockey career past high school graduation, is as exciting as being on the ice myself.

The energy and enthusiasm are infectious, and Toby is an excellent coach.

In my capacity as a “volun-told” assistant, I wasn’t planning on being behind the boards with the team. I would have been happy to watch from the stands. But one of the official assistant coaches is out of town celebrating his twentieth anniversary, so I’ve been pulled up to varsity—same as Rhett.

My nephew is quiet on the bench while the boys around him shout encouragement to their teammates on the ice in the same colorful language that rolls off my tongue like second nature.

I’m trying to keep it together and not drop any F-bombs, as Toby told me the high school principal frowns on them, and I’m apparently a role model .

A turnover at the blue line sends the puck straight into our defensive zone. Our goalie catches it with the edge of his pad, and the bench lets out a collective groan of relief.

Toby calls a timeout, and as the guys come off the ice, he glances at me.

“You take Kircher,” he says, and I nod.

This is one of the tactics our college coach employed, pairing up someone on the coaching staff to talk one-on-one with the star players to keep their heads in the game.

“Hudson, over here,” I command, gesturing to the right wing forward.

“Yeah, Coach,” he says, coming to stand directly in front of me.

“Don’t let them control the boards. Push back. Use your body. You're bigger than half those guys out there. You own that puck.”

“Yes, Coach.”

I hand him a water bottle, and he takes a drink.

“Nice wings, by the way.” I gesture to his hair, damp with sweat on either side of his helmet. “You better do right by that hair while you’re in your prime.”

Hudson’s mouth twitches, and I see some of the tension drain from his shoulders, like maybe he’s remembering that hockey is supposed to be fun. “Thanks, Coach,” he says, flashing a broad grin.

The buzzer sounds, and the guys take the ice again.

Hudson frees up the puck from his opponent and wheels down the ice, those wings I just referenced flapping on either side of his helmet.

He weaves by one of the defenders and cuts toward the goal, avoiding another opponent skating his way before sending the puck flying into the air.

It bounces off the top of the goalpost, landing behind the goalie for a score.

The guys on the bench, including Rhett, go wild. The fans and family members who've come out to support the team clap and cheer .

I glance into the stands, and my gaze catches on Taylor.

She's sitting next to one of the moms and bouncing a toddler on her lap. My heart lurches in my chest. For a guy who’s never imagined himself with kids, the sight of her with that baby does something to me, just like it did in the library last weekend.

Tinkerbell is steady and soft and everything I didn’t realize I wanted.

The guys line up again, and one of the right wings from the other team is clearly talking trash to our guys—Hudson in particular.

It looks like he's about to skate forward before Kelleher, the starting left wing, grabs his pads.

The ref blows the whistle, indicating a false start for us, and the other team gets the puck.

“Getting chippy out there,” Larry Rasso, the team’s longtime assistant coach, mutters. “Broomfield has been our rival for years, but we keep it friendly this early in the season. Things don't usually get heated until playoffs.”

“They’ll work it out,” I say and look up at Taylor again. She smiles as her eyes meet mine, and damn if it doesn’t make me want to bolt up there and take the seat next to her.

I turn my attention back to the game just in time to see the kid who’d been smack-talking Hudson come up from behind and plow into him, sending our captain into the boards at an awkward angle.

“Cheap shot! Did you see that, ref?” Toby calls, and we all wait for Hudson to get up. Only he doesn’t.

Toby walks out onto the ice as Larry and I settle the bench while the other players skate over to us.

“Give him space,” the ref calls, and the remaining players from both teams return to their benches. I move closer to the ice, then onto it when Toby gestures me forward.

“Can you take Kircher to the locker room? He needs his knee looked at.”

Shit.

“I can skate, Coach,” Hudson insists, but I can see he’s in pain.

“It’s early in the season.” Toby’s tone is serious. “We’ve got a long road ahead of us. Let’s get that knee iced for now. You’ll be back before you know it.”

But as soon as the trainer starts to examine Hudson’s knee, it's clear he won’t be back on the ice anytime soon.

“You need an MRI to confirm it, but I'm going with an ACL tear, probably level three.”

“Can I get through it with PT?”

“PT isn't going to help a torn ligament,” the trainer tells him. “If it's as bad as I think, surgery is the best option long term.”

“I just need some ice and ibuprofen,” Hudson says through gritted teeth.

“Are your parents here to give you a ride home?” the trainer asks.

“No. Mom's working, and Dad...” He takes a deep breath. “He's not here.”

There's more to this kid's family dynamics than he's letting on. Hudson can try to hide it, but dysfunction recognizes dysfunction. He looks like he's fighting back tears, so I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Take your pads off. I'll give you a lift home. The sooner you elevate your knee and get ice on it, the better.” The trainer opens his mouth to say something, but I give him a talk-and-I’ll-cut-you look. “You won’t know anything for certain until you see an ortho and have that MRI.”

“Yep.” The man nods, although we both know what comes next for Hudson. “Maybe it's not as bad as I think.”

Hudson climbs off the table, wincing as he puts weight on his right leg.

“I'm going to let Coach know what's going on,” I tell him. “I'll meet you out front.”

“Tell the guys I'm sorry.”

“You don't have one thing to apologize for.” I walk out of the locker room, the trainer following me.

“Keep telling him that. ”

I pause at the trainer’s words and turn to him, trying not to let my frustration show.

“Why?” I have a feeling I know the answer, and I already don’t like it.

The guy shrugs. “His dad isn’t going to be happy about any of this.”

“What's the story there?”

“Kent Kircher isn't a bad guy,” he tells me, “but he likes the brown liquor a little too much and doesn't hold it well.”

“Does he take out his temper on his wife or kid?” I ask without emotion.

“Not that anyone can confirm, but there's a lot riding on Hudson’s shoulders for that family.”

I’ve seen it before. Some parents want the glory, and some are banking on the money the future is going to offer.

I curse under my breath. “There's a lot of runway between high school and setting your family up for retirement. It’s a fuck-ton of pressure on a kid.”

“No arguments here. But Hudson’s got the brains as well as the talent. He's going to be okay no matter what.”

“Yeah,” I agree, even though I'm not quite as convinced. It’s a lot of runway.

The score hasn't changed with fifteen minutes left in the period, and I’m peppered with questions from the bench.

“How's Hudson doing?”

“Is he okay?”

“That was a dirty hit.”

“Can’t believe the asshole only spent two minutes in the sin bin.”

I assure the players that Hudson’s going to be fine. “I'm driving him home,” I tell Toby.

He nods. “I’ll check in on him later tonight. What's Mick think? ”

I'm well aware that every kid on that bench has their eyes glued on me.

“He thinks he needs to ice it and rest,” I say.

Toby can read my tone. His jaw tightens, but he only nods.

“Okay, guys, eyes on the ice.”

“Anderson!” Toby calls as I start to walk away.

I turn back only to realize he's looking at Rhett.

“You're going in. I want to see what you can do under pressure.”

“Yes, Coach,” my nephew says, as the guys on either side of him slap his back.

I can't believe Rhett's going in for his first varsity game and I'm not going to be here to see it. But I need to take care of Hudson. Right now, I’m more coach than uncle.

“You’ve got this, Rhett.” I give him two thumps on his helmet.

He looks up at me for a second, and I see something in his gaze I haven’t since all of this started–trust. Then he moves toward the ice. “Yes, Coach,” he repeats and I head for the locker room.

Hudson is waiting in the hallway with his hockey bag on the ground next to him.

He's put on a beanie to cover his helmet hair, and he's wearing loose-fitting sweats and a Skylark High hoodie.

His face is still etched in pain, and his eyes are red, like maybe he couldn't hold back the tears once he was by himself.

“It's just a bump in the road,” I tell him as I lean down and grab his duffel bag.

“I can get that, Coach,” he says.

“I've got it, and I want to know you hear me. This is not the end for you.”

He nods but mutters, “I'm going to miss the whole season.”

“You'll have other seasons, better seasons. College and Juniors aren't going anywhere. You need to take care of yourself and give your body time to heal. Do you want me to talk to your folks?”

His gaze sharpens. “No. They'll be fine.”

I don't believe that, but it's not my place to argue. “ I’ll give your keys to Coach Toby, and a couple of the guys can drive your car home after the game.”

“I can help,” a soft voice offers.

“Ms. Maxwell,” Hudson says, mustering a ghost of a smile as Taylor approaches from the end of the hall.

“Hey, Hudson.” She returns his smile, and my stomach does a weird loop-di-loop thing. “That was a dirty shot. You're going to come back better than ever.”

He nods. “Yes, ma'am.”

“I can follow you guys back to the house in your car.”

The kid doesn't question her, just nods again. I'm not sure if it's the pain or the shock of the injury, but his usual optimism and mile-a-minute commentary are shuttered for now.

On the way to the parking lot, I walk alongside Taylor, Hudson hobbling next to her, his jaw clenched. The ache in his eyes is raw—the kind that comes when you know something’s been taken from you, but you haven’t fully processed it.

Taylor glances over at him, her eyes soft with concern. “You did great out there,” she says gently. “Your goal was beautiful.”

Hudson just nods, gaze fixed on the ground, but I catch the way his shoulders straighten a bit. We reach my truck, and I help him into the passenger seat. He winces but doesn’t complain. I shut the door softly, my eyes catching Taylor’s.

“You’ll follow us?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” she promises. There’s something about knowing she’s back there that settles me, though I can’t explain why. I guess it’s nice to have someone to trust in a moment like this, and how much I like it being Tink scares the hell out of me.