Page 31 of You, Again

Fuck retirement.See, in the past, I’d thrown everything I had into my game. I’d worked out vigorously, trained hard, and played with more intensity than necessary or safe sometimes. I’d gotten lost in the rhythm of my blades slicing across the ice, skating like a madman. I couldn’t do that now and losing myself in meaningless sex, nowhere relationships, and booze wasn’t an option in a town where there was a strong chance of being on Main Street and running into both my high school track coach and the priest who’d married my parents.

There was nowhere to hide from this constant yearning. Nolan was everywhere.

I jogged by the diner and caught a glimpse of him chatting with someone in the parking lot, drove by his house and spotted his truck in the driveway. His name came up in conversations with Ronnie and random childhood friends I bumped into at the gas station, the pharmacy, the bar.

And of course, I was with him Tuesdays and Thursdays from three till five at the rink. Neither of us acknowledged whatever was buzzing under the surface between us. We made it all about the kids.

I tried anyway, but every little thing set me off—the scent of his cologne, the curl of his lip when he was about to sling across the ice. It was a strange form of torture to be in my safe place and feel so out of my depth.

I was supposed to be about cleaning out my mental closet this summer, purging the demons I’d been chasing since I was a six-year-old coping with catastrophic loss and grief. Tears never resulted in the reaction I hoped for. I hadn’t wanted sympathy, I hadn’t liked being coddled, and I’d hated being told everything would be okay eventually.

I’d learned early on that the only place everything was okay was on the ice.

Knees bent, weight forward, blade over blade…faster, faster, faster.

I’d loved the feel of the cold wind as I sprinted around the rink. I’d loved that other kids had noticed and wanted to be like me. And I’d especially loved overhearing whispers of my so-called potential. Like the day I heard Mr. Moore tell my father I had real talent. He’d been on a crusade to pump up numbers on his Pee Wee team, so in retrospect, he’d probably told every parent their kid had potential. I was the kid who’d needed to hear it the most.

That random comment became my quest. I’d set my sights on the NHL, and I’d worked my ass off to make my dream into a reality.

None of these kids had that fire. They didn’t need or burn for hockey. It was as Nolan said…they just liked it.

That was a different gear for me. Like moving from a racetrack in a tricked-out Ferrari to driving a station wagon in the slow lane. I had no choice but to follow Nolan’s lead at the first couple of practices. He was the epitome of patience, and his drills were always within their capabilities.

And I was sort of this impotent celebrity—too careful with the kids, too careful with Nolan. It was only a matter of time before I snapped and told them all they looked like drunk penguins on ice.

Today was that day.

“Kinney, my man. What’s with you hoggin’ the damn puck? You have teammates for a reason. Pass, pass, pass.” I skated to his side, stole the puck, and passed it back to him. “Who’s open?”

“Lyle.”

I inclined my head in acknowledgment when he passed the puck to Lyle, who was immediately surrounded.

“Who’s in danger?”

“Lyle.”

“Possibly.” I pointed at Max, hovering next to the goal. “Max is a little too open. In a real game, he’d be your best option…depending on your defense. I see zero defense out there, so I think you’re safe today.”

“Hey,” Jason griped. “I’m on defense.”

“You’re…” I cupped my ear. “Sorry…you’re on what fence?”

“Ha. Ha.”

I skated to his side and patted his back in a “just kidding” gesture as Nolan blew his whistle.

“Great scrimmage today, guys. We’ve got a real one coming up on Saturday. Do you think they’re ready for this, Coach Vin?”

Fuck, no.

But there were only two acceptable responses… “Yes, or yes, but we gotta pay attention to the puck” or some other constructive BS line. I wasn’t a good liar.

I sighed. “Can I be honest?”

The boys nodded as Nolan skated to my side and whispered, “Not too brutally honest, please.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to the sweaty teens. “Our passing is weak and we’re not executing on scoring opportunities. And defense? Oh, Lordy, help us.”