Page 32 of You, Again
“What are we doing wrong?” someone asked.
Everything.
I glanced over at Nolan, who was serving me some serious side-eye, and shrugged. “We’ve gotta crank up the intensity. Pretend those motherfuckers just stole the last brownie you’d been craving all damn day. They haven’t eaten it yet…they’re just taunting you. There’s still time to get it from those assholes if you go full board. And if you have to pin them to the boards to shake it loose, you do it. Makes sense, right?”
Ten heads nodded in unison.
“It’s a little more nuanced than a brownie chase,” Nolan piped in.
“Sure, it is. There’s a lot to think about…your stick and body position.” I shifted my hip and skated toward the net. “I’m angling as I move. I want to cut him off and make it so he has to dump the puck to his worst option.”
Jason raised his hand. “How can you tell who the worst option is?”
“Good question.” Actually, it was a terrible question. They should have known that shit by now. It was instinct. Was it even possible to teach instinct? I knit my brow as I visualized how to explain what I meant. “You gotta read the ice.”
Ten blank stares. Great.
“Why don’t we show them?” Nolan suggested, popping the puck away from me.
“Good idea.” I skated backward. “You need someone to pass to.”
Nolan scanned the group and pointed at Max. “Let’s go.”
He flicked the puck to Max, who bobbled the pass and had to scramble after it. I made a show of leaning on my stick, peeking at my watch while whistling. The kids cracked up on cue. As soon as Nolan had the puck again, I burst into action, flying across center ice, angling my hips and my stick to cut off any possible shot Nolan might have had on goal.
Okay, so…I might have come at him with a bit more horsepower than necessary. I was that damn Ferrari, pedal to the metal, speeding after the guy I’d been obsessing over for far too long. This was poetry, therapy, and the best kind of release, I mused, bumping his shoulder and sending him flying into the boards.
Not hard enough to do any damage, but enough to piss Nolan off. He growled at me as he chased after the puck and sent it back to Max. I intercepted Max’s shot on goal easily and skated over to the posse of cheering teens.
“That, my friendly firefighter hockey brigade, is defense.”
Was that too much? Maybe, but I was done playing it safe.
* * *
Nolan stomped aheadof me into the equipment room. He threw a bag of pucks into a cabinet, then sat on a bench, pointedly ignoring me as he unlaced his skates.
Okay, maybe he hadn’t stomped, but he’d definitely walked aggressively. Yep, he was pissed. Only one way to deal with that. I sat next to him, close enough that our shoulders brushed, and took off my skates and my sweaty socks, tossing one over his shoe.
He kicked my sock away, sighing grumpily as he twisted to face me. “Cool it.”
“Sorry.” I stuffed the errant sock in the bag I’d stored under the bench and wiggled my toes, not budging an inch.
“Would you please move the fuck over?”
I scooted closer, stifling a grin when he swatted my knee and shoved his feet into his sneakers. He stood abruptly, jangling his keys. I took the hint this time and waited for him to lock up before following him to the office next to Ronnie’s. It was a smaller version with the same old desk, worn-out chairs, and crappy view of the parking lot behind vertical blinds with missing slats.
“This place needs a makeover. Stat.”
“Right.”
“It smells like mildew and sweaty jocks,” I commented, opening and closing the blinds obnoxiously.
Nolan set his workout bag on his chair and opened a drawer. He stuffed his wallet into his pocket as he rounded his desk. “Hmph.”
I set my hands on my hips. “Hey, I didn’t mean to hurt you out there. Sorry about that.”
“You didn’t hurt me, asshole.” His jaw worked overtime as he stepped into my space. “But it was a cheap shot in front of a bunch of impressionable teens who think you’re God’s gift to mankind. That’s what it was—totally unprofessional and exactly what we’renotteaching here.”