Page 64 of You, Again
But the crowd here hadn’t gotten the memo. Everyone in the rink was on their feet, cheering and chanting, “Eagles, Eagles, Eagles.” I heard a few “Kimbos” in the mix, and wow, it was all so…surreal.
I scanned the completely filled arena, waved at JC, my mom, Ronnie, and Mary-Kate, and did a double take when I spotted a vaguely familiar-looking man I was pretty damn sure played hockey with Vinnie.
“Who’s the big guy with the Seahawk ball cap behind us?” I asked, studying the play Vinnie had just drawn on his pad.
He twisted, then waved, chuckling softly as he turned forward. “That’s Trunk. I wonder what the hell he’s doing here.”
“Trunk?”
“Riley Thoreau. He’s Seattle’s new co-captain,” he replied, still grinning. “Gonna have to buy him a beer after we win.”
“Let’s do the win thing first.”
Both teams were off to a shaky start in the first period. Their passes were too long or too wide, and no one seemed to remember how to skate worth a damn. It was painful.
A brief pep talk and a line change worked wonders in the second period. The boys woke up, shook off the cobwebs, and charged the ice. Two minutes in, Kinney scored on a breakaway, and I swear the roof on Penguin Pond nearly erupted. Unfortunately, our defense broke down with less than a minute to go, and the Penguins were on the board.
“Tie game, third period.” Vinnie let out a low whistle as he pointedly made eye contact with each kid. “Plenty of time, plenty of time. But it’s also when you go deeper and play smarter. What are you noticing out there?”
“Number five only passes forward. I think he has a bruised rib or something,” Max offered.
“Number ten is their whole defense. That guy is the one to watch out for,” Kinney chirped up, rubbing his shoulder. “We need to do something about him.”
“That it. That’s what I’m talking about. What are you gonna do?” Vinnie asked.
“You’re going to isolate him,” I jumped in, checking the clock. We didn’t have time for theories. “Two on one, three on one if necessary. Keep him in sight, but don’t let him get in your head. Remember, this is your game to win, and you’ll do it if you remember the basics. Pass the puck.”
Vinnie beamed at me. “That’s it, Coach. That’s fuckin’ it.”
“Language.”
The boys burst into laughter, then hopped over the boards, shoving their mouthpieces in as they took their places on the ice.
Kinney won the face-off and passed to Jason Umboldt, who sailed halfway down the ice before getting pummeled by number ten in what looked like a clean defensive maneuver. We shot to our feet and let out a collective sigh of relief as Jason scrambled to his feet. Unfortunately, Max lost his mind, went after number ten, and earned himself time in the sin bin. Great.
Jenkins miraculously held off nine shots on goal, and when Max was done serving time, he came out with a vengeance, skating circles around number ten. Their defense scrambled to regroup as they passed the puck, looking for a scoring opportunity we’d assured them would present itself.
Andboom…with thirty seconds on the clock, Big Red zipped a shot from the far right at a wicked angle for the winning goal.
The final buzzer sounded a moment later and the crowd went wild.
The team stormed the ice with an old hit song from the nineties blaring overhead. I threw my hands in the air and turned to Vin, who whooped triumphantly as he pulled me into a hug, and planted a kiss on my cheek. It was a chaste and funny gesture—not the kind that would make anyone think twice.
It still made my heart skitter ’cause this was Vinnie and we’d done this together…in front of our hometown. We’d conquered old demons, set aside old hurts, and fostered a new generation of players. It was a summertime lark of a championship in a town no one could find on a map, but damn, it felt fucking magical.
Handshakes, hugs, back slaps, and general well-wishes passed in a happy blur. My mom had tears in her eyes, Mary-Kate attached herself to her dad’s hip, grinning as he presented the modest trophy to Vinnie and me, thanking us for putting our little patch of Vermont on the map.
And then there were photos—team photos, coach photos, silly photos, serious photos. Everyone wanted a pic with Vinnie, and he insisted I had to be in them too, so I stayed at his side, soaking in the jubilation.
We were joined by local business owners and the who’s who of the four-town Forest League. Shop owners who’d donated to the league, council members, parents, and his buddy, NHL star, Riley “Trunk” Thoreau, a six-foot-three hunk of muscle with steel-gray eyes, dark-brown hair, and a sunny smile.
Vinnie greeted him with a bro hug, affectionately punching his biceps. “What are you doing here?”
Riley grinned. “Are you kidding? I couldn’t miss it. I was visiting my folks in Toronto, so it wasn’t too hard to find you. Why didn’t you tell me you were coaching kids this summer? I would have helped.”
“I didn’t know I was,” Vinnie replied. “Hey, Trunk, I want you to meet Nolan. We grew up together. He owns the diner in Elmwood that serves fries that are twenty times better than Blue Line Burgers.”
“They must be good.” Trunk widened his eyes as he shook my hand. “My flight leaves tonight. Maybe I’ll stop in beforehand.”