We chat for a few minutes about my duties, and then he delivers a few warnings about not dropping F-bombs around the kids and not manhandling them in any way.
“Got it—keep it PG and don’t touch ’em. Anything else?” I ask.
“Naah. You’ll figure out the rest as you go along.”
All in all, Ellis seems like a decent man, and when the kids thunder out of the locker room and greet him like he’s Jesus Christ brought back to life, my opinion of him climbs higher. He told me he’s the school gym teacher but that even if he lost his job, he’d never walk away from this team. Or the eighth grade girls’ volleyball team, which he apparently also coaches.
I drop onto the bench and quickly kick off my Timberlands, replacing them with the Bauers I stowed in my duffel. Then I hop the ledge and skate toward Ellis and the kids. Half of them are wearing red practice jerseys, the other half are in black. Ellis introduces me to the team, who oooh and aaah when he informs them of my multiple Frozen Four wins. By the time we set up the first skating drill, every kid on the ice is begging for one-on-one attention from me.
I’m not gonna lie—I have a blast from the word go. The boys’ passion for the game reminds me of when I was a kid, how excited I was to put on a pair of skates and tear down the ice. Their enthusiasm is downright contagious.
When Ellis blows his whistle to signal it’s time for the scrimmage, I find I’m genuinely disappointed that the drills are over. I’d been giving tips to a seventh-grader named Robbie during the last shooting drill, and the wrist shot he’d floated past the goalie had been a beauty. I want to see him do it again, but now it’s time for the boys to take the skills they just learned and apply them to the scrimmage.
Ellis and I serve as both refs and coaches, calling out penalties and offering advice when needed. The thirty-minute game ends way too fast for my liking. I could stay out there forever, but Ellis signals the end of the scrimmage and gestures for everyone to skate forward.
There’s a strange clench in my chest as he addresses each boy, one at a time, to tell them one thing they did right at practice today. Face after face lights up at his compliments, and by the time Ellis is done I think I might be in love with him.
Damn, he’s a great coach.
After that, we follow the kids to the locker room and help them put away their equipment in the proper cubbies. They’re a loud, boisterous group, laughing and joking and chirping each other as they change into their street clothes. The hallway outside the door is littered with vending machines and parents waiting for their sons. Robbie, however, stays behind. He’s changed out of his practice uniform, but I’m troubled to see him lacing up his skates again and tucking the bottoms of his jeans into them.
“Whatcha doing, kid?”
He looks surprised to find me standing there. “Oh.” He flushes. “I get an extra thirty minutes to skate.” A defensive note creeps in. “Coach knows.”
Since I know better than to take a thirteen-year-old’s word at face value, I duck out to track down Ellis, who’s in the equipment room securing sticks on the long rack against the wall.
“What’s this about Robbie staying behind to skate?”
Ellis glances toward the doorway. “Oh. Yes, it’s fine. I’m heading out there in a sec to supervise him. Tell him not to step on the ice until I get there.”
I can’t hide my frown. “Why does he get extra ice time?”
“His mother doesn’t get off work until four-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and the family lives in Munsen, so the school bus isn’t an option.” Ellis makes an annoyed sound. “Some bullshit about town boundaries and the Hastings buses being unable to ‘service’ other townships. Robbie’s mother managed to get him enrolled here because he’s an asset to our hockey program, but apparently the school district doesn’t think it’s important to provide safe transportation home to the kids who live out of the district.”
“So Robbie hangs around the arena until his mom shows up?”
Ellis nods. “I arranged it with Julia at the start of the season. I stick around after practice, watch him and his sister until she gets here.”
Did I mention how much I love this man?
“I’ll stick around too,” I offer. “I was teaching Robbie the art of wrist shots before the drill ended. Wouldn’t mind finishing up the lesson.”
His expression is a combination of surprise and respect. “I bet he’d love that. Thanks, kid.”
When I reenter the rink, Robbie is skating lazy circles along the boards. His dirty-blond hair ruffles behind him, and I decide he might need a lesson about hair, too—as in, trim the shit out of it before it reaches mullet status, or wave goodbye to any chance of getting laid.
I’m walking down the concrete aisle when a high-pitched voice startles me to a stop.
“Who are you?”
I turn to see a tiny elfin creature sitting at the halfway point in the bleachers. Well, it’s a girl, but holy hell, she might as well be a character from a Pixar movie. Huge blue eyes take up her entire face, her hair is so fair it’s nearly white, and her mouth is a tiny pink rosebud.
“Who are you?” I call back, one eyebrow arched.
“I asked you first.”
Fighting a smile, I climb the steps until I reach her row. A glance at the rink reveals that Robbie is having fun skating aimlessly. Ellis is at the boards keeping an eye on him, so I plop down in the seat next to the cartoon elf and say, “I’m Dean. The new assistant coach of the Hurricanes.”
Those big eyes study my face, as if she’s trying to decide if I’m lying. “I’m Dakota,” she finally says. She points a skinny finger at the ice. “That’s my brother.”
“Ah. You’re Robbie’s little sister.”
“Who says I’m the little one?” she challenges. “Maybe I’m his big sister.”
“Kid, I’d be surprised if you’re not still in diapers.”
“I do not wear diapers!” Her cheeks redden. “I’m ten,” she says haughtily.
I gasp. “Holy sh—sugar. You’re practically an old lady then.”
That makes her giggle. “I am not. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
Her jaw falls open. “That’s old.”
“Got it—keep it PG and don’t touch ’em. Anything else?” I ask.
“Naah. You’ll figure out the rest as you go along.”
All in all, Ellis seems like a decent man, and when the kids thunder out of the locker room and greet him like he’s Jesus Christ brought back to life, my opinion of him climbs higher. He told me he’s the school gym teacher but that even if he lost his job, he’d never walk away from this team. Or the eighth grade girls’ volleyball team, which he apparently also coaches.
I drop onto the bench and quickly kick off my Timberlands, replacing them with the Bauers I stowed in my duffel. Then I hop the ledge and skate toward Ellis and the kids. Half of them are wearing red practice jerseys, the other half are in black. Ellis introduces me to the team, who oooh and aaah when he informs them of my multiple Frozen Four wins. By the time we set up the first skating drill, every kid on the ice is begging for one-on-one attention from me.
I’m not gonna lie—I have a blast from the word go. The boys’ passion for the game reminds me of when I was a kid, how excited I was to put on a pair of skates and tear down the ice. Their enthusiasm is downright contagious.
When Ellis blows his whistle to signal it’s time for the scrimmage, I find I’m genuinely disappointed that the drills are over. I’d been giving tips to a seventh-grader named Robbie during the last shooting drill, and the wrist shot he’d floated past the goalie had been a beauty. I want to see him do it again, but now it’s time for the boys to take the skills they just learned and apply them to the scrimmage.
Ellis and I serve as both refs and coaches, calling out penalties and offering advice when needed. The thirty-minute game ends way too fast for my liking. I could stay out there forever, but Ellis signals the end of the scrimmage and gestures for everyone to skate forward.
There’s a strange clench in my chest as he addresses each boy, one at a time, to tell them one thing they did right at practice today. Face after face lights up at his compliments, and by the time Ellis is done I think I might be in love with him.
Damn, he’s a great coach.
After that, we follow the kids to the locker room and help them put away their equipment in the proper cubbies. They’re a loud, boisterous group, laughing and joking and chirping each other as they change into their street clothes. The hallway outside the door is littered with vending machines and parents waiting for their sons. Robbie, however, stays behind. He’s changed out of his practice uniform, but I’m troubled to see him lacing up his skates again and tucking the bottoms of his jeans into them.
“Whatcha doing, kid?”
He looks surprised to find me standing there. “Oh.” He flushes. “I get an extra thirty minutes to skate.” A defensive note creeps in. “Coach knows.”
Since I know better than to take a thirteen-year-old’s word at face value, I duck out to track down Ellis, who’s in the equipment room securing sticks on the long rack against the wall.
“What’s this about Robbie staying behind to skate?”
Ellis glances toward the doorway. “Oh. Yes, it’s fine. I’m heading out there in a sec to supervise him. Tell him not to step on the ice until I get there.”
I can’t hide my frown. “Why does he get extra ice time?”
“His mother doesn’t get off work until four-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and the family lives in Munsen, so the school bus isn’t an option.” Ellis makes an annoyed sound. “Some bullshit about town boundaries and the Hastings buses being unable to ‘service’ other townships. Robbie’s mother managed to get him enrolled here because he’s an asset to our hockey program, but apparently the school district doesn’t think it’s important to provide safe transportation home to the kids who live out of the district.”
“So Robbie hangs around the arena until his mom shows up?”
Ellis nods. “I arranged it with Julia at the start of the season. I stick around after practice, watch him and his sister until she gets here.”
Did I mention how much I love this man?
“I’ll stick around too,” I offer. “I was teaching Robbie the art of wrist shots before the drill ended. Wouldn’t mind finishing up the lesson.”
His expression is a combination of surprise and respect. “I bet he’d love that. Thanks, kid.”
When I reenter the rink, Robbie is skating lazy circles along the boards. His dirty-blond hair ruffles behind him, and I decide he might need a lesson about hair, too—as in, trim the shit out of it before it reaches mullet status, or wave goodbye to any chance of getting laid.
I’m walking down the concrete aisle when a high-pitched voice startles me to a stop.
“Who are you?”
I turn to see a tiny elfin creature sitting at the halfway point in the bleachers. Well, it’s a girl, but holy hell, she might as well be a character from a Pixar movie. Huge blue eyes take up her entire face, her hair is so fair it’s nearly white, and her mouth is a tiny pink rosebud.
“Who are you?” I call back, one eyebrow arched.
“I asked you first.”
Fighting a smile, I climb the steps until I reach her row. A glance at the rink reveals that Robbie is having fun skating aimlessly. Ellis is at the boards keeping an eye on him, so I plop down in the seat next to the cartoon elf and say, “I’m Dean. The new assistant coach of the Hurricanes.”
Those big eyes study my face, as if she’s trying to decide if I’m lying. “I’m Dakota,” she finally says. She points a skinny finger at the ice. “That’s my brother.”
“Ah. You’re Robbie’s little sister.”
“Who says I’m the little one?” she challenges. “Maybe I’m his big sister.”
“Kid, I’d be surprised if you’re not still in diapers.”
“I do not wear diapers!” Her cheeks redden. “I’m ten,” she says haughtily.
I gasp. “Holy sh—sugar. You’re practically an old lady then.”
That makes her giggle. “I am not. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
Her jaw falls open. “That’s old.”
