Page 31 of Return To You

She used to be on the bleachers. Not anymore.

Fuck.

I school myself into being in the moment.

"Ethan!” A woman about Mom’s age is beaming at me.

“Mrs. Parker! How are you?” Owen’s mom was always on the bleachers, cheering us on.

“I missed you!" she answers with a huge smile, hands on her hips. “Why—do you look handsome. Coach tells me you’re filling in for him this week,” she says as she goes into the glassed office off the entrance. “Come over here!” she calls over her shoulder as she grabs a three-ring binder. “I work here now,” she explains. “Well, I’m not paid, so technically I volunteer, but if you ask me, some people who volunteer think they’re at a buffet or something. Do whatever they please, come whenever they want. Not me.” She straightens and leafs through the binder. “Lessee. Yup. It’s all there.” She hands me the binder. “You bring your skates and helmet?”

“Nah.” They’re with my move from Germany, somewhere in a container. “Figured I’d borrow some. Just like a rookie. You gonna have my size?” If all else fails, I’ll coach from the sidelines, but I’m not gonna lie—being at the Arena just woke up an itch in me. I skated in Germany, but this is different. Here, I feel a buzz of excitement coursing through my veins that I wish would die down. Must be a Pavlovian response, I tell myself to make it go away.

“Well, lessee,” she answers.

We do find skates that fit me, and a helmet. The stick isn’t an issue. And to assuage her concerns, I put on Dad’s jacket and gloves that I’ve been carrying bunched in my fist.

She makes a funny face.

I can’t really move my shoulders, and the sleeves end several inches above my wrists. She insists on rummaging through the lost and found until she finds a jacket and gloves more to my size.

“Thanks, Mrs. Parker.”

She folds back the jackets that didn’t fit me. “Suzy, please. Mrs. Parker makes me feel old.”

I smile at her. “I’ll try.”

She straightens from the lost-and-found chest, her face flustered from leaning down. “You know,” she says, blowing hair off her forehead, “you were one of Owen’s best friends. I bet he’ll be happy to know you’re here.”

Best friend? “We actually bumped into each other the other day. He seems good. We were busy, didn’t have time to catch up.”

She frowns at me. “Huh. He was always a knucklehead, you know. But you… you set a good example for him.” She seems lost in contemplation, and honestly, I don’t know what to tell her. “Anyhoo, you know the place, so I’ll let you get on with it.”

Twenty minutes later, all the kids are here.

“Listen up!” I semi shout to get their attention right at nine o’clock.

Something stirs inside me as they quiet and look at me expectantly. After a quick and—it turns out—unnecessary introduction of who I am, I take attendance, trying to memorize their names. Lots of familiar last names. It’s odd and comforting at the same time. Like slipping into jeans again after months of wearing fatigues. Then I ask them what their goal is this year for the team. As the answers roll in, I push them into their whys and hows. “Coach! Can we go train now?” one of the boys asks.

“We are training. Know your why.” They’re impatient, though, and I get it. “Alright, let’s hit it.” We head back outside for dynamic stretching, then agility ladders, and finally light jogging. “Alright, let’s hit the ice.”

They run like a pack of puppies to get changed. Man! their enthusiasm is incredible. This is going to be fun.

The day goes by super fast, with a quick lunch break where we go over strengths and points to improve. I check the schedule again to see how Coach Randall structures the afternoons, and something catches my eye. “Is someone getting a massage?”

Tracy, the girl who I met at Colton’s the day I got to Emerald Creek, raises her hand shyly. “Me. I got injured earlier this summer.”

I’d noticed she wasn’t engaging much. I didn’t say anything yet, was just trying to figure out their strengths and weaknesses, see how they worked as a group before tackling them individually. “That’s great. Good for you. I take it your PT cleared you for training, yeah?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Lemme know if anything bothers you. Don’t push yourself.”

She nods.

“Kay, let’s hit it.”

Three hours later, we wrap up. The clatter of pucks against sticks recedes and the air fills with chatter as we file toward the locker rooms.

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