Page 6 of My Best Bet

“This is just a trial lesson, honey.” I adjusted my rearview mirror so I could see my daughter sitting in the backseat of my truck. She was pleasantly kicking her feet, looking out at the colorful autumn trees and skyscrapers lining Lake Shore Drive, seemingly clueless that I was an anxiety-riddled mess as I drove us to my rink. “That means if you don’t like it or you don’t like the coach, you can get off the ice at any point and it doesn’t even matter, okay?”

“Okay,” she replied in a chipper tone.

Easing to the red light, I looked back at my daughter again. “You’ll be honest with me, right, Lucy?”

“Right!” She gave me a sweet smile. She looked cute today, with her dark hair pushed back with little clips and ending in tiny pigtails. She was dressed in the pale pink ballet wrap sweater, little skating dress, and tights that I picked up from the pro shop on the way home from hockey practice the other day. I tried to make her wear a jacket over her outfit because there was now a permanent fall crisp in the air, but she refused, and I eventually gave up.

Nodding, I forced myself to smile back at her despite the pressure building up in my chest making it feel tight as hell. Jesus, I was more nervous taking her to a practice than I was for my own NHL games. “You excited?”

“Yes! I’vealwayswanted to figure skate,” she gushed, clasping her little hands together.

Her use ofalwaysmade me crack a grin. She was only five, so how long could she have actually been wanting this? She already knew how to skate. She’d been on the ice with me andmy buddies since she could walk. But she’d never had any formal lessons, she’d never actuallyfigure skated. That sport was a whole different beast. It was a beast that I was afraid of exposing her to.

Damn.

There was that pressure again.

I rubbed at my chest, trying to ease it away.

The rink is a good place, I reassured myself. It’s where I found friends, where I foundpurpose.

But I couldn’t seem to shut out the little voice of warning in the back of my head.

You know how bad it can be.

You’re not okay.

You’re not okay.

You’re not okay.

Nope.

Cutting myself off right there.

That was a long time ago.

I needed to focus on the good side of rinks.

Growing up, my weekends were full of playing mini-sticks in the lobby, stuffing my face with concession stand popcorn, and taking and making stupid bets with my hockey buddies.

Sure, that innocent fun slowly turned into teen trouble– those dumb bets to blow kisses to figure skaters turned into taking a bet to kissher.Which turned into sneaking around to kiss more… Then sneaking around forevenmore.

I grew up here.

Wegrew up here.

Well, not actuallyhere– this wasn’t Centre Ice Arena back in Canton, Michigan. But all rinks were roughly the same. Arcade games lined the rubber lobby floors, cold metal stands stretched up on the sides of the ice, that same hockey bag stench always hung in the air right when you walked in.

And then there were the people: The old geezers that talked shit at the boards during games and then hit up open skating each day at noon, the beer leaguers that re-lived their glory days on weekday nights, the TimBit hockey babies that fell like dominoes, the Mini-mites through Midget Major players, the Snowplow Sam’s learning to stand, the beginner through senior level figure skaters, the ice dancers… And the coaches– the ones who truly enjoyed spending their time with kids and loved their sport… And the ones who were backed into the position, only taking the job for the money.

It was all the same.

Same storylines, different cast.

The hockey guys trying to get bigger and hit harder.

The figure skaters striving to be smaller and jump higher.

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