Page 18 of Icy Pucking Play

Her whole face lights up, and for a moment I'm transported back to the first time she saw me make a particularly difficult save during practice.

She'd bounced on her toes just like this, rattling off statistics about reaction times and angles until Coach made her go organize equipment.

"Really? You'll teach me?"

"Basic safety, at least. I value my life too much to let you loose with those clubs otherwise."

"I'll be the best student ever!" She bounces on her toes, then immediately tries to look serious. "I mean...I appreciate the opportunity, Mr. Daniels."

"Evan."

"What?"

"If we're doing this, call me Evan. 'Mr. Daniels' makes me feel old."

Her smile turns teasing. "Well, you are kind of…"

"Don't finish that sentence if you want golf lessons."

She mimics zipping her lips, but her eyes are dancing with suppressed laughter. It's a look I remember well—it’s the same one she wore when Natalia used to sneak into her office for contraband candy during practices.

The next hour is...interesting.

Sophie approaches golf like she approaches everything else—with endless enthusiasm and absolutely no natural talent. She listens intently to my instructions, asks smart questions, and then proceeds to completely butcher every swing.

"Keep your head down," I remind her for the tenth time. "And stop closing your eyes when you hit."

"But what if I hit it wrong and it comes back to kill me?"

"That's...not how physics works."

"Tell that to the ball I somehow managed to hit backwards five minutes ago!"

She has a point there. I'm still not sure how she managed that one. It was almost impressive, in a deeply concerning way.

Mike and our other regular Saturday players have gone ahead, throwing amused looks over their shoulders as I try to teach Sophie the basics. I can hear their laughter carrying across the course, probably betting on how long it'll take before one of us gives up.

I pretend not to hear them, focusing instead on Sophie's latest attempt to defy the laws of physics with a golf ball.

"Okay," I say, moving behind her again. "Let's try this one more time. Feet shoulder-width apart..."

"Check."

"Knees slightly bent..."

"Check. Though I don't understand why my knees care where the ball goes."

I bite back a laugh. "Club face square to the ball..."

"Whatever that means, check. You know, in hockey, we just hit things and hope for the best."

"Is that your strategy here too?"

"Maybe." She grins over her shoulder. "Is it working?"

"If by 'working' you mean 'terrorizing local wildlife’, then yes."

She laughs, and something in my chest tightens.

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