Page 63 of Conrad

They weren’t terrible. And by the time the period ended, he had some new strategies. He gathered the boys in and appointed the defensemen to watch a couple of the Polar Bears’ players.

No goals in the second period, and Simon huddled up with the kids.

She stood on the outskirts, her gaze like a burr under his skin.

The crowd had dispersed, parents leaving to get hot cocoa or to warm up. He’d barely noticed the chill.

A motor fired up, and he looked up to see the Zamboni enter the rink. It rounded the outside, a smooth layer of ice freezing in the crisp air.

Simon was still talking. “We’re not defined by one goal or one game. We’re defined by our resilience and our teamwork?—”

“Oh no!”

Penelope’s voice, and of course, it zinged right into his brain. He looked up, saw her moving toward the open gate to the ice.

Then he spotted the trouble.

A kid, maybe three years old, had toddled onto the ice from the opposite side, now stood in the middle, holding a puck. He dropped it on the ice.

The Zamboni had rounded the far edge, heading toward him.

And Conrad didn’t think. He dove through the door, slipped, caught himself, and then ran, flat-footed, short steps, scampering in his boots toward the kid.

The Zamboni roared in his ears, but he didn’t look. Even if it stopped, it would slide at least a few feet on the ice.

He pushed off and slid, scooping up the toddler as he skimmed across the surface.

He reached the new ice, still forming, and his feet zipped out from under him.

He held on, angled himself and landed,bam, on his hip, rolling to his back.

Heat flashed into his bones, shaking out his breath, and he lay there groaning, the kid screaming and writhing in his arms. Players from the other side skated out, and the coach of the Polar Bears grabbed the kid from his arms.

“You okay, King Con?” This from one of the youngsters. Of course they’d recognize him. He sat up, breathing hard.

Glanced over at the Zamboni.

It had slid into the path, right where he’d plucked the kid.

“That was amazing,” said a voice behind him, and he spotted a couple of his kids also out on the ice. “Way to go, Coach!”

He nodded and rolled to his feet, his hip on fire, but glanced over to where the toddler’s mother held him, shaking, nodding at Conrad.

He shooed away help from his team and picked his way back toward the bench. Crossed in front of the Zamboni.

And maybe it was the exhaust from the engine souring the air, or the crisp smell of the fresh ice, even the rumble of the engine—or maybe just the near tragedy—but his heartbeat jumped into overdrive, and a sweat broke out along his spine.

No, not now?—

His throat started to close, his chest tightening.Breathe—breathe?—

He made it to the bench, sat down.

“Wow, Coach, that was cool!” One of the players—he couldn’t recall his name at the moment?—

“Okay, guys, let’s give Coach Con some room. Focus on me?—”

On the ice, the Zamboni fired back up.

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