Page 41 of As You Ice It

“But all the other moms are helping their kids,” I whisper through gritted teeth.

I don’t add that the other parents also seem to know what they’re doing with the tape and the weird fabric tubes I’m trying to help Liam secure in place on his legs.

Hockey socks, Liam called them. Which is dumb because they’re not socks. More like leg warmers. Except they’re made of a thin fabric that will provide no warmth.

Hockey stupidis more like it.

I feel like a massive imposter, clearly the only person who doesn’t know what they’re doing here. (Or why hockey socks are called hockey socks or hockey pants are actually padded shorts, not pants.) It’s like a sign hanging above my head pointing out my hockey ineptitude. Or maybe they’re judging me because, for the past two practices, they were all in here helping their kids while my son was totally alone.

“Camden showed me how to do it,” Liam says, taking the roll of tape from my hands and wrapping it around the hockey sock. Doesn’t look any different than what I was doing. “See?”

I don’t, actually. But I nod. “Can I doanything?” I ask.

The mom directly to our right is adjusting her daughter’s helmet. Granted, the little girl is younger than Liam and needs more help, but I don’t feel like I’m doing enough.

When was the last time I felt so out of place? Probably back in middle school. The feeling is rusty yet familiar and wholly unpleasant.

“Just go sit down,” Liam says. “I’m fine. Coach Cam and I usually work down at the visitor’s end.”

I nod like I know which side of the rink that is. “Okay. Well, um, break a leg.”

Both the mom and daughter next to us whip their heads my way.

“Mom,” Liam hisses.

“Sorry. Wrong activity. That’s what you say with theater. Uh, have fun? Skate well? Don’t punch anyone in the face? Ordopunch them?” Liam looks like he’s about to melt through the floor. I hold up both hands. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

We’re both relieved when I make my way up into the stands. But now I’m faced with finding where Liam wanted me to sit. I thought all the parents were in the hallway, but there are already a lot of seats claimed in here. There seem to be two main groups of parents: hot moms who are here to be seen and men who look like former hockey players, with their beards, athletic builds, and leftover swagger.

Both sets seem to have one thing in common, from the snatches of conversations I catch, and that’s a sense that their childwillbe going pro.

Then there’s me—mom who didn’t even want her kid to play hockey and wants to avoid attention of any kind. Hence the baseball cap, loose-fitting top, and pants with a hole. At the last minute, and after a pointed look from Liam, I traded my bedroom slippers for Birkenstocks with thick socks. By his sigh, this was only a mildly better choice.

“What? I need socks. It’s winter,” I told him as we pulled out of the driveway.

“So maybe wear closed-toe shoes,” Liam said, suddenly sounding more adult than I felt.

Whatever, kid. I don’t want to come across like I’m trying to get Camden’s attention. Not when I have no idea what he’s thinking.

I am here to watch my kid. Period. Full stop. If I can just fly under the radar and avoid attention?—

“Naomi!” a familiar voice calls. “Liam and I usually work down here.”

So much for that plan.

Camden stands on the other side of the glass, gesturing toward the far end of the rink. It’s not easy to hear him with the big echoing space and the barrier, but I heard him loud and clear. So do a number of other parents, both male and female. I’m not imagining the stares now that an actual player just called me by name.Awesome.

Camden isn’t fully geared up with all the pads Liam has on under the new Appies jersey Parker gave him last week when he hurt his arm. Other than a helmet and a long-sleeve athletic shirt with the Appies logo, Camden has on hockey pants (a.k.a. shorts) and hockey socks (a.k.a.notsocks). He looks good on skates. His movements are lithe and smooth, natural in a way that makes me think he probably prefers being on skates to walking.

I’ve seen Camden shirtless on a beach, and that was a good look for him. But this is somehow better.Muchbetter.

I force my gaze away, though I’ve already been staring too long as I make my way toward the far end of the rink with Camden slowly skating backward on the other side of the glass. It’s kind of adorable but also makes me something of a spectacle.

I’m now more confused than I was the last two weeks while wondering if he was going to reach out.

“Hey, Naomi!” Camden’s teammate with the big smile and messy mop of blond hair zips by, waving a gloved hand. Eli, I think?

I would respond, but he’s already gone, dropping orange cones and adjusting long black pads to differentiate areas on the ice. I have to pass by a woman already seated with her phone out. She glares, her spidery lash extensions giving her a more sinister look. I half expect for her to draw a line across her neck or maybe tackle me right here in the stands.

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