Page 8 of As You Ice It

Grinning, I shake my head. It’s clear saying no was the right call.

There are half a dozen of my teammates plus most of our assistant coaches out there. Even Parker, our social media manager, is on skates with a group of kids. It’s an all-hands-on-deck situation.

But my hands aren’t needed; they’ve got this.

Probably.

I’m just turning to go when two of the more advanced pre-teen skaters zoom by and then both stop, spraying a snow shower of ice on a kid a little younger than them who’s barely keeping himself upright.

Punks, I think, as I watch the older boys laughing.

The younger kid got a face full of ice, which isn’t easy to wipe off because of the cage of his helmet. I don’t catch what they’re saying, but I don’t need to hear it. His cheeks turn red as he tries to unbuckle his helmet with his gloves on then almost eats it. The other boys start imitating him, pretending to lose their balance.

“Hey!” I’m already making my way down my bench.

Three heads whip my way, and I wince when the smaller kid falls to the ice. The other two try to skate off, but I hop over the low wall, blocking their exit.

They stare up at me, mouths open. I’m not sure if it’s because they recognize me or because the look on my face is so intense. I take a breath and try to remind myself that I once had a punk-kid period too. I never forgot how some sharp but true words made a lasting impact on me. There’s time yet for their little brains to shift and grow.

“Hockey is a team sport,” I grit out, barely holding my temper in check.

“He’s not on our team,” one boy sneers. “He’s with the baby skaters. They’ve got stuffed animals instead of pucks.”

Okay, maybe I was a little too optimistic about being able to make any headway here.

To his credit, the other older boy doesn’t laugh. He still looks like he’s about to pee his pants.

Good. There’s a shred of hope for humanity left.

I narrow my eyes at the unrepentant one. “You want to play in the NHL?”

He scoffs. “I don’t want to. Iwill.”

“You know what coaches want to find in recruits? You know what they tell scouts to look for and ask about when they’re watching up-and-coming players?”

“Yeah,” he says, and I swear I can see his little chest inflating with misguided pride. “Goals. Points. Wins. And someone who can skate.”

He throws this last line to the younger boy still trying to get his feet under him.

“Sure. They look at those things. But those aren’t the only things, and there are a thousand kids out there just as good if not better than you.” He looks ready to argue, but I turn to his partner in crime. “Doyouknow what coaches want to see?”

He shakes his head. “No, sir.”

I retrain my gaze on the first boy. “Coaches will ask your coaches and even sometimes other players about you. Not just how you conduct yourself on the ice. In the locker room. If you’re polite to your mom. If you show respect for your coaches and others in authority. And”—I lean forward, using my height to tower over him—“how you treat your fellow skaters. This kind of behavior willnothave teams and coaches fighting over you or even looking at you. This is going to ensure you’re passed over again and again, kid.”

“Whatever,” he mutters.

His sneery little face as he starts to skate away backwards is the kind that will become very punchable in a few years.

“You’re just an AHL player. Couldn’t hack it in the NHL,” he says, laughing as he spins and skates back to his group.

Not the kind of insult he may think it is. Some guys, guys like me, are career AHL. They might dabble in the NHL, have a decent two-way contract, but mostly stay in the minors. And it’s not a bad life. Less pressure. I still get to skate, and the money is fine. Especially with the Appies.

No use explaining any of this to the kid. He’s gone anyway.

To my surprise, the other little instigator has actually helped the younger kid up and is saying something in a low voice that sounds an awful lot like an apology.

Warmth starts to swell in my chest, like maybe itwasn’tstupid of me to jump in and pretend I had any business jumping in. But then the younger boy, the one who looks as wobbly as a newborn giraffe on skates, glances up at me.

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