Page 88 of Hat Trick

“Right this way, sir.” Grant skates backward to the bench gate and opens it for me. He holds out his arm so I can steady myself, and I grip his practice jersey. “Show me your mastery, Mitchy.”

“Don’t let me fall on my ass,” I warn him, and Maverick skates up behind us.

“I’m here for reinforcements,” he says, and I swallow down the ball of emotion sitting in the center of my chest. “Ready to catch if necessary.”

“I weigh a hundred eighty-five pounds,” I say, and Maverick scoffs.

“Please. I squat double that, Mitchy, and lifting people is one of my favorite hobbies. Just ask Emmy,” he says, and I laugh.

“I’d prefer not to.” I turn to Grant. “Watch my hands. If I keep the same grip on the stick when I reach out for a far pass as I would for a tape to tape pass, I’m only going to be able to catch it with the heel of the stick, which could cause a turnover. If I keep my bottom hand loose, I can slide the stick through my bottom hand in whatever direction I need to go—either closer to the blade when the puck is coming to your feet, or up to the handle if the puck is far out. The blade will stay on the ice, and you can control the pass more efficiently.”

“That makes so much sense. Can I try?” he asks, and I nod, handing him the stick.

He taps the blade on the ice and Maverick skates to the blue line, firing off a pass that’s headed to Grant’s left. He follows my instructions, sliding his hand down toward the blade, and stops the puck from soaring straight past him.

“There you go,” I say, and Grant leaps in the air.

“Holy shit. You’re a genius, Riley. Pass me another one, Cap,” he yells to Maverick, and a second one is shot his way. This time, he brings his hand up the stick, whooping when he stops the puck again. “Oh, this is a fucking game changer.”

“That’s a great drill, Mitchy.” Maverick skates up next to me, spraying ice on my sneakers. “Where’d you learn it?”

“My college coach. It goes against our instincts as players to keep our gloves glued to the stick, but it works,” I say.

“I’m gonna be the league leader in assists, baby,” Grant yells, taking off for the pairs of players lining up for the drill.

“Don’t forget, Mitchell. My office after this,” Coach says, and I nod.

“It’s good to have you back out here, Mitchy,” Maverick says, tapping my calf with his stick. “We’ve missed you.”

I smile, taking in the feel of the ice under my foot. The bright lights and the smell of sweat clinging to his jersey. “It’s good to be back.”

* * *

I slideinto the chair across from Coach thirty minutes later and look at him. “What’s up?”

“How do you feel about coaching?” he asks, cutting right to the point.

“Uh, in general?”

“How do you feel about being a coach?”

“It’s not something I ever considered because I don’t think it’s for me.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know if I’m patient enough.”

Coach lifts an eyebrow. “And I am?”

“You know what I mean.” I pull on the sleeves of my hoodie and shrug. “I don’t think I have enough hockey smarts to guide other players on what they’re doing wrong.”

“I’ve been working with Grant for months to get his passes under control, and you fixed it in five minutes.”

“I don’t know if I would call itfixed. I gave him a suggestion and it worked one time.”

“It was a good suggestion.” Coach leans back in his chair and stares at me. “I want you to have more of a role at practice and during games. I know you can’t be on the ice in your skates, but I want you out there running drills with the guys. Giving them a different perspective than what I can provide and offering fixes for problems I’m not seeing.”

“Really?” I sit up straight. “What’s the catch?”

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