Page 25 of Taking It To Overtime
“Birdie,” I give her a moment to meet my eyes again, “I’m going to be in town all week and I‘m not really sure what to do with myself.”
“While Robbie’s coaching?” She must read the absolute confusion on my face and jumps right in to anchor me in the conversation. “I know he spends a week every summer with our youth hockey program. That starts today, right?”
I nod, hoping I’m right. Did he tell me this? I think Jack might’ve said something. Coaching makes sense. I smile at the thought ofmyhockey boy putting his skills back into the new generation. It’s definitely what Robbie would do, especially when preseason won’t start for at least a few more weeks.
“Well, there’s a darling art gallery that opened on Main Street. The farmers’ market is Wednesday afternoons. There're the Movies-in-the-Park series every Thursday. Leondra’s been teaching pottery on Tuesdays.” She fiddles with her sweater sleeve. “You could try any of those. There’s also the Founders’ Day Carnival this weekend, but I don’t know if you’ll still be around.”
I don’t remember any of these options from when I was a kid, but I might just check out all of them.
“They all sound like great options,” I tell Birdie, ”but I meant wouldyoulike to get together one day? When you aren’t working?”
Her surprise is obvious in the way her pale eyes widen and her mouth pops open. For a moment, I wonder if she’s going to turn me down. Kindly—she’s Birdie after all—but I still think she’s going to say, “no thank you.” She doesn’t.
“You’re sure?”
I nod, “If you want to.”
“I do.” Birdie bounces up from her seat, grinning and reaching across the desk to grab my hand. “I really do, but I should probably tell you that no one calls me Birdie anymore. I go by Bridget now. You know, if you wanted to be friends and all.”
I smile because Idowant to be her friend.
I really do.
“So am I playing along?”Spags yanks on the strings of his sweatshirt hood, “Because last time I was in the middle of a secret relationship, I blew it wide open aftersomeonedidn’t clue me in to my duties.”
He means Vic and Tristan and their elopement last season, but I’m not really sure what he means by duties. It seems like common sense to not comment on other people’s life choices. If he hasn’t figured that out by twenty, then there isn’t much hope for him. Except when I open my mouth to say “don’t tell anyone that we’re pretending to date,” that doesn’t feel right. And “go ahead and tell the truth so our parents know we’re lying,” feels just as bad.
Except we aren’t lying, we just aren’t correcting. Or something like that. Honestly, this is a horrible idea. It’s just prolonging the inevitable conversation when we explain that no, we aren’t marching down the aisle in the foreseeable future, and it’ll be even worse since we let everyone buy into the lie.
And yet I don’t think I’ve ever agreed to anything faster. Vera Novak looked up at me with her big green eyes and my brain melted out of my ears. I’d have agreed to pretty much anything just to slide my hand along hers.
“See?” Spags says, “Not that easy to answer, now is it?”
“Is this really where you want to have this conversation?”
We’re standing at center ice on the regulation-size rink just outside the town limits, while twenty-four of the areas most talented skaters run warm up laps around the edge of the bleachers. They’re excited to be here for this week-long intensive before their seasons kick off in the fall. Almost all of them are smiling and chatting with each other as we start off easy. Most of these kids play AAA and have for years. This might be their second or third summers joining me on the ice to hone some of their skills during the offseason.
There are two main types of hockey camps that kids can attend during the summer months. The first are the camps with hundreds of kids crammed into a few small rinks. The camps are about ice time, about skill, about speed. It’s not the camp a skater enrolls in to make connections or get noticed. That’s the second kind. A camp with a smaller roster, fewer kids on the ice, and more one-on-one time with high-profile coaches.
This camp is the latter. Not every kid who steps onto the ice with me will make it to the NHL, or even the juniors. Some may never play after high school until they join a beer league with their buddies. And yet I keep an eye on my players even after the week is done. I might make a strategic call or two, put the right name in the right ears.
These kids might be laser-focused on hockey, ready and eager to hand over precious hours of their free time for my help, but they’re also still teenagers. Spags and I were both recognized on sight as we walked in the front door, practically mobbed by a mass of kids who knew our stats by heart. They’re little sponges, ready to soak up every iota of advice we can provide and if they slurp up any gossip with that? Well, that’s just a bonus.
“I figured you didn’t want me to ask over eggs this morning, but I thought we should hash out the basics before dinner tonight.”
Dinner.
Right.
Because as much as I want to blame Vera for getting us into this mess—and I can’t even do that—I’m the one who suggested she and her parents come over for dinner. In my mind, I thought it might be easier to put on one performance, together, for both of our families. Now it feels like we’re staring down the barrel of a fully loaded weapon, playing Russian roulette, as we wait for the next round to fire or not.
“And you couldn’t say something during the twenty-minute ride to the rink?”
Spags shrugs. “I planned to, but I forgot.”
Aka he got distracted singing along to the music on the radio and his brain only had space for dance moves, not important conversations.
“I just need to know if I’m acting just as surprised as they are that you two are together, or am I allowed to know about the torch you’ve carried for years?”
