Page 27 of Taking It To Overtime
A roar of sound precedes the teenagers piling back onto the ice. The coaches count heads, but Spags called it right. Green team is the winner, edging out Yellow by a single player. GavinRimes got his jersey on backwards and was suitably ragged on by the others.
One taller boy circles away, making lazy loops that take him closer and closer to the boards. His Kelly green jersey doesn’t have a name, but I know who he is even before I catch him lifting his eyes from under the cage of his helmet. In the stands, Nora’s mouth shifts as she tries to hide her smile, pink climbing up her cheeks. Marlowe’s face is flushed too, his grin full of mouth guard. Deep in the hollow between my ribs, my heart turns over.
Brad calls Marlowe back to the group, and he comes, sparing a second glance back at Nora. He joins the others as they bump their shoulders against his, bulky under the padding. The red hasn’t faded from his cheeks, but neither has his smile.
“Head on the ice, right Marlowe?”
“Yes, Sir.” The kid dips his chin in acknowledgment and I look past him to see Nora turn her gaze from the ice back to her book, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.
Today we’re going to start with edge work drills. Two of the teams will go with Brad and Mustache, the other two will stay here with Spags and me. We’ll swap halfway through each day, but first we set the kids to skating laps to get a feel for the ice. Unlike the warm up jog, the edge of competition is in the air and the teens are trying to outpace each other. Now that they know points are on the line, they each want a chance at showing off their skills.
Marlowe is at the front of the pack. He’s not cutting off his peers, or doling out the subtle bumps to the hips and shoulders that some are sharing when they think no one is looking. These kids should all be able to avoid “accidental” contact, but none of us says anything to stop it. Jostling along the boards is a regular part of the game, as is learning to avoid it. Even offensive players need to have some sense of personal defense. Either know how to get through the fight, or be sure you can win it.
The kids head down the far wall and round the corner behind the net. Marlowe’s head is up, like any good skater. He’s not watching his feet, but looking where he wants to go. And then his eyes shift from his path and I know what he’s doing even before I lift my gaze to Nora, too. Her eyes are on the player in front, a small smile tipping the corner of her mouth.
I’m reminded of Vera against my better judgement. She used to sit in the stands when she watched me play. I’d seek her out after every goal, after every stoppage of play, whenever I could spare a second.
“Marlowe,” Brad calls out. “Don’t lose your focus.” And the kid drops his chin in understanding, pushing off with even more speed than before and widening the gap between him and the other players.
“Young love,” Brad laughs. “This is why I prefer my players don’t date. Pulls their focus.”
It’s not an argument I haven’t heard before. I was the young player in love, once. Warring with the need to ask Vera to stay away from my games so I could concentrate, andneedingher there with a terrifying depth of devotion for sixteen. I had a good balance going for a bit. I used her presence to better my play, to motivate myself to be the very best. Until…
Until I had to make a choice. And so did she.
That moment of eye contact doesn’t slow Marlowe down at all. No one overtakes him or trips him. No one steals the puck out from under his nose. I know Brad played in college, and spent a few years in the ECHL and the AHL. Surely he knows that even during our professional careers, we look for those connections. We want people inourcorner, not just the teams. People who show up because of who we are, not the colors that we wear.
“He’s fine,” I say, and when Brad opens his mouth to respond I add, “He picked his moment and was smart about it. If it becomes an issue, we can address it.”
Brad and Mustache—I really should learn his name—share a look that hides nothing.
“Don’t we want these kids to be the best?” Mustache asks. As if he thinks I’d say no. I just don’t know if Nora is the thing stopping Marlowe from meeting his potential. It’s such a commonly held belief in the sports world, “dating ruining athletes,” especially teenage sports. I can’t help but wonder when the kid will be told he needs to choose.
And I can’t help but wonder what his choice will be? Hockey or his girl.
Laps complete, the kids run through some basic stretches and I put some space between myself and Brad-Mustache. I make wide loops around the groups of kids, offering bits of advice for how to get a better stretch in the quad, or to slow down and avoid injury. It’s always humbling to connect with these kids and see their eyes go wide as they nod like bobble heads, taking absolutely everything I say as fact.
Spags skates up after me, and for all my complaining about his drive and maturity, he gets the same wowed treatment from the kids as he hands out his two-cents.
“I’m just saying,” Spags says as we stop near the blue line.
I let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Not now,” I warn, but since when does Spags ever listen to those?
“I can play along all you want, but it’s going to look a bit suspicious if your girlfriend isn’t even staying with you.”
I frown.
“You put me—a random teammate and virtual slave labor—up in your cozy home, and your girlfriend—the love of your life forever—has to go stay somewhere else? The math ain’t mathin’.I guess you could say she’d like to spend the time with her parents so she’s staying with them but—”
“She’s not staying with them.” I say, feeling a tightness pulling behind my eyes and temples. “They have a one bedroom. She’s in a hotel.”
“Now see?” Spags grins. “I’ll just swap with her. Go take her nice cozy hotel room and the two of you can canoodle with witnesses for the rest of the week. No harm, no—”
“Not happening,” I say. Not only is Vera’s room hers, and I wouldnevermake her come stay in my home if she isn’t comfortable, but I’m not unleashing Spags on a hotel full of innocent patrons when he has un-restricted access to a mini-bar. That wouldnotbe doing my job as babysitter and there’s a greater than zero chance that Tristan, social media and PR Queen, would castrate me. A risk I am not willing to take.
Unfortunately, Spags is right. Vera and I aren’t kids anymore. While sharing a space might not have been a possibility sixteen years ago, it would be expected now. It’s a detail we should have hashed out down by the old creek. There are several things we should have gone over, especially before we have to take this show on the road at dinner tonight, but Vera looked up at me with her wide, green eyes, and I lost myself counting the specks of brown dotting her irises. I lost myself in the cadence of her voice, stroking along the back of my neck and down my spine. I lost myself just being near her again. She could have told me aliens abducted her and sent her back to Earth to spread their message of peace, and I probably would have agreed.
