Page 95 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Looking good out there,” Coach Powell says after practice, which is what he says every day. Encouraging but noncommittal, like he’s coaching a promising junior player instead of a twenty-eight-year-old whose career imploded on national television.

The trade was quiet—no press conference, no fanfare, just paperwork and the kind of handshake that says, “we’re giving you a chance, don’t fuck it up.” My new teammates treat me like expensive China—carefully, politely, with the constantawareness that I might shatter if handled wrong.

“Hendrix,” Assistant Coach Norton appears at my locker. “Got a minute?”

I follow him to the coaches’ office, mentally preparing for another lecture about keeping my head down and my mouth shut. Instead, he hands me a flyer.

“Community outreach program. Youth hockey league at the local rink. They need volunteer coaches.” He studies my reaction. “Might be good for you. Low profile. No cameras. Just kids who want to learn hockey.”

“You want me to coach little kids?”

“I want you to remember why you started playing. Before the contracts and media and...” He pauses. “Before everything else.”

The flyer shows gap-toothed kids in oversized gear, all grins and enthusiasm.Metro Youth Hockey - Where Champions Begin.Corny as hell, but something about their unguarded joy makes my chest tight.

“No publicity?”

“None. Just you, some kids, and hockey. Think you can handle that?”

Two days later, I’m standing in a rink that’s seen better decades, watching eight-year-olds attempt figure-eight drills with varying degrees of success. The ice is scarred, the boards are dented, and the whole place smells like old equipment and dreams deferred.

It’s perfect.

“Coach Reed!” Tommy, a kid who’s maybe four feet tall in skates, waves frantically from center ice. “Watch this!”

He attempts what might generously be called a spin move, loses his balance, and slides into the boards ass-first. Instead of crying, he pops up laughing like it was the most fun he’s everhad.

“Nice try, bud. Let’s work on keeping your weight centered.”

For the next hour, I teach kids how to stop without falling, how to pass without telegraphing, how to take a hit without losing the puck. Basic fundamentals I learned twenty years ago, now filtered through the patience I never knew I had.

“You’re good with them,” says Maria, the program coordinator, as we watch the kids scrimmage. “Some volunteers try to coach them like they’re professionals. You actually remember they’re children.”

“Children who want to have fun playing hockey,” I correct. “Win or lose doesn’t matter if they hate the game by ten.”

“Exactly.” She hands me a coffee that tastes like it was brewed sometime last week. “You thinking about coming back next week?”

“Yeah. If you’ll have me.”

“We’d love to have you. Fair warning though—word might get out eventually. You okay with that?”

I watch Tommy attempt another spin move with identical results but twice the enthusiasm. “As long as the kids don’t care who I used to be.”

Week three, and I’m starting to remember what normal feels like. The kids know I played professional hockey, but to them, I’m just Coach Reed who brings extra tape and doesn’t yell when they miss the net. They care more about whether I’ll help them work on slap shots than whether I once punched Stevens in a locker room.

“My dad says you played for the Outlaws,” Sophie mentions during a water break. She’s nine, missing two front teeth, and skates better than half the guys I used to play with.

“I did.”

“Were you good?”

“Some days.”

“What happened? Why aren’t you there anymore?”

The question every adult wants to ask but doesn’t. Trust a kid to cut straight to the bone.

“I made some mistakes. Had to start over somewhere new.”

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