Page 48 of Someone to Have
“You take Kircher,” he says, and I nod.
This is one of the tactics our college coach employed, pairing up someone on the coaching staff to talk one-on-one with the star players to keep their heads in the game.
“Hudson, over here,” I command, gesturing to the right wing forward.
“Yeah, Coach,” he says, coming to stand directly in front of me.
“Don’t let them control the boards. Push back. Use your body. You're bigger than half those guys out there. You own that puck.”
“Yes, Coach.”
I hand him a water bottle, and he takes a drink.
“Nice wings, by the way.” I gesture to his hair, damp with sweat on either side of his helmet. “You better do right by that hair while you’re in your prime.”
Hudson’s mouth twitches, and I see some of the tension drain from his shoulders, like maybe he’s remembering that hockey is supposed to be fun. “Thanks, Coach,” he says, flashing a broad grin.
The buzzer sounds, and the guys take the ice again. Hudson frees up the puck from his opponent and wheels down the ice, those wings I just referenced flapping on either side of his helmet. He weaves by one of the defenders and cuts toward the goal, avoiding another opponent skating his way before sending the puck flying into the air. It bounces off the top of the goalpost, landing behind the goalie for a score.
The guys on the bench, including Rhett, go wild. The fans and family members who've come out to support the team clap and cheer.
I glance into the stands, and my gaze catches on Taylor. She's sitting next to one of the moms and bouncing a toddler on her lap. My heart lurches in my chest. For a guy who’s never imagined himself with kids, the sight of her with that baby does something to me, just like it did in the library last weekend. Tinkerbell is steady and soft and everything I didn’t realize I wanted.
The guys line up again, and one of the right wings from the other team is clearly talking trash to our guys—Hudson in particular. It looks like he's about to skate forward before Kelleher, the starting left wing, grabs his pads. The ref blows the whistle, indicating a false start for us, and the other team gets the puck.
“Getting chippy out there,” Larry Rasso, the team’s longtime assistant coach, mutters. “Broomfield has been our rival for years, but we keep it friendly this early in the season. Things don't usually get heated until playoffs.”
“They’ll work it out,” I say and look up at Taylor again. She smiles as her eyes meet mine, and damn if it doesn’t make me want to bolt up there and take the seat next to her.
I turn my attention back to the game just in time to see the kid who’d been smack-talking Hudson come up from behind and plow into him, sending our captain into the boards at an awkward angle.
“Cheap shot! Did you see that, ref?” Toby calls, and we all wait for Hudson to get up. Only he doesn’t.
Toby walks out onto the ice as Larry and I settle the bench while the other players skate over to us.
“Give him space,” the ref calls, and the remaining players from both teams return to their benches. I move closer to the ice, then onto it when Toby gestures me forward.
“Can you take Kircher to the locker room? He needs his knee looked at.”
Shit.
“I can skate, Coach,” Hudson insists, but I can see he’s in pain.
“It’s early in the season.” Toby’s tone is serious. “We’ve got along road ahead of us. Let’s get that knee iced for now. You’ll be back before you know it.”
But as soon as the trainer starts to examine Hudson’s knee, it's clear he won’t be back on the ice anytime soon.
“You need an MRI to confirm it, but I'm going with an ACL tear, probably level three.”
“Can I get through it with PT?”
“PT isn't going to help a torn ligament,” the trainer tells him. “If it's as bad as I think, surgery is the best option long term.”
“I just need some ice and ibuprofen,” Hudson says through gritted teeth.
“Are your parents here to give you a ride home?” the trainer asks.
“No. Mom's working, and Dad...” He takes a deep breath. “He's not here.”
