Page 48 of Cold Comeback
More giggles. Across the room, I spotted Gideon watching me. When our eyes met, he looked away quickly.
I gathered my small army of helpers. "Alright, troops, let's get these books back where they belong before we have to rescue Grimmy again."
Twenty minutes later, I sat cross-legged on a reading mat, surrounded by seven kids with skeptical expressions. A shy boy with dark hair sat at the edge of our circle, close enough to participate but ready to bolt if necessary.
I held up the first book. "So, who wants to help me tell the story of Captain Underpants?"
Six hands shot up. The shy kid—Danny, according to his name tag—remained motionless.
I launched into the most dramatic reading ofCaptain Underpantsthe world had ever seen, complete with superhero voices and sound effects that had the kids giggling uncontrollably. When I got to the part where Captain Underpants fought the evil Wedgie Woman, I stood and demonstrated proper superhero poses.
"Danny, what do you think Captain Underpants should do next?"
He shrugged, not meeting my eyes.
The other kids shouted suggestions, but I continued to focus on Danny. Something about his posture—shoulders curved inward, taking up as little space as possible—was familiar.
Danny lingered after we finished the book, and the other kids scattered to the bathroom and snack stations.
"You don't have to stay if you don't want to," I told him. "But if you do want to hang out, that's cool too."
He picked at the edge of the reading mat. "Do you really play hockey?"
"I do. Not very well sometimes, but yeah."
He sighed. "I tried to play once but wasn't very good."
My chest ached. "You know what? I wasn't very good when I started either. Spent most of my first season falling down."
His fingers unclenched, and his toes edged onto the foam mat. He looked up for the first time, a flicker of hope in his expression. "Really?"
"Really. Want me to show you some stuff? Nothing fancy, just basics."
For the next thirty minutes, Danny and I worked with plastic sticks and foam pucks in a corner of the gym. I showed him how to hold the stick, pass, and receive a pass without panicking. His face lit up when he successfully stopped a puck I'd sent his way.
"I did it!" he whispered.
"Hell yeah, you did. NHL scouts better start circling."
Other kids drifted over. Soon, I had eight kids in a loose circle, passing pucks and cheering each other on. It was loud, boisterous, and absolutely perfect.
While I explained the concept of "soft hands," Gideon stood nearby, watching. He had a warm expression on his face, and it made my heart skip.
A crash from across the room broke the spell. At the face painting station, Bricks froze while paint-covered children ran in circles around him like colorful demons. He'd gone pale, staring in disbelief.
"Keep practicing," I told the kids. "I'll be right back."
I crossed the gym quickly, taking in the scene. Bricks had lost control of the situation, and the kids sensed it. They weren't malicious, only excited and unstructured.
"Hey," I said, stepping up beside him. "Looks like you could use some backup."
"I can't—" His voice was tight. "They want different things and the paint's everywhere and I don't know how to—"
"That's okay. Mind if I jump in?"
Relief flooded his face. "Please."
I clapped my hands once, loud enough to get attention. "Alright, artists! New system. Everyone who wants their face painted needs to sit in this line. No running, no pushing, and absolutely no eating the paint."
