Page 17 of Mr. Mistletoe
Shedding my coat, I avoid eye contact with the parents in the bleachers, wondering if they know too.
A handful of kids are already skating in circles, helmets bobbing, sticks clattering in chaotic rhythm.
Mike skates toward me, whistle bouncing against his chest. He doesn’t look thrilled.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Two minutes,” I protest, holding up my coffee like proof.
“Two minutes is two minutes.” His tone has that fatherly edge that makes me feel fifteen again.
“Relax. It’s practice. The kids barely noticed.”
“They noticed.” He folds his arms. “Everything you do, Clark—they notice. You’re not just some guy anymore. You’re a role model.”
The word lands heavy. “I know. I take this seriously.”
“Do you?” His eyes narrow.
I lace up my skates. “What are you talking about?”
Mike pulls out his phone and shoves it under my nose. The kiss cam photo—with Jess.
I yank my laces tighter. “That’s none of your business.”
Mike raises an eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a girlfriend. If that’s true, fine. But don’t ruin your reputation just when it’s getting back on track. We need coaches who are steady. Reliable.”
Heat crawls up my neck—equal parts embarrassment and irritation. No point telling him how much I wish Jess was my girlfriend. She ghosted me weeks ago.
“I’m saying this because I care,” Mike adds. “Be careful. You’ve worked too hard to be a regular guy again.”
I nod stiffly. “A regular guy? What does that mean?”
“A guy we can trust here in Starlight Bay. Not the kind who disappears tomorrow.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I call after him, but he’s already skating away.
Needing to sweat out my frustration, I hit the ice with the kids. We sprint, skate, and laugh until the tension in my chest starts to ease. Watching them enjoy the game takes me back to when hockey was pure fun. The empty space inside me fills with satisfaction.
This is why I came home—not just to help at the farm or be there for Ingrid and her baby, but to be Coach Clark for the next generation.
“Oof.” Mike clutches his back and winces as he skates by.
“What happened?” I call.
“Forty years of coaching happened.” He parks himself on the bench and tosses me his whistle. “Take over?”
I loop the whistle over my neck with a reverence usually reserved for holy artifacts. He’s never handed it to me before. For a moment, I’m on top of the world—until Landon trips Trevor and Maggie calls Scott a “Turtalincus.” Whatever a Turtalincus is, Scott doesn’t approve.
“Line up!” I blow the whistle for the first time. “Superman Drill!”
The kids cheer and race to the goal line, eager to be the first to dive like superheroes.
By the end of practice, everyone’s flushed and sweaty. I gather the stray pucks, lungs burning in the best way, and head to check on Mike in the office.
“You gonna make it, old man?”
“Back’s gone,” he mutters.
