Page 21 of Hard Hit

* * *

“Can we practice fighting?”a kid named Trevor asked me as we waited for everyone to get on the ice for youth practice that evening.

When I skated onto the ice for a game, I had to be focused. Even though I was just here to help coach these kids tonight, I’d still felt lighter as soon as I’d skated onto the ice. It was embedded in me; the ice was a safe place.

“Yeah, we can start with you against me,” I said to Trevor. “What do you think?”

He lowered his brows. “I meant another kid, Mr. Boone. You can’t fight me.”

“I could.” I rubbed my chin like I was considering it. “I need to practice breaking noses, and yours is so perfect.”

Trevor was a bruiser; he was one of my favorite kids here. We didn’t let the kids fight, ever, but he still asked.

“That’s child abuse,” he said. “You’d go to jail.”

I ruffled his hair. “I’m not gonna fight you, kid, relax. You’re here to learn hockey fundamentals and that’s it.”

He groaned with annoyance. “That’s boring.”

“Hey, Coach!” I called out to Gizzard, who was setting up orange cones for a drill.

He looked over at me.

“We’ve got a kid here who thinks practice is boring.”

Coach furrowed his brow, looking concerned. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? What might be fun for him?”

“He wants to fight,” I said.

Coach nodded. “Well, show him what I have you guys do when you want to fight.”

Trevor looked up at me, his eyes bright and hopeful. “We get to fight?”

“No, something way more fun,” I assured him. “It’s called a bag skate. You’re going to love it.”

* * *

It only tookthirty minutes of nonstop skating with me blowing a whistle behind him for Trevor to decide that practicing with the other kids didn’t sound so bad after all.

Jolie was working with a group of kids on shooting when Joey and I skated over to join them.

“He’ll sleep well tonight,” she said.

“Yeah, he did pretty well, though. For an eight-year-old.” We exchanged a look as we stood back and watched the line of kids take shots. “Did your dad ever coach you?”

She laughed. “Oh yeah. Hevolunteered”—she air-quoted the word—“to help coach my peewee team, but he didn’t even wait to see if the head coach wanted his help.”

“The old bulldozer routine?” I quipped.

“Yep. You would’ve thought we were training for the Olympics.”

Tonight, she wore a purple knitted ear warmer and a Mavericks team fleece. Again, she looked right at home on the ice, and again, I felt a pull toward her.

“Did you like it?” I asked her. “Having your dad help coach?”

She shrugged. “When I was younger, I loved it. But as I got older, we worked out an agreement where he could watch my practices and come to my games, but he couldn’t come coach me during games.”

I nodded, easily able to picture Coach steamrolling an inexperienced coach. “Yeah, I imagine that was for the best.”

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