Page 76 of Nanny for the Athletes

Logan let go of my hand and skated over to the benches, where there was a rack full of hockey sticks and other equipment. He retrieved two, and a puck, and returned to me.

“If you can score a goal from center ice, I’ll be impressed.” He shoved the stick into my chest.

“You’ll be impressed?” I said while accepting the stick. “You’ve got to give me more incentive than that.”

“Yeah!” Braden said from across the rink, where he was still moving as slowly as a grandmother with a cane. “You’ve got to sweeten the pot!”

“If you can score a goal, I’ll…” Logan scowled. “I’ll think of something.”

I stuck out my hand. “Deal.”

He shook my hand, then tossed the puck down on the ice, right in the middle of the big Blues logo, which was roughly in the middle of the rink. I lowered my stick and tested the feel in my hands. It was heavier than I expected, made of sturdy wood or some kind of carbon material.

I turned to face the goal. It seemed much smaller from this distance, but I was determined not to let that bother me. I moved the puck back and forth with the stick, getting used to the motion and weight. Logan was right: doing this was much harder than simply skating around.

Finally, I lined up my shot and slid the stick across the ice.

During a game, the puck moved so fast that it was difficult to see at times. But when I hit the puck, it slid across the ice with about as much speed as Braden. Logan and I froze as we watched it move across the ice, black on cloudy white.

When it hit the back of the net, I tossed down my stick and threw my hands in the air. “GOAL! Can you flash all the lights and blow the horn like in a real game? Because I just scored a goal. With the puck. Like you said I couldn’t.”

Logan slowly clapped his hands. “Yeah. Okay. I’m impressed. But it’s easy while standing still.”

“Oh, so now you’re moving the goalposts.”

He smiled smugly at me. “Just pointing out the difficulty of my profession.”

“I bet she can score while moving!” Braden shouted.

“Yeah!” I agreed. “I’ll score while skating!”

Logan nodded once. “Let’s see it. Start all the way back there, skate across the ice until you reach this face-off circle, and then shoot.” He drifted a few yards toward the goal and tapped his stick on the ice where a red circle was.

“With pleasure,” I said confidently.

By the time I skated to the far end of the rink, Logan had retrieved the puck and had sent it in my direction. I stopped it with my own stick, then began skating forward. Logan and the other professional hockey players maneuvered the puck skillfully, but I had to gently push it out in front of my skates over and over. When I reached center ice I pushed the puck too far forward, and I had to pick up some speed to catch up with it. Now I was moving fast, as fast as I had ever skated in our warm-up. The face-off circle was growing rapidly, with the goal just beyond it.

When my skates crossed over the red paint, I turned my stick sideways and fired. It was a faster shot than the first time, and less perfect too, but it still barely landed in the goal.

“She shoots, she scores!” Braden shouted.

I raised my stick high while doing a victory lap. I didn’t say a word to Logan; I just grinned widely while skating circles around him.

“What now?” I demanded. “Going to give me another, more difficult challenge? Or have I satisfied your requirements?”

“I’m pretty satisfied,” he admitted. “Fuck, I’mimpressed.”

I held the stick horizontal across my body and skated directly at Logan. “Then you’d better start thinking about how you’re going to pay me for such an impressive feat.”

Before I could crash into him, he caught my stick and brought me to a stop with ease. “Already thought of it. I’m cooking you dinner.”

A few feet to our left, Braden gasped, “WHAT!” He quickly lost his balance, skates sliding back and forth cartoonishly, before he fell backwards and landed on his butt. He let his head rest back against the ice and groaned.

“Go ahead. Laugh at me. You promised you would,” he said.

“I fully intended to, but now it just feels mean.”

“Like kicking a three-legged puppy,” Logan agreed.

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