Page 37 of In The Game

I have each kid gather up three pucks, two of those will be used as markers on the ice. Then I instruct them how to practice stick handling by doing figure eights around each of the other pucks.

“Remember, with accuracy, comes speed. Once you feel comfortable with staying in control of your eights, then you can worry about getting faster.”

“Coach Conway, how fast can you do eights?”

I smile and line up my pucks, swiftly weaving between the two. The kids laugh and cheer. “Keep practicing and you’ll be faster than me. My buddy Sully is the king of these.”

They skate off into their areas and practice. I skate around and give pointers here and there.

“Nice job, Collins.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Jer, I want you to work on your reaction time, get your stick ahead of the puck faster when you’re capturing. Let me see you do it again . . .”

He just needs to turn his wrist a little quicker.

“Watch my wrist, I’ve got a grip, but my elbow is loose.” I show him how to twist his stick faster. “Now you try it.”

He mirrors my movement, and the smile that grows on his face feels as good as my last hat trick.

“That was perfect! See how much faster you can gain control? Keep at it. Might feel a little awkward now, but keep practicing, and before long, you won’t have to even think about it.”

“Thanks, Coach. Hey . . . um . . . do you have any spots left this summer? I really wanna go, but my mom said she has to work and wouldn’t be able to drop me off.”

“Do you have another parent that could drop off?”

“My dad isn’t—”He doesn’t need to say anymore. I understand.

“You live in town here?”

“No, I’m out in the county.”

“Where’s your mom tonight?”

He points her out in the stands, and she waves.

“Have your mom meet me after practice and we’ll figure something out. That shouldn’t be a problem.” I slap his shoulder pad.

“Thanks, Coach!”

We have a few players who need help with transit. It should be easy to work out a minor transportation problem if getting to the bus is an issue. A lot of the kids at Camp Conway come from single-parent homes. Mostly women. I can’t even imagine the amount of pressure those moms are under to work full-time, maintain a home, put food on the table, raise kids, and on top of all that, get their kids involved in extracurricular activities. How the hell do they do it?

Raleigh is one of those moms.At least I think she is. Her shithead boss sure didn’t seem deterred. She hasn’t given me the time of day to find out if there’s a man in the picture. A sick thought passes through my brain:I hope she doesn’t have a partner to help her.It’s so fucked up. I would never want her to struggle raising a child alone, but she’s the only woman I’ve been able to think about for years. I want them both. And if that kidismine, then there sure as hell better not be any other man doing my job.

* * *

After coaching, I kick my feet up on the sofa in my office and call home.

“Hey, Mom,” I say over the phone.

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s nice to hear from you. What are you up to today?” She’s always happy to hear from me or my brother.

“Just going through some old stuff. Hey, do you have any of my baby pictures?”

She laughs. “Hundreds. Why?”

Grabbing a puck off the coffee table in front of me, I toss it in the air.

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