Chapter 5 Bill
five
Bill
I stand firm in my spot at the far end of the rink, clipboard in hand, headset buzzing with the chatter on the other side. The air’s crisp, but the sun shines through clouds in patches, glinting a sheen off the ice. Even with the sunshine, it’s not any warmer, and I pull my coat tighter.
“We’re all set,” Coach’s voice crackles in my ear. “The first group of guys is hitting the ice.”
“Copy that.” I flip the page on my clipboard to find the group one player bios. I’ve been over these pages so many times, the numbers and names blur together.
Until I catch one that stands out.
#19 – Noah Miller: Local. Fast. Inconsistent puck handling.
That’s the kid who fell right in front of me during the final drill, but his speed was undeniable. My eyes lift from the clipboard and scan the ice.
Players are warming up, and pucks are already banging against the boards. I take roll call in my head: #22, #1, #8…but no #19. “Hey, guys, anyone got eyes on nineteen?” I ask into the mic.
“Not on the bench,” Coach replies. “Might be a scratch.”
Strange.
I read his bio again.
Local kid. No travel barrier. The weather is cold, but the roads should be clear, so that’s not an excuse. I frown but shift my attention back to the drills as the first shooter, #12, takes his shot.
It’s smooth.
Then another. And another.
I glance down. #12 – Axl Erikson. Nebraska.
“Boy, that kid from the Midwest’s got hands,” I say into the mic as I’m already marking a check next to his name.
“He’s a lock,” Coach says, sounding satisfied. “No question about that one. If we don’t grab him, someone else will.”
I nod, about to make a note about his speed when “Excuse me!” a voice calls out from behind me.
I ignore it, thinking it’s not for me.
“Hi! Sorry! Uh—hellooooo?” The voice is getting closer.
I press my earpiece tighter, trying to hear the guys as this person is now next to me and is being awfully loud.
“Hey, Mr. Baker?” the voice continues, and I turn slowly, already bracing myself to be irritated. When I glance up, my breath stalls.
It’s Ruth from yesterday. That kid’s mother. She’s wearing the same beanie on her head, and her cheeks are flushed pink to match her coat. She’s grinning, but it’s the kind of smile people wear when they’re faking a good day.
Before I have a chance to say anything, she exhales in a rush. “Yes. Hi. I’m sorry to interrupt you. I know you are very busy with super important things like running this team, and this is not the time, but, uh, I must talk to you about my son, number nineteen.”
I lower my clipboard, half-annoyed, but my curiosity is certainly piqued. “He’s not on the ice.”
“I know. He’s had a school thing.” Her words cut off all choppy, like she’s already choking back tears.
“He’s eighteen, but still in high school, and he got called into a meeting about his grades.
It was the only time he could meet with the teacher and the counselor.
I couldn’t move it, so I, uh, told him I moved the tryout. ”
I squint. “You what?”
“I told him I talked to you, and you agreed to move it to later,” she says, her cheeks fluster into a deeper shade of red.
“I didn’t want him to miss the school meeting, and I didn’t want him to panic, because he has a serious anxiety disorder.
Once he has a panic attack, it’s over. Okay, I know how that sounds.
I do. But I needed him to go to the school, because if he doesn’t get his grades up, he’s not eligible to play anywhere.
Shoot, he might not even graduate. And I have worked too many night shifts at the diner to have him not graduate.
So, failing math isn’t an option. And I thought maybe I could somehow ask very nicely…
” Her words fall off, and she stares at me, batting these thick lashes that make me double take.
“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly, as I’m more entertained at this point than I’m annoyed. “You assumed you could reschedule a professional team tryout?”
She winces. “When you put it like that, it sounds so rude, but yes, sort of. But also, I didn’t really assume.
Assume is such an imposing word. I will assure you; I don’t want to be an imposition to you.
I’m more than happy to find a way to make this up.
I wasn’t assuming anything. It was definitely a hope and a prayer situation more than an assumption. ”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, involuntarily, I huff out a laugh. I get he is her son, but that isn’t fair to the guys who were here on time. They all had other stuff to do too, but they made my team a priority, as they should if they want to work for me.
Her eyes dart up. “Why are you laughing?”
“This is crazy.” I’m unable to help the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Going on, her voice cracks. “I don’t want him to lose everything before he ever gets a real chance.
He’s been dreaming about this since he was three.
Frankly, I’ve given up all my hopes and dreams for this.
Can you please consider staying late? I’ll pay for your time.
” She starts to reach for her worn purse slung over her shoulder, and that’s when I stop her.
“Look, ma’am.” I hold out my hand, stopping her from digging in her purse.
“You can call me Ruth.”
“Ruth.” I shift awkwardly, my fingers curling around the clipboard like it might shield me from how wrecked she looks. “You must understand how these things work. We need guys who can make this team their priority. If they can’t make it to their tryout, that’s a big sign about their loyalty.”
“I—I’m not saying he has to make the team, but he was so happy yesterday,” she stammers. “I messed this up, but can you at least pretend to let him try out?”
Before I can even respond, my headset crackles. “Bill, we need you down by the benches now.”
I glance over my shoulder, where everyone’s in a huddle, and then back at Ruth. “I have to go,” I tell her as my regret slips in.
She holds up her hand in a nonmoving wave. “Of course. Thank you for your time.”
I head down to the huddle, where the stats are being reviewed. It’s not as tough of a cut this time, because there are a few clear standouts. As the last whistle blows, I’m confident in the list of guys we’ve kept this round.
Amid the bustle, a small table has been set up where final decisions are being handed out.
One by one, players approach with tension visible on their faces.
Coach Carlson hands each skater a sheet of paper.
For some, the news is disappointing. I offer a firm handshake to everyone and try to encourage them to continue to work hard.
When Axl, my top pick, comes to the front of the group, the tone shifts.
I reach out to shake his hand with enthusiasm.
“Well done,” I say. “See you back here next weekend.”
“Thanks, sir.” He shakes my hand and sidesteps out of the way. That’s when something catches my gaze in my peripheral vision.
Ruth.
And jogging up to meet her in full gear, with his helmet under his arm, is her son, Noah. She turns to look at him with a frown and shakes her head, clearly saying something like it’s too late.
She doesn’t see me watching.
And something in me gives.
I don’t know what to call it. I’m not exactly the type of guy to hand out anything. I didn’t get where I am by getting pity. I find myself lifting my hand and calling across the ice, “Number nineteen! Glad you could finally make it. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Ruth whips her head around, and her eyes pop wide.
And me?
I already know I’m in trouble. I don’t see the point in carrying this out any longer. The guy isn’t good enough. He’ll be heartbroken in thirty minutes, but at least he’ll be mad at me and not his sweet mom. She seems to have enough guilt.
Not that I care about her guilt.
Call it my good deed for this decade.
Noah heads to the ice, and I speak into the headset.
“Coach, we have one more tryout. Can you head to the ice and let him run a drill?” I barely turn my gaze that way, and footsteps crunch in the snow coming from the other direction.
What do you know, Ruth is standing a few feet away from me, her arms crossed, most likely from the cold, but her eyes eagerly search for mine.
To be honest, the woman looks exhausted. Not like she got a bad night’s sleep, but from the kind of tired that piles up over a long time. "Hey," she says quietly.
I nod only once. “Hey.”
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I want to say thank you. We both know you didn’t want to do that, but I appreciate it." Her voice is sweet, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind her words.
“You don’t need to thank me.” I fix my focus back on the ice. Noah’s skating super-fast again. Lucky for him, this time he hasn’t wiped out yet.
A beat passes, and she goes on, “I’d like to repay you somehow.”
I shake my head. “That’s not necessary.”
She lets out a breath. It’s like someone who’s had to accept help more times than she’d like and is clenching to the last piece of pride.
“I know it’s not much, but I’ve got a little diner, just down the road,” she says, quieter now.
“It’s nothing special, but I’d love for you to stop by sometime when you're hungry, and it’s on the house. ”
I arch a brow. “Thanks for the offer, but that’s quite all right. I’m not exactly hurting for a meal.”
She smiles at that, but then her lips flatten. “I get it. You have better places to go.” She pauses, before adding with conviction, “We make a pretty decent stack of pancakes.”
“Pancakes?” I echo, as it’s starting to become clear this woman doesn’t ever give up on anything easily. First it was all about her son. Now it’s about her pancakes. She sure is tenacious. “Is that right?”
“They won the blue ribbon in five counties.”
I let myself smile at her now. I’ve finally figured her out. She’s not taking no for an answer. “Well,” I say, “I can’t say no to pancakes. I might try to get over there.”
I wait for her to come back with something else she needs me to do for her, but she’s quiet, and we stand still for a moment.
“Thank you again.” She nods once before she turns and strides back the way she came.
With the early morning sunlight casting on her rosy cheeks, the day suddenly feels warmer than it did before.
My eyes lock on her as she finds her spot back on the other side of the rink.
When I finally focus back on Noah, I’m not wondering when he’s going to wipe out again.
Instead, I wonder if pancakes sound good for dinner.