14. Jaxon
Jaxon
This is not what I had in mind when I told my brothers I wanted to coach.
I lean against the door of my truck, unsure if I want to walk into the same community ice rink I practiced in as a kid.
Right after my injury, Mom told me that the youth league needed a coach. I forgot about it until Summer brought it up. Truth is, I was hoping for an NHL call.
A car parks right next to me, and a kid climbs out with a hockey stick and a bag.
He looks me over. “Wait. Are you that hockey player?”
“I don’t play anymore.” It still sounds strange coming from my mouth. Being a hockey player has always been my identity. Or rather, it was until the injury changed everything. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t made that irreversible, split-second decision.
Each choice in my life has been like a line of dominoes toppling over. My decision during that game landed me back on the farm, and being home led me here—the rink where it all started.
“Are you gonna be our new coach?” the boy asks.
I shake my head. “Just here to watch.”
“Well, we’re awful. I wouldn’t even want to watch us.” Then he trudges off toward the rink.
This team used to be good when Rhett and I played. The Golden Springs Stars made me who I am today, but it’s obviously changed since then.
I pull my ball cap down and follow the boy inside.
I look around at the bare-bones arena that hasn’t been touched in a few decades.
The boards are peeling, a few lights are out overhead, and the entire place needs some paint and a facelift.
But it still smells exactly the same as it did when I was a kid, like a weird mixture of sweat and popcorn.
“Jaxon Chance? What are you doing here?”
I turn around. A man about ten years older than me with a bushy beard and a Golden Springs Feed Supply hat comes over. “You don’t know me, but I knew your mom and dad. I’m Dave Winston. What brought you here tonight?”
“Just wanted to stop by my old stomping grounds.” I don’t dare breathe a word about coaching.
“Great,” he says, face brightening. “I’m filling in since the last coach left. I keep the books for the team. Never played a day in my life.”
He glances over at a group of kids swatting each other with hockey sticks. “Boys, knock it off!” Then he turns back to me. “Could you maybe offer a few tips?” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Actually, I’m pretty desperate for help.”
“I can stay. But so we’re clear, I’m not used to teaching kids.”
He presses his palms together. “Thank you so much. We’ll need all the help we can get against the Oak Hills team this season.”
“Who?” I don’t remember a team with that name.
“Hank Branford’s new team. He wanted his boys to play, so he started a hockey team over in Oak Hills. Guess our team wasn’t good enough for him.”
I frown. “Did you say…Hank Branford?”
“Yep.”
The man has his finger in every pie in these parts.
“He’s the money behind it,” Dave explains. “Only wanted the best for his sons. State-of-the-art equipment, the best coaches, everything. I’m surprised he didn’t ask you to coach.”
“He knows I would’ve turned him down,” I say, watching the kids goof off on the ice. “What level would you say the team is at?”
“Mostly beginners.” Dave points at a few boys. “Guys, don’t whack your sticks like that! Maybe do some laps or something?”
The boys groan, then start skating.
Dave turns back to me with a sigh. “The Golden Springs team used to be pretty competitive. But since donations have run dry, we’ve struggled. And Hank didn’t want to support our team because it’s a nonprofit.”
The players circle the rink like they have all night. It’s obvious they need new equipment and a real coach. Right now, they look like a ragtag group who’ve never played before.
“Golden Springs and Oak Hills have a rivalry going,” he says. “But we don’t even have a chance of winning without a coach.”
The boys start laughing, poking each other as they skate. They’re not even pretending to warm up.
“Boys!” Dave calls. “Let’s start practice.”
Nobody pays him any attention except one girl. “Hey, I’m not a boy!”
“I meant team,” Dave says. “Everyone, listen up!”
But no one even bothers looking at him. I put two fingers to my lips and let out a whistle sharp enough to bust your eardrums. Every head snaps toward me.
“Your coach is talking,” I command. “Get over here and listen to him.”
They immediately quiet down, then drift over, bumping and stumbling into each other on the way.
“Who’s that?” one of them asks, pointing at me.
“It’s a Chance brother, dumbhead,” another says, whacking him on the back of his head. “He’s a professional hockey player.”
“Is your name Rhett?” a third kid asks.
“No, I’m Jaxon. The other hockey player in the family.” The brother who has apparently been demoted to youth leagues. “I used to play for the Carolina Crushers.”
“The Crushers?” A kid in the back makes a face. “Are they any good?”
“They’re a great team, actually.”
“Did you play in the NHL?”
“One season. The rest of the time I played for the AHL.”
The kid from the parking lot raises his hand. “I thought you said you were just here to watch.”
“Your coach asked me to stay,” I say.
“Would you want to run the practice?” Dave asks eagerly. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble?”
Dave is clearly one step away from losing it with this team. I give him credit for stepping up. “I don’t have anything prepared.”
“That’s okay.” Dave brightens. “I’m sure you’re more prepared than I am. And the team would love to learn from a pro.” He turns to the group. “Right, guys?”
Two kids nod half-heartedly. The rest aren’t even paying attention.
“All right.” I clap my hands to get their attention. “Line up in two lines, facing each other. You’re going to pass the puck back and forth. Last person shoots on goal. Who’s our goalie?”
A hand shoots up from the back of the group. The team parts, and a girl skates forward.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Didn’t see you.”
“I’m too short to be seen,” she says with a shrug.
“Are you the goalie?”
She nods. “Aunt Summer told me I had to be, since none of the boys wanted to volunteer.”
“She’s not your real aunt,” a boy says.
“I know that!” she says. “She’s my mom’s friend.”
Aunt Summer? I turn, expecting to see someone else. But there she is, sitting in the bleachers with her blonde hair curling softly around her shoulders.
Summer lifts her hand slowly and waves to me. No wonder she wanted me to volunteer with the team. It all makes sense. And now she’s watching me mess up in real time.
I turn back to the little girl. “What’s your name?”
“Remi.” She has two long braids that stick out from her helmet, and she’s only half the size of some of the boys. She’s going to get destroyed out there.
“Okay, Remi, get into your position,” I say. “Everyone else, get into two lines. And take it easy on the goalie.”
They take ten minutes to form the worst line ever, and once they finally figure that out, what follows is the most chaotic sequence of passing drills I have ever witnessed.
Two boys spend twenty seconds arguing about who goes first, then a smaller kid trips over his own skate and takes down the boy next to him.
We try again. This time goes better—we actually pass it down the line, albeit very slowly, until the final shot, which sails so wide of the net it might as well be in the next county.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. This team is a disaster. They can’t pass. They can’t shoot. They can’t even line up.
Dave leans in. “That’s better than anything I’ve gotten them to do.”
Two kids chase down the puck and then start hitting each other with their sticks.
I hold up my hands. “Okay. Stop. Let me show you how to do it.”
I thought showing up unprepared would mean I wouldn’t have to actually participate. Not my smartest move. But I used to do this without skates all the time when the pond would freeze over.
I step onto the rink, then nod to the kid with the shaggy hair. “What’s your name?”
“Bailey.”
“Okay, Bailey, come down here with the puck,” I say. “Then pass it right here, on the line.” I point to where I want it.
I hit the puck to him, but instead of scrambling for it, he watches it slide right past him.
“You were supposed to get that.” I motion toward the puck.
“I didn’t know you were passing it!”
I close my eyes and let out a breath through my teeth. “Let’s try it again,” I grind out.
Bailey follows me down the ice. When I crouch to get the puck, he takes a full swing with his stick without checking where I am.
I don’t see it coming until the last second, and by then it’s too late—the stick catches me square in the forehead, hard enough to knock me back a step.
The entire team erupts in laughter as I reach to see if there’s blood. My hand comes away clean, but that doesn’t help the shooting pain.
“I’m so sorry!” Bailey says, totally horrified. “I didn’t know you were there!”
“Give me a minute,” I mutter, holding my forehead. I blink, waiting for the room to stop spinning. The ice is the one place I’m supposed to have it together.
“Take five, team.” The kids skate off while I lean against the boards, holding my head in my hands. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. When I open them, Summer is standing before me, brow pinched, holding out an ice pack.
“Where’d you find that?” I ask.
“First aid kit,” she says. “Hold still.”
“I can do it—”
She doesn’t listen, just presses it to my forehead, and I hiss in pain. “Dang, that’s cold.”
“Give it a minute.”
I close my eyes, just so I don’t have to look at her. The cold numbs the pain almost immediately. Or maybe it’s her, standing this close, that’s doing it. She keeps her hand on the cold pack, her arm brushing my shoulder, sending a current through my body. Clearly, I’m not thinking straight.
“You don’t have to stay,” I mutter.
“I’m staying anyway,” she insists.
Of course she is. She has no idea what kind of effect she’s having on me.
“I didn’t know you were coming to practice,” I say.
“I bring Remi twice a week. Her mom works second shift.” She adjusts the pack slightly. “Single mom, like mine. I know what it’s like to miss out on things.”
I open one eye. “You had nobody else?”
“Not really.” She says it matter-of-factly, with no self-pity. “Which is why I’m here.”
“Look at it this way. If you’d competed in sports, you might never have ended up on the farm, and we’d never have known each other.”
“Are you saying I should be grateful for my deprived childhood?” Her lips twitch.
“I’m saying sometimes the things we think we miss work out in the end.”
She tilts her head. For reasons that have nothing to do with Lucky Chance, I’m glad she ended up here.
“Speaking of things working out,” I say, my voice thick, “why are you being kind to me?”
I don’t even know what to make of the way she ran over here to help me.
She shifts on her feet. “We’re partners now, Jaxon. Plus, you’re doing Remi a favor.”
I give her a look. “Doesn’t mean you can talk me into staying for the season.”
“I know,” she says. “But those kids have never met a real hockey player before.”
I shake my head. “I’m not a hockey player anymore.”
“You don’t have to stop calling yourself one. To this team, you’re a legend.”
I look at her, my chest buckling tight. “Thanks, but I’m not sure that’s true anymore.”
She points to the team. “They’ve never had someone like you. You could teach them how to love this sport.”
I watch as they start practicing the drill I taught them. They’re slow and uncoordinated, but they’re doing it right this time. This might not be the coaching job I wanted, but if nothing else, I can teach them teamwork.
“Thanks, Summer. I…” I get cut off by the boys arguing about who gets to take the next shot. “Now, excuse me while I wrangle some kids.” I turn back to the team and whistle. Everyone stops what they’re doing.
“Hey team, do you want to win this season?” I look them all over. “Do you?”
“Yes!” a few of them shout.
“Is that it? If you want to play, say it louder.”
“YES!” They all shout this time.
“Then get back in line.” I point to center ice. “Because from now on, we’re doing this right.”
A small hand goes up. Remi’s.
“What?” I set my hands on my hips.
She tilts her head. She definitely has the cute thing down. “Are you our new coach?”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you’re acting like one,” she says.
I glance over at Summer, who’s now smirking.
“I’m not making any promises,” I tell her. “But if you’re willing to try—” I look at each of them. “Then so am I.”