Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
CONNOR
“Watch out for the puck,” I yell as ten tiny humans fly by me on the ice.
Their size makes them move even faster across the ice than any of my six-foot teammates can manage, creating a chaotic mess of colors and swinging sticks. “Jonah, don’t forget to pass!”
“Sorry, Coach!” his little voice carries back to me. He hands the puck over to Zak, who makes a full stop, adjusting his hold on his stick before he takes off on shaky legs, the rest of the team not far behind him as they travel the length of the Southbay Community Rink.
I’ve spent my free time here for as long as I can remember.
It used to be the old campus rink, back when Dad played for the Wolves.
That was more than twenty years ago, and long before the new state-of-the-art arena on campus was even a consideration.
He used to take me here for lessons as a kid when we still lived in the city and his biggest dream was to see me in Southbay blue.
After he passed away, I started coming back.
Now the paint on the railing is peeling and more than half of the plastic seats in the stands are broken or missing, but it still feels like home.
I rub my gloved hands together, watching from the sidelines and trying to keep my attention on the kids instead of drifting somewhere it shouldn’t.
The sound of wood clattering on the ice drags my attention back to the center of the rink, where a kid-sized hockey stick lies abandoned on the ice. Across the rink from me, its owner is frowning at it from where he’s clinging onto the boards to keep him upright.
“You need to hold on to your stick when you pass,” I call out to Elias before I haul myself over the half wall and onto the ice.
I skate toward him, bending with ease and snatching up his hockey stick. He looks at me with big round eyes when I skate closer, as if I’ve just done the most elaborate trick.
He wobbles on his skates, letting go of the wall to clutch his stick with both hands when I hand it to him. “That was cool.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. It always kills me how easily impressed these kids are.
“Keep practicing and you’ll be able to do that soon,” I tell him before I clap his shoulder in encouragement and give him a little push. It’s absolute chaos when he joins the other kids in the corner, but at least they’re all still standing. For now.
“Looking good out there, Coach.”
I glance up to find the old coach resting against the barriers, his feet firmly planted on the floor in the players’ box and the same ball cap he’s been wearing for the past ten years pulled low on his head.
It’s worn out and tattered, but I can’t imagine him without it.
Just like I can’t imagine this place without him.
While Dad taught me how to skate, Garett Anderson taught me how to play the game.
I owe him everything—when Dad passed away, I used to sit on the bleachers, my skates tossed at my feet and no intention of ever getting back on the ice, until he pulled me off the bench and told me to do something productive with my time.
Then he shoved a clipboard in my hands and left me with twenty kids staring up at me, none of them able to keep their balance on the ice. I’ve been coming back every week since.
I skate toward him, keeping one eye on the kids as they fly back across the ice, all of them giving chase to Jonah who’s got the puck in his possession again. “Thanks.”
“Have you ever thought about doing this full time?”
“Here? You would need to start bringing on more teams then.” I chuckle, even though I know that’s not what he means. It’s not the first time we’ve had this conversation, and it’s not the first time I’ve tried avoiding it either.
Everyone keeps pushing me to make a decision about my future, but I already know what I want. I’m going to graduate early and move home to take care of my family. Mom. Sarah. Ellie. That’s the only thing that matters. I just haven’t told anyone yet.
I know the team is expecting me to become a free agent, ever since I dropped out of the draft last year.
Mom keeps telling me the same thing. The problem is, for as much as I love the game, I’m not sure I want hockey to be my life.
The notoriety and bouncing from city to city just doesn’t appeal to me the way it used to.
Losing Dad changed everything. Now, I want to hold on to every moment I have with the people I love.
So, I’m moving home as soon as I’ve got my diploma in hand.
Coach’s face drops, his gaze distant as it tracks across the ice. “There are plenty of other teams out there in need of a good coach.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” I joke, knowing full well this man would take a bullet for me.
He clears his throat. “Connor,” he says, sounding all too serious for my liking.
I tense.
Holy shit, maybe he is firing me. Can you even fire a volunteer?
I skate closer, my attention fully on this man who’s been like an uncle to me ever since I can remember.
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I guess I’ll just say it.” He pauses, pulling the hat off his head so he can run his fingers over his graying hair. “It’s over, kid.”
“What’s over? They’ve still got fifteen more minutes of ice time.”
He shakes his head, his eyes on the team while mine are firmly on him, trying to read his expression the way I’ve always thought I could. Except he’s giving nothing away in this moment. “They’re shutting down the rink.”
My heart stops in my chest. My knees feel weaker, and my feet threatens to give out under me. “You can’t.”
Tired eyes find mine. “It’s not up to me, kiddo. This place is bust and all out of funding. The council has already decided to redevelop it.”
“You’re fucking with me.” The words are out before I can stop them. I glance back at the kids, making sure none of them heard me. Then I lean in closer, keeping my voice low. “Tell me this is a joke.”
He sighs. “I wish it was.”
“What about the team?”
He glances at the kids over my shoulder. They’re still whisking away on the ice, oblivious to the fact that my world is crumbling right here next to them. “There’s not much point in keeping a hockey team when there’s no rink.”
“There has to be something you can do about it.”
He shakes his head, slumping against the rafters. “I’ve already used up all of my resources. That’s how we’ve been keeping afloat for the last year. There’s nothing more that can be done. It’s time to say goodbye to this place.”
I think I’m going to vomit or pass out. Whichever it is, it better drag me out of this nightmare. “When?”
“They’re planning on selling within the next few months.”
The silence is heavy between us while I do the math, trying to figure out how long I have.
Behind me, Elias sinks the puck into the goal, a firm grasp still on his stick as the kids crowd around him to celebrate.
I keep my head low, pretending not to have seen so that none of the kids see the heartbreak on my face.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Who’s going to tell them?”
His hand comes down on my shoulder the way it used to when I was a kid. He squeezes once. “They are going to want to hear it from their coach.”
Fuck.
Behind me, Jonah laughs when Mads takes another pass at him, ice shavings flying everywhere. The kid has just learned to turn “like the pros” and he’s making a point to do it every time he can. There’s no way I can tell them.
Hockey was my safe space growing up. If someone had told me I could no longer play, that my safe space was being taken away, I would’ve crumbled.
I feel like I still might.
“It doesn’t have to be today,” he says, sensing my mood.
“But soon.” I say the words he’s holding back. He nods.
“Sometimes it’s best to just rip the Band-Aid off,” he tells me. Then he taps his knuckles against the railing, eyes lingering on the ice for a second, before he turns and heads back the way he came from. And I’m left feeling like my whole world is shattering and there’s nothing I can do about it.
When the kids all scramble off the ice twenty minutes later, I almost do it. I can feel the words on the tip of my tongue, welling up like the tears I’m trying to hold back.
But then Jonah looks up from trying to undo his skates, eyes wide with excitement. “Did you see that goal, C?” He’s grinning like he won the Stanley Cup. “Did you see how it flew by Mads? He couldn’t even stop it.”
I swallow the words and crouch down to help him undo the tie on his skates instead. He always ties them too tightly and never knows which toggle to pull to get the bow unwrapped. “I saw buddy.”
“I’ll get two next week.”
I can’t help the sad laugh that escapes me. He could barely stay up straight the first month of practice. Now he’s boasting about his first goal.
“I can’t wait to see it.”
I’ll tell them next week, I promise myself, as the last of them filter out of the arena with their parents in tow. Next week. Maybe.