7. Something Bigger
Chapter seven
Something Bigger
Emma
Five Weeks Later, November
F ive weeks after the Ridgemont loss, Luke Anderson is on his knees in front of a seven-year-old, and I’m remembering what hockey felt like before it became complicated.
“Bend your knees more,” he’s telling her (Lily, according to the crooked name tag on her oversized Silver Pine jersey). “Feel where your weight is? Keep it right there. Centered.”
The Silver Pine Community Youth Hockey Festival is, according to the banner Sloane and I helped hang this morning, “Where Future Wolves Are Born!” It’s also, what I’ve learned today, where I lose my mind watching my coach-slash-crush-for-forever be adorable with children for six consecutive hours.
Lily nods with the grave focus only small children and surgeons can pull off. She pushes the puck. It wobbles, drifts wide of the net. Her face crumples.
“Hey.” Luke catches her shoulder before the frustration lands, voice warm and patient and devastating all at once. “That was closer than the last one. Try again. This time, eyes on the net, not the puck.”
She tries again. Scores. Screams like she’s won the Stanley Cup.
Luke grins. It’s not the controlled coach smile I’ve seen on the bench for the last fourteen games, not the careful expression he wears when I catch him looking at me during drills. It’s the version of him that exists when he forgets anyone is watching.
And at a children’s charity event with a seven-year-old staring at him? Yeah, I feel that in my ovaries. Damn him.
We’re 11-1-2 heading into Thanksgiving break. Only one loss against Ridgemont. Somehow (cough, cough, the man with the corded forearms who is my coaching partner today), we’ve managed to grab first place in our conference. A position no one assumed we’d be in at this point of the season.
“Coach Emma!” Lily’s already pivoting toward me with energy that feels bottomless. “Can you teach me the spinny thing? The one you did in warm-ups?”
“The spin-o-rama?” I crouch to her level. “That’s an advanced move, Lily.”
“I can do advanced.”
I glance at Luke over her head. He’s fighting a smile. “She reminds me of someone.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say who.”
“You didn’t have to.” I turn back to Lily. “Alright. Watch first.”
I demonstrate it slow. The pivot, the weight transfer, the moment where you commit to the turn and trust your edges to hold. Lily watches with her whole body, leaning into each movement like she can absorb it through proximity.
She tries. Wobbles. Nearly goes down.
Luke’s there instantly, one hand on her shoulder, the other guiding her balance. “Wider base. And don’t rush the turn. Let it come to you.”
“Like this?” Lily adjusts, tries again. Better. Not perfect, but better.
“There you go,” I tell her.
We fall into it without deciding to. Luke handles the mechanics, I demonstrate the flow, the two of us pass instruction back and forth like we’ve been doing this together for years instead of since he insisted the team “do more community events”.
Then again, we kind of have done this for years.
“Weight on your inside edge,” he says.
“And commit to the turn,” I add. “If you hesitate—”
“You’ll lose your balance,” we finish together.
Lily doesn’t notice. She’s too busy attempting her fourth spin-o-rama, tongue between her teeth, completely consumed by the simple joy of trying something hard and getting a little better each time.
I was her once. Before the scholarships and the scouts and the pressure and the boys and the tattoo and the reasons I left BC that I still haven’t fully said out loud.
Back when ice was the one place where the world made sense.
Lily doesn’t know any of that yet. Lily just thinks the spinny thing is cool.
For just that moment, I envy her so much it aches.
Then Lily nails it. A full spin-o-rama, messy but complete. She lets out a shriek of pure delight, and the cold in my chest melts into something warmer. Something I’ve been missing.
This. This is why I play.
“Did you SEE that?!” Lily’s vibrating.
“I saw it.” Luke’s smiling at her, but his eyes flick to me just for a heartbeat. There’s something in them that tells me he saw more than Lily’s spin-o-rama. He saw whatever just moved across my face.
He always sees too much.