Chapter Eleven Harrison #2
“Alright, bud,” I say, glancing back at Connor, who is studying my every move with a surprising intensity. “You ready for this?”
He nods vigorously, eyes wide with excitement. “Yeah! I can do it!”
“Of course you can!” I encourage, trying to keep my tone light but focused. “Just remember to keep your knees bent, your center of gravity low and balanced, and your head up. You don’t want to lose sight of the puck.”
He nods, determination etched into his little features as he pushes himself off, wobbling slightly before he gathers some speed.
I can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he focuses on getting it right.
There’s a small moment of hesitation as his nerves nearly overpower him, but then he takes a deep breath, perhaps channeling my earlier advice about balance, and commits to the first spin.
“Here goes nothing!” he shouts as he begins his spin but no sooner does he start to turn then he trips over his own skate and tumbles.
I barely keep from bursting out laughing as Connor flops onto the ice, arms splayed out like a starfish.
Worry washes over me when I see him flop, but before I can skate over, he’s already getting back up with that same infectious grin.
“Oops! My bad! Next time, I’ll be a ninja!” he promises.
“Yeah, that was an excellent flop my man,” I tell him chuckling. “Happens to the best of us. Maybe don’t turn that foot in so much, yeah?”
He nods. “Got it. I’m going to try that again.”
“Good. Let’s see it.”
As he pushes off again, I feel that strange mix of pride and anxiety swell inside me. I want him to nail this spin, to experience that rush of accomplishment, just like I did when I was young.
“Here I go!” he shouts, and for a fleeting instant, the world around us blurs into insignificance. It’s just me, him, and that beautiful sheet of ice. With every twist and turn, my own heart skips a beat as he starts to spin.
“Keep it steady, bud!” I yell, and then, in true kid-fashion, he loses his balance again and topples over. Instead of frustration though, he bursts into laughter, echoing through the rink like a joyous anthem. “Did you see that?” he giggles as I skate over to help him up.
“I sure did! You were doing great! That first turn was excellent! You’re getting it. Just remember it takes practice. Even I didn’t nail every spin my first time. Sometimes you just gotta roll with it.” I steady him on his feet. “Want to try again?”
“Heck yeah! Ten more times!” He grins.
HA!
I think I love this kid already.
“Okay, okay. Let’s take a breath. How about we add a little rhythm to it this time? Like you’re dancing on the ice!”
“Dancing?” He raises an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued.
“Yep! Just picture it. You know how you feel when you’re playing video games and you’re really in it?”
He nods, eyes wide and serious, like I’ve unlocked some secret wisdom. “Yeah!”
“Try to feel that same vibe when you’re skating, okay? Just picture yourself in your video game and let your body move to the music in your head.”
Connor’s face lights up, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he imagines himself skating to some imaginary beat. “Like a DJ?” he asks, bouncing on his skates.
“Exactly!” I grin, leaning in slightly. “Let’s channel that energy. Just forget about everything else. You’re the DJ, and this is your dance floor.”
He giggles, shaking his head as if shaking off any remaining doubts, and then he pushes off again.
His small body glides across the ice, and I can see how he’s trying to incorporate movement, arms swinging, knees bending, his head bobbing just a bit.
It’s not perfect, but it’s alive, and that’s what matters.
“Here goes nothing!” he shouts, and as he tries to spin, he stumbles again, but this time he catches himself, spinning awkwardly but with a triumphant grin plastered across his face.
“See? There you go! That was even better!” I cheer, feeling the swell of pride in my chest. Watching him find his rhythm is exhilarating, like a rush of adrenaline and warmth and…something I can’t quite describe.
Once he balances himself back upright, he throws his fist in the air. “Whoa! That was epic! Did you see that, Coach? I did it!”
“Heck yeah you did! You’re getting the hang of it! You’re looking better and better each time you try it. See? That’s what it takes to be a superstar. Consistent growth and a positive attitude.” I offer him a high five, which he returns with exuberance. “I’m really proud of you, Connor.”
So, fucking proud!
“If you like that, check this out!” Connor pushes off his toe pick and does the equivalent of a football player’s touchdown celebration complete with shaking knees and this weird half spin. He spins himself around a few times and then brakes hard—too hard—and spins sideways, nearly eating ice.
“Whoa, whoa!” He flails but I reach him in two big pushes, grabbing his elbow and steadying him before he wipes out.
“Easy,” I say, voice low, instinctive, automatic. “Careful big guy. Control comes before speed.”
His cheeks flush, but he beams up at me. “Did I look cool though?”
My mouth twitches. “You looked…something.”
From the boards, Harper laughs softly. It’s quiet, but the sound yanks at me harder than a slap shot to the ribs. I turn just in time to see her leaning her forearms on the boards, chin resting on folded hands, watching me with this soft, unguarded expression.
One I haven’t seen since we were young and stupid.
And it hits me right in the chest.
I look away before I forget how to breathe. “Alright,” I say to Connor, clearing my throat, “let’s run a few drills.”
We run through edge drills, crossovers, and stick handling. The stuff he needs, the stuff most kids hate, but he’s focused, trying his best, glancing back at Harper every few minutes to make sure she’s watching.
Just like I used to.
Jesus.
He stops in front of me, panting. “You think I’m good enough for that travel team?”
His voice is small, worried.
This kid carries everything on his shoulders and I recognize it instantly. I kneel so we’re eye level.
“I think you’re good enough for anything if you want it.”
His eyes widen, hope lighting them up like a scoreboard. “You mean it?”
“Yeah, I mean it,” I tell him quietly. Placing a hand on his shoulder, I look him square in the eye and take this precious opportunity to make him a promise.
“I’ll never lie to you about hockey, Connor, okay?
Well,” I shrug, “I’ll never lie to you about anything, but when it comes to hockey, I’ll never be dishonest because I know how much it means to you…
and I know how much it means to me. If I tell you you’re going to be great, it’s because I see greatness in you, okay?
I believe in you. One hundred and seventy gazillion percent. ”
He freezes, his stick tucked under his arm, shoulders small and tight, eyes fixed on the scratched ice at his skate. He’s quiet for a moment and then his chin wobbles.
Fuck.
Oh hell.
Did I say the wrong thing?
I instantly regret saying anything that sounded even remotely serious to a ten-year-old.
“Hey,” I say gently, tapping my glove against his elbow. “C’mere.”
He sniffles once—just once—but it hits me harder than a cross-check to the ribs.
I drop to the ice, sitting right where we are, legs stretched out in front of me like an oversized kid.
“Sit,” I tell him, patting the ice beside me.
He hesitates, embarrassed, then plops down next to me with a quiet thud.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The rink is mostly empty, just the hum of the ventilation system and the faint echo of his skates shifting nervously beside mine.
“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
He wipes his nose with the back of his glove.
“I just…I really want this,” he whispers.
“I want to be good. I want to be on that travel team. I want to be like you someday. And when you said you wouldn’t lie about hockey…
that you believe in me…” His voice cracks again.
“Nobody ever says stuff like that to me.”
A slow ache spreads through my chest.
God. This kid.
“Connor,” I say, forcing past the tightness in my throat, “you’re allowed to want things. Big things. And you’re allowed to care about them. That’s not something you ever have to be embarrassed about.”
He nods, but his shoulders stay tense.
I lean back on my palms. “You know why I said I wouldn’t lie to you?”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve honesty. Because you work hard. And because…” I swallow, the truth too big to fit into words. “You remind me a lot of myself at your age.”
He looks up, eyes wide and shiny. “Really?”
Fuck, his glistening baby blues are killing me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Same determination. Same fire. Same…tendency to overthink every little thing. Same willingness to do silly little dance moves on the ice.”
He cracks a tiny, watery smile.
Phew.
That’s better.
“So,” I add, bumping his shoulder with mine, “if you’re ever scared you’re not good enough, or confused about something, or you just need someone to talk hockey feelings with…” I gesture between us. “I’m right here. You don’t have to hold all that in.”
His throat bobs and he bows his head. “I don’t like Mom to see me cry.”
“Why not? Crying is a perfectly natural emotional response to whatever you’re feeling.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I used to hear her cry a lot when she thought I couldn’t hear her. Sometimes I still hear her.”
Shit.
Fuck.
Hell.
Dammit.
I don’t know how to do kids and adult emotions.
“I think your mom is very, very brave, you know why?”
He tilts his head to peer up at me, his soft sniffle still scratching at my heart.
“Because she raised you, and you’re a great kid, and raising great kids isn’t easy when you’re doing it all alone. She’s strong, your mom. Do you know that?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“So sometimes she might need to cry because her feelings are so big she needs to let them out somehow. It doesn’t mean she’s always sad or mad or scared.
” I reach over and wrap my hand around the back of Connor’s head.
“And it never means it’s your fault. Sometimes adults need to cry it out just like kids do.
And that’s okay. Crying is kind of like puking.
Once you do it, you usually feel a little better. ”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Absolutely. Heck, I just cried not too long ago.” The moment I sobbed in the locker room shower pops back into my mind.
Connor’s eyes grow huge. “You did?”
“Yep.”
“Because you were sad?”
I consider his question. “Well, I think I was sad and mad and frustrated and overwhelmed and just had a lot of feelings inside me that I didn’t know how to let go of. So, I let my body and my heart do what it needed to do.”
“Hmm,” he says, picking at the ice between his knees. “And did you feel better?”
“A little, yeah.” I nod. “We cry because we care. That’s all. We have big feelings sometimes because we care.” I lean over and whisper, “And yeah, even hockey players care.”
He seems to take that in, then he nods firmly, as if filing it away for future reference. After a few seconds, he leans slightly—just slightly—against my arm. It’s not enough that it would look like anything from afar. But enough that I feel it.
Enough that it matters.
“Thanks, Coach Harrison,” he murmurs.
I stare straight ahead, pretending my heart isn’t about to detonate. “Anytime, bud.”
Behind us, Harper shifts. I can feel her eyes on me, so I have Connor pick up the pucks for me and put them in the bucket.
When he takes off Harper steps closer to the boards, just a few feet from me.
I skate toward her before I can talk myself out of it.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat.
“Everything okay?”
“Oh yeah,” I tell her, playing off the conversation I just had with my son. “He’s a natural. Just wanted him to know I believe in him.”
“You’re really good with him,” she says softly.
“You surprised?”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “No. Just…seeing it…it’s…different.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is tight and loaded. Her eyes shimmer, like she’s trying not to feel everything at once.
Just like I told Connor…adults with big feelings.
I grip the top of the boards so I won’t reach for her because fuck, do I want to reach for her. “He’s a great kid,” I say. “You did an amazing job. You’re doing an amazing job.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue—because Harper Richardson never takes credit for anything good—but then she closes them and nods. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Connor calls my name, breaking the moment.
I turn, raising my hand. “Coming, bud!”
When I look back at Harper, she’s watching me like she’s trying to memorize something.
Me.
This.
Us.
And for the first time in ten years…
I let her.