11. Timothy
Chapter eleven
Timothy
The next morning, I pull an abandoned goalie pad from the fence beside the outdoor rink.
It is damp, stiff, and cold.
I turn it over as though I am inspecting the straps for damage.
What I am actually doing is waiting for Bethany.
I catch myself rehearsing a casual hello in my head.
I find a shovel leaning against the equipment shed and start clearing a path toward the gate.
When I test one of the boards with my glove, the wood gives beneath my fingers and leaves a splinter lodged in the leather.
Soft. Rotten.
I mutter something my mother would not approve of.
There's a metaphor in here somewhere. Something about neglect and letting things go too long without fixing them.
I refuse to finish that thought.
Cold air bites at my ears while I work. Every few minutes, I glance toward the road.
Then the porch.
Then the empty stretch beside the lodge where Bethany usually parks.
Her truck is not there yet.
Jonah appears at the porch rail with a coffee mug.
"You're out here early," he says.
"It's my assignment," I say.
“Sure.” He takes a slow drink.
“It’s not about Bethany,” I say.
Jonah lowers the mug. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“I never said it was.”
I go back to shoveling. Jonah says something on his way inside but I didn't hear him. I am focused on the snow and my shovel and ignoring him.
Once I am alone again, I find a plastic storage crate frozen halfway into the snow beside the shed.
I grab both handles and pull.
Nothing.
I brace one boot against the shed and tug harder. The lid gives way. Pucks spill across the snow in every direction. One spins toward the fence, making a determined break for freedom.
I chase it down through the slush like an idiot.
By the time I catch it, one knee of my jeans is wet and my dignity has suffered a direct hit.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, imaginary Bethany is writing poor planning on her clipboard in tidy block letters.
I tell myself the extra effort is about the team. About getting things ready for us to use this rink.
I hear tires on the gravel, and my stomach does a little flip.
One quick glance confirms it's Bethany's truck.
Bethany steps out, clipboard already in hand.
"Wow." She takes in the scattered pucks. "Are you testing the rink already? Or just your patience?"
I open my mouth for a comeback and produce a short, useless laugh instead. I keep collecting pucks as she walks the perimeter, making notes.
"You started without me," she says.
She points to the shoveled area.
"Didn't want to look completely useless," I say.
I drift closer while she makes another note.
The moment I notice, I step back again.
Bethany doesn't seem to notice.
We crouch together at a warped panel. The six inches between us are suddenly very small.
Bethany reaches toward the damaged wood, and her glove lands beside mine. I try to refocus on the task at hand.
The boards are old. Fascinating. Riveting stuff, splinters.
“This section is rotted through,” she says, entirely focused on the wood.
I nod as though I am equally focused.
I am not.
I can smell her morning coffee, and the gentle scent of her shampoo.
Bethany presses the end of her pen against the clipboard.
“Why does this place matter so much to you?”
I glance toward the lodge.
“The team already has real facilities,” she adds. “Better ones.”
“Yeah, but only during scheduled practices.” I scrape snow from the base of the boards with my glove. “And some of the guys do not fit anywhere else yet.”
Bethany waits.
“This can be a place that doesn’t ask anyone to be the star. It doesn’t care who gets the interviews or the best contract. It just gives us somewhere to show up.”
I snap my mouth shut.
Great. Now I sound like a greeting card.
At the broken gate, she pauses.
Her gaze moves over the warped boards, the damaged crate, and the path I cleared through the snow.
Then it settles on me.
"You see potential where other people see junk," she says.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes.
I stand there in the cold with a pile of old pucks at my feet and Bethany looking at me.
For once, being seen does not feel like being measured and found lacking.
It feels like hope.