Chapter 6
“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got for you champ,” Patti’s voice boomed from inside the storage room, her arms already full of gear that looked like it had lived a dozen hockey lives. She plunked a pair of shin guards down on the bench beside Connor, then rummaged deeper.
The storage room itself looked like it hadn’t seen a proper clean-out in years.
Stacks of mismatched gear were piled against the walls, shin pads teetering in a tower that looked one bump away from collapse, helmets with faded stickers shoved into laundry baskets, and boxes labelled in thick black marker–GLOVES (sorta good), PANTS (questionable), NECK GUARDS (use at own risk).
The air smelled faintly of sweat and leather, with the sharp tang of disinfectant barely covering it.
A single flickering bulb buzzed overhead, casting long shadows over the mess.
“These’ll keep your legs in one piece. Elbow pads? Got’em. Gloves? Might smell like wet dog, but they’ll do.”
Connor’s grin spread wide as he started strapping on the gear to try it on, the old rhythm of it all coming back. Having everything new-to-him–gear, rink, team–made it feel fresh and exciting.
For him, at least.
For me, the excitement was tangled with nerves that twisted tighter the longer I stood there.
Hockey had never been a cheap sport, I knew that.
I just never had to foot the bill before.
Reid had always handled the registrations, the travel, the equipment–not out of kindness, but because hockey was the only thing about Connor’s life he cared to control.
He wanted Connor to be the next big star, and every game was a measuring stick.
Wins meant praise; losses meant explosions that left Connor small and tense in the backseat, while I prayed the sport itself wouldn’t be ruined for him.
Yet somehow, he still loved it. Purely, naturally. The ice belonged to him.
Patti’s voice pulled me back. She popped up, holding a pair of skates, her grey curls bouncing. “What size are you, kiddo?”
“Three,” Connor said quickly, practically bouncing on his toes.
Patti squinted at the faded number on the tongue. “Shit–whoops, sorry about that.” She shot me a sheepish grin before carrying on like nothing happened. “These are a three-and-a-half… I think they’ll do the trick, though. Just wear an extra pair of socks and you’ll be golden.”
She chuckled at her own joke, clearly pleased with her solution, and Connor giggled too, already reaching for the skates.
“I’ve got a stack of helmets piled higher than my husband’s fishing trophies in here somewhere–although, that man hasn’t caught a thing in twenty years!” Patti grunted as she shoved a box of shin guards to the side, then nudged a crate of elbow pads with her foot.
At last, she unearthed a black helmet, holding it up like it was buried treasure.
She popped it open, gave it a quick look inside, and wrinkled her nose dramatically.
“Well, it’s not gonna win any awards for smelling fresh.
Hockey isn’t about smelling good anyway–it’s about grit, sweat, and a little stink for good luck. ”
With that, she tossed it across the room. Connor caught it midair without hesitation, grinning as he slid it on and adjusted the straps like he’d been doing it his whole life.
The door creaked, and Nina poked her head in. “Everything good in here?” She held up a black hockey bag that looked only lightly used. “Thought you might need this. Liam’s got an extra.”
Relief flickered across my face as I smiled. “Thanks. That’s perfect.”
“Good.” Nina stepped inside, handing Connor the bag. “Liam’s already in the dressing room. I’ll show you where it is once you’re ready.”
Connor wasted no time loading his gear into the bag, his excitement buzzing off him in waves. When he slung it over his shoulder, he looked taller, prouder, like he was already halfway to the ice. Nina gave me a small smile, then guided him toward the dressing room.
As soon as the door swung shut behind them, my stomach twisted. I turned back toward Patti, who was now scribbling on a clipboard.
“So, I guess we should get the registration done.”
“Oh yes, the dreaded paperwork.” She brushed her hands down the sides of her jeans and bustled past me, motioning for me to follow.
I forced a smile and trailed after her.
The narrow hallway opened into the main lobby, and immediately I was hit with the smell of popcorn and coffee from the concession stand tucked into the corner.
Along the far wall stretched a massive mural–bright blues and whites depicting kids skating on a frozen pond, bundled up in mismatched scarves and helmets, their faces all flushed with joy.
It gave the place a kind of charm, like the rink itself had a story to tell.
To the left, through a wall of plexiglass, I caught sight of a small ice surface where tiny kids in oversized jerseys wobbled like penguins, their sticks twice as tall as they were.
Parents lined the boards, their cheers muffled through the glass.
And down the other hall, through a set of heavy doors, was the main rink–the big one.
I could already hear the thud of pucks against boards and the sharp scrape of blades cutting across the ice.
Somewhere back there were the dressing rooms where Connor and Liam would be pulling on their gear.
“Right this way,” Patti sang, pushing open a door to her office.
I stepped inside and blinked. Every inch of the small room was crowded with history.
Hockey trophies gleamed from shelves that sagged under their weight, framed photos lined the walls–kids holding medals, whole teams grinning around a banner, coaches hoisting cups.
The desk, if you could even call it that, was buried under stacks of paper, sign-up sheets, and a teetering pile of clipboards.
I wasn’t sure how she managed to find anything in here, but the space felt lived-in, full of heart.
Patti dropped into the chair behind the chaos with a dramatic sigh, then looked up at me with a warm grin. “Alright, Harper. Let’s make this official.”
She plucked a fresh clipboard from the pile and slid it across to me with a pen. “Emergency contacts here, medical info there…”
I nodded, sinking into the chair opposite her, trying to match her easy energy. My hands shook just slightly as I started filling in the blanks, the scratch of the pen loud in the small room. Then my gaze caught on the bottom line of the form.
Registration Fee: $300.
The number might as well have been carved in stone, bold and unforgiving. My throat tightened, heat creeping up my neck.
Connor deserved this. He loved this game with a pure joy that somehow survived Reid’s relentless pressure, the screaming fits after losses, the way he treated every missed goal like it was the end of the world.
And now it was on me to keep his love for the sport going.
My fingers tightened around the pen, embarrassment prickling at my skin as I forced myself to meet Patti’s expectant look. “Um… is there anyway I could maybe… make a few payments toward the fee? I don’t have the full amount right now.”
Patti tilted her head, studying me for a moment. Then waved a hand like it was nothing. “Harper, please. This isn’t the NHL–we’re not exactly handing out million-dollar contracts. It’s kids’ hockey. We’ll figure it out.”
I blinked at her, caught between relief and the urge to laugh.
She leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Season’s already started, so there’s no sense charging you full price anyway. Pay what you can, when you can. The important thing is that Connor’s out there on the ice.”
The relief hit so hard I almost sagged in the chair. I let out a shaky laugh, pressing the form closer as if finishing it quickly might make the ground stop shifting under me.
By the time I stepped out of Patti’s office, the air had shifted–cooler now, sharper, tinged with that unmistakable rink smell of ice and rubber.
The heavy Zamboni doors groaned shut at the far end, followed by the clang of the gates swinging open.
A sharp voice echoed through the arena, calling instructions to the boys as they filed toward the ice for warm-up.
The kids were just stepping onto the ice as I pushed through the door.
Connor was among them, moving with an ease that tugged at something deep in me.
No hesitation–just smooth, confident strides like the rink belonged to him.
His stick tapped the ice, his movements sharp and sure, and when he spotted me watching, he lifted a hand in a small wave.
His grin spread wide, bright enough to reach me all the way from the boards. It was contagious.
My gaze drifted past him, toward the tall figure standing at center ice.
I assumed he was the coach–broad-shouldered and towering over the kids, his stance commanding without even trying.
A whistle hung against his chest, the sharp sound of his voice bouncing off the boards as he barked out directions.
Red hair peeked out from beneath his helmet, a messy contrast to the navy track jacket and joggers he wore, the kind of uniform that marked him as someone in charge.
At first glance, the scowl etched across his face made him look all business, intense enough that I wondered how the younger kids didn’t quake in their skates under that glare.
But when one of the boys skated over and said something I couldn’t hear, the hardness cracked.
His mouth broke into a grin, sudden and bright, his laugh carrying easily across the rink.
He shook his head, amused, and gave the boy a playful nudge back toward the line.
“Careful, if you stare too long you’ll catch the scowl. It’s contagious.”
I turned, startled, and found Nina leaning casually against the boards, her chestnut hair was pulled into a loose braid, a grey sweater half-tucked into her jeans, and a puffy jacket hanging open.
Her honey brown eyes sparkled with mischief, lips curbed into a sly grin as she followed my line of sight.
Heat crept up my neck, and I couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped. “I don’t understand how he goes from that scowl to laughing like that.”
“I don’t understand anything about what Shane does,” she said. Then she tipped her head toward the stands. “Come on, sit with me. You don’t have to stand here and hide.”
“I wasn’t hiding,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction.
Nina arched a brow, her smirk deepening. “Well, I wouldn’t blame you. I would be hiding too if I were you. Any fresh blood in this town and the locals will be all over you.” She let the words hang a beat before adding, with exaggerated gallantry, “Don’t worry, though–I’ll protect you.”
Her grin widened when I laughed again, the tension in my chest loosening just a little as I followed her toward the stands.
We found seats halfway up, the metal cold even through my jeans. Nina tossed her jacket beside her and stretched out, comfortable as if the rink was her second home.
We spent most of the practice talking, our voices low and easy, slipping from everyday chatter to gossip to stories about the kids.
I hardly noticed the drills on the ice until Connor caught my attention–his sharp turns, quick hands, the way he cut across the rink like he’d been born on skates.
My chest swelled every time I caught him doing something smooth, confident, his.
From a few rows back, I could hear murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“Who’s the new kid?”
“He’s good.”
“Natural out there.”
I tried not to eavesdrop, but the words wrapped around me like warmth, pride rising fast enough to sting my eyes. Connor was more than good. He was something special.
Nina nudged me at one point, her gaze flicking toward the ice. “There are usually two coaches out there…” She went on, though her words blurred into the background.
Because all I could focus on were the whispers echoing through the stands, the strangers taking notice of my son. Shining in the one place that had always felt like his own.