Chapter 2 #3
Like he’s done every other time, Conrad offers a nod and a smile and a few words as Jake skates to the back of the line. “Your footwork was good. Trust your edges. The more you dig in, the better control you’ll have.”
Jake looks like he could float through the air as he smiles back. “Thanks, Conrad Shepard.”
“You don’t have to keep using his full name,” one of the other guys says with a chuckle. The rest of the boys join in, snickering quietly.
“All right,” Grady says, speaking over them. “Maybe you need to see how a professional does it?”
There’s a collective intake of breath at the prospect of watching Conrad skate. The man himself looks almost reluctant. Shy even.
“O-kay, fine,” I say, like I’m super put out at the idea, and skate forward to the edge of the cones. “You meant me, right?”
I glance from Grady to Conrad. The boys boo me, but I try not to take too much offense.
“Professional pain in my . . .” Grady trails off and winks at me. The boys cackle louder. We have a playful relationship, Grady and me, that the boys love. It’s like we’re their zany, bickering parents despite him being a good fifteen years older than me and zero chemistry between us.
The only thing we ever truly argue about, and I use that word loosely since it’s never really come to a head, is our coaching style.
He’s more traditional, often saying phrases like “we play to win” and “best man for the job gets the spot,” whereas I want to find a balance between winning games and creating an environment that’s fun, inviting, and where even the worst players feel like they’re contributing. My dad would call that delusional.
“We want to see Shep skate,” one of the boys says. The others call out their agreement.
I skate back next to the quiet hockey player. “I guess you’re up, Shep.”
That must be what hockey fans call him or the boys have already given him a cute nickname—either seems highly possible with the stars in their eyes.
Conrad wears a small smile that lifts one corner of his mouth and softens his features. He’s not a guy who says a lot, that much I’ve already surmised about him, but maybe he’s just quiet and not an asshole. A girl can hope.
“What do you say?” Grady asks him.
Without a word, Conrad nods slightly and skates to the starting spot in the front of the line.
He’s a good head taller than even our seniors and filled out in a way that makes him look bigger, despite the boys wearing padding under their practice uniforms. There’s an ease in his stance.
The way he stands, the way he holds a hockey stick.
It’s deceiving because as soon as Grady blows the whistle, Conrad moves with a speed that defies reason.
He’s around the first cone before anyone can utter a word and then the rink is filled with the boys’ “oohs” and gasps of admiration.
I’m too busy gawking and forget that I’m part of the drill.
He has to wait for me to pass him the first puck, but Conrad plays it off easily, snapping it back to me quick and precise, then moving to Grady.
He’s the type of player who makes everyone else look good.
When he’s done, his body instantly relaxes back into that casual, calm demeanor. My nipples harden. Wow. I’ve seen a lot of really impressive players skate, but that was beautiful.
Grady chuckles. “No notes. Do that, boys.”
The boys laugh along with him, then it quickly erupts into chatter, and it’s clear we’ve completely lost focus.
Grady raises his voice. “Okay, gentlemen.” He looks to the other end of the ice and waves them over. Once everyone gathers around, he says, “Before we break for weightlifting, let’s get in one last skating drill. Everyone on the goal line.”
The chorus of groans is unsurprising.
“I know. I know. But you can’t do that”—he waves toward Conrad—“without being in great skating shape.”
“Upperclassmen on the line.” Grady puts the whistle up to his mouth. “Shuttle sprints for thirty seconds.”
He blows the whistle before they can groan their dismay.
Conrad and I are standing behind the line of freshmen and sophomore boys waiting their turn. August is on his other side.
I skate a foot closer to Conrad as I say, “That was impressive.”
The smile falls from his face so abruptly that I have to rethink my words. I did just compliment him, right?
“Your skating,” I say for clarification. “The drill. I’ve never seen anything like that and I’ve watched a lot of hockey.”
He just stares at me like I’m speaking a language he doesn’t understand. August, on his other side, nudges him with an elbow.
“Thank.” The word is quiet, and Conrad clears his throat. Like earlier, he looks sort of past me, but not at me directly. “Thank you.”
Grady blows the whistle again and the older boys skate back to the line, winded and looking miserable. Which is exactly how I feel. What is this guy’s problem with me?
I’m vaguely aware of Grady speaking again. “Next group, you’re up.”
But the real kicker is when he blows the whistle, the guy next to me looks away and skates forward, joining in with the boys.
He would rather run shuttle sprints than talk to me. That is a new low.