Chapter 3
THREE
I glance around the small rink, taking it all in one last time.
It’s the last day of camp, and I had more fun than expected.
And I expected it to be a pretty good time.
Maybe it’s how much this place reminds me of home and the rink I played on in high school, or maybe being around these kids, still young and hopeful, has me finally letting go of the last loss of the season.
Whatever the reason, it’s been a great week.
My stare lands on Whitney and lingers there. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders and down her back. She’s dressed in black leggings that show off toned legs and a baggy sweatshirt that comes down mid-thigh.
She has the younger guys doing passing drills at one end while the older kids are with Coach Grady doing three-on-three corner drills. Penn and I just finished signing Moonshot shirts for all the boys and we’re waiting to say goodbye to them.
And to the coaches. My throat is tight at even the prospect of speaking to Whitney. She’s hotter than any girl I came into contact with back in high school, or ever for that matter.
“Are you going to ask her out or what?” Penn asks.
I glance away from her and take a drink from my water bottle before I casually ask, “Who?”
“Who?” Penn mocks, then chuckles as he flings a hand toward the far end of the ice toward Whitney. “The coach. You’ve been staring at her all week.”
It feels pointless to deny it. Penn is the kind of guy who notices everything happening around him. It’s one of many reasons he’s such a good goalie. But in this moment, his keen observation is the thing I dislike about him the most.
“No way. I can’t even talk to her.” My palms sweat at the thought.
Yesterday morning when I got to the rink, she asked me if it was still raining outside and all I could do was nod. On Monday when she told me my skating was impressive, I almost had a heart attack. It wasn’t the compliment as much as the genuine admiration in her eyes.
It has never been easy for me to talk to women, but somehow, it’s even worse with Whitney.
She’s gorgeous and funny and she knows hockey.
It’s obvious she played. Not only in the way she moves around the ice, but in the instructions she gives the kids.
It’s in the details. The other thing I’ve noticed is how much she loves the game.
She’s always smiling like she’s having a good time with the kids, which in turn has them enjoying it more.
When I look at her JV boys versus the older ones with Grady, it’s clear which group is having more fun.
My point is emphasized when a chant breaks out from Whitney’s group.
“Coach Whit! Coach Whit!” The boys tap their sticks on the ice as they cheer her on.
She fires a shot in the goal and then holds her hands up over her head. The boys whoop and yell and that smile of hers grows bigger. Coincidentally, my heart thumps a little faster.
“Come on.” Penn skates past me toward Whitney and the boys she’s working with. My face flushes hot, and my legs move out of sheer panic.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a loud whisper-screech that totally gives away the anxiety pumping through me.
Penn wouldn’t embarrass me. Would he? He isn’t usually that guy.
Travis, D-Low, and a few other friends like to set me up and nudge me into situations to meet women when I’m too shy to do it myself.
They do it with love, and I only hate it about ninety-five percent of the time.
But never Penn. He isn’t the matchmaking type.
Or at least I hope not as he flashes me a reassuring smirk over his shoulder.
I don’t have time to spin out for long because we reach her quickly. She glances at me and Penn as we come to a stop beside her. She blows a loose strand of hair away from her face, then pushes it back with one hand.
Her lips pull into an amused smile as the boys keep cheering her on, and her dark brown eyes are lit up with so much joy, it punches me in the chest. As if I needed another physical reaction to this girl. My nervous system is wrecked.
“Come to show me up?” she asks, looking at me, then letting her stare slide to Penn.
“Thought we could offer some defense,” Penn says.
A flash of surprise appears on her face, but it’s quickly replaced with a nod of approval.
“What do you think?” she asks the boys. “Think you can pass around a couple of professional hockey players?”
There’s another chorus of excited agreement. I’m thankful that I won’t have to do any talking. I’m much better at hockey.
Penn moves into position first. “Take it easy on me, boys. I haven’t been this far from the net since grade school.”
The boys laugh good-naturedly, and I take my spot a couple feet from him, putting myself between the net and Whitney.
Her gaze locks on mine and for a few seconds I can’t look away. I’m frozen. Captivated. About to pass out maybe? Fuck. It’s embarrassing to be a twenty-five-year-old man who can’t talk to a woman without sweating.
This time, she’s the first to break eye contact.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” she says as she gets into position. There it is again, that natural athleticism as she grips the stick and fires a pass to the right. I’m slow to defend because it takes effort to stop watching her instead of the gangly teenager that now has the puck.
I shift my body, and my attention, to the drill. The kid in front of me is only a few inches shorter than me with a broad build but an awkward lankiness to him. Despite how scrawny he is, there’s an intensity and power behind his movements. Scrappy is the word that comes to mind.
If he’s at all freaked out that an NHL defender is pressuring him, I can’t tell. He’s cool, composed, taking his time as he skates slowly, waiting for his teammate to get open. I’m impressed.
He finally sends a pass to the left, and his teammate fires the puck at the goal. Everyone turns to watch it find the back of the net. The boys cheer, and I turn my stare back to Whitney to watch a pleased, proud smile curve up her lips.
“Nice job,” she says with that lilt of amusement in her tone. She always sounds like she’s on the brink of laughter. The side-eye she gives me tells me she knows that was some half-ass defense. I don’t know what she expects. I’m not going to strip the puck from this kid just to prove I can.
We go through the entire line of kids. Each one is eager for their turn.
Most of them have that determination to do their best in front of us, but a few let nerves get the better of them.
One freshman they call Pepper (I’m guessing it has something to do with the red hair), misses the puck completely when he attempts to pass it and falls in front of me.
I bite back a laugh and hold out a hand to help him up.
“Fuck,” he mutters quietly under his breath. He looks everywhere but at me as he accepts my hand. “That’s embarrassing.”
“Don’t sweat it,” I say as he gets back on his feet.
“You’re kind of my hero, so this is one of those moments I’m going to replay over and over again as the time I ate it in front of the greatest defender of all time.”
His words ping with pride in my chest. I am not the greatest defender of all time, at least not yet, but even if this kid is the only one who thinks so, it feels good. I remember looking up to guys the same way.
“In my first NHL game, I scored in the wrong goal in front of my hero.”
Pepper lets a smile loosen on his lips. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I nod. It was over two years ago, and I can still feel the humiliation.
“Which player?” His brows furrow as he gets a contemplative look on his face.
I lean closer to him to whisper the name. His eyes widen and he lets out a gasp.
“You scored in the wrong goal in front of Jack Wyld?!”
I hold up a hand to stop him and let out a small chuckle. “Don’t even say it.”
“Wow.” Pepper’s grinning now.
“Don’t sweat it. We all make mistakes. You have a good awareness of other players.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He relaxes and I do too.
That is until I realize Whitney is watching us. The weight of her stare makes a flush spread through me, no doubt turning my face red.
On the other end of the ice, Grady blows the whistle. I’m grateful to have something to do, giving Grady my attention instead of smiling or talking to her.
“Gentlemen.” His voice bellows above the noise. “Circle up.”
The kids move to center ice. I follow slowly behind, as do Penn and Whitney.
Grady congratulates the boys on a good week. He praises their efforts and then points out the things they should work on in the remainder of the off-season.
“Anything to add, Coach Whitney?” he asks when he’s done.
The boys are on one knee, facing the head coach, but at his words, they swivel around to look at her.
“Have fun?” she says like it’s a question, and that earns her a round of laughter. It’s their usual dynamic. Grady is tough and focused on hockey, whereas Whitney brings a levity to the team. “We’ll have open ice every Tuesday and Thursday for the rest of the summer for anyone who can make it.”
“That’s right. Thank you for reminding me,” Grady says. “Coach Whitney or I will be here to help you in any way we can.”
“Can you help me with my summer school homework?” someone asks.
“Sure,” Whitney says. “As long as by help you mean answer questions you have and not do it for you.”
The kids all laugh again.
“Let’s thank our guests.” Grady looks to me and Penn. “We really appreciate all your help this week and we look forward to cheering you on this season.”
“Ditto,” Penn says.
I smile and nod. It isn’t enough for how much this week has meant to me, but I hope they feel my gratitude.
“Okay. That’s all,” Grady says with a finality to his tone. “Hit the locker rooms and then we’ll head to my house for some food.”
A round of cheers echoes as the boys stand and skate off the ice.
“Hang up all your gear nicely and double-check you have everything before you leave,” Grady calls after them. “I’m not your maid. If you leave it, it’s going in the trash.”