Chapter 22
DROP PASS: THE PUCK CARRIER LEAVES THE PUCK BEHIND FOR A TRAILING TEAMMATE
My geometry class is restless. I understand why. Angles on paper are like abstract art—easy for the creator but often difficult for the person admiring the work. I can feel their distraction rising.
Pencils tap.
There are giggles from the back corner where I’d bet my salary a note was passed.
I let it go on for exactly thirty seconds before clapping once. “Alright. Let’s change things up.”
I take the energy shift as a sign of life. Turning to the board, I draw a triangle, labeling the angles. “Math doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It shows up everywhere—music, photography…”
One of the kids in the back mutters doubtfully, “Sports?”
“Yes. You’d be surprised how many athletes use math. It helps them analyze and optimize their performance.”
Most of my class has dialed back in. Using that, I erase what I drew and sketch the outline of a hockey rink instead. I add the blue line. Goal creases. A rudimentary figure holding a stick. Some snicker. I shrug my shoulders. “I never claimed to be an artist.”
“It’s better than Coach’s, Ms. D!” One of the football players calls out.
The room snickers. To redirect them, I tap the back of my marker against the whiteboard. “Imagine skating down the right side. You’re not directly in front of the goal. You have maybe half a second to decide—shoot or pass.”
I draw lines from my diagramed player to the goal. “The angle between you and the net determines your probability of scoring.”
Connor—a hockey player—adds, “Plus whether the goalie has time to react.”
I point at him and declare, “Exactly.”
At this point, everyone’s listening. “The smaller the angle, the less net to work with. That’s geometry deciding the outcome of a shot.”
Someone asks, “So why do players circle behind the net?”
I draw as I answer. “To create a potential opportunity at a different angle where it may not have existed.”
The room hums with understanding now.
Not unexpectedly, I think of Brennan. Not the version of him frozen from the memories in my past—but the man who’s learning how to widen angles instead of forcing shots that aren’t there.
The bell rings just as I’m about to launch into the next part of my explanation.
As the students file out, Connor lingers. “Why don’t coaches explain things like you do, Ms. D? Do you think…they don’t believe we’re capable enough to understand it?”
I reassure him, “Maybe your coaches feel like they’re telling you something you already know. If you have questions though, you should feel comfortable enough to ask.”
His smile is fleeting. “Thanks. I appreciate the encouragement.”
Even as he dashes out to head to practice, I call out, “No problem!”
Later that evening, Connor’s words play over and over in my mind. It’s not something Brennan ever talked about during our time together, so I hope I answered truthfully. Still, I can’t get the question off my mind.
“Do you think they don’t believe we’re capable enough to understand it?”
I check the time. Just before eight. Not too late. Without overthinking, I dial his number.
He answers on the second ring. “Amy? Is everything okay?”
“Hi Brennan. I appreciate you picking up.”
“I told you I always would if you had questions or reached out.”
An infinitesimal thread of trust extends from me, to him keeping his word in this tiny way. I blurt out, “I used hockey as a math example today. Angles. Shot probability. It landed better than I expected.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Not at all. You’ve always loved the game. Plus you’re amazing at making things click.” His voice turns wicked. “Remember how you’d help me study Human Anatomy if you’re sure.”
“I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t,” I say with conviction.
“Then yes. Absolutely.”
After we work out logistics, including how he’ll have to check in at the front desk, I tell him I look forward to seeing him tomorrow.
I’m conflicted because I actually mean it. I realize I have more work of my own to do with my own therapist.
The Brennan I just got off the phone with is so close to my memory of the boy I fell in love with—affable, charming, and willing to chip in to better the people around him.
In other words, if my heart wasn’t so wary, I’d be interested in getting to know who he is now.
But that’s not his problem. That’s mine.
“Class, meet Brennan McCallister. He’s going to help us visualize yesterday’s lesson.”
My students lose their minds after I introduce Brennan.
My class is divided in their immediate hero worship.
The girls are stunned by his good looks—dark hair and blue eyes highlighted by a simple sweater and jeans.
As for the boys, they immediately sit up straighter to imitate him.
Brennan’s presence alone changes the feel of my classroom.
I twist the cap of my dry erase marker in my hands as I try to suppress my own feelings about having him in my classroom.
No, not just in my classroom. I correct myself. By asking him here, I’ve invited him back into my life.
What was I thinking? Before I have a chance to think about it, Brennan smiles at them and says, “Hi.”
One of the girls swoons, “His voice is Irish.”
Brennan winks at me. I can’t stop my grin when I confirm, “He is. It saved him a lot of times when I was trying to help him study in college.”
Connor’s flabbergasted. “You mean Ms. D taught you as well? Man, who knew you had to go through that.”
Laughter ripples around the room. Brennan smiles. “She was the best tutor there was. Let me show you some of what she taught me and how it helped me in my career.”
Brennan moves closer to the board and picks up a spare dry erase marker. “Alright. Let’s talk angles.”
He reviews my diagram before adding motion lines to it. “When you’re moving at full speed, angles aren’t static. They change with every stride on the ice. Angles gave me options so I wasn’t forcing shots.”
Connor’s hand shoots up. “So Ms. D is correct? You studied geometry?”
Brennan nods. “Not to mention physics. It’s all part of the situational awareness on the ice.” He spots a hand in the back. “Yes. You have a question?”
Something warm unfurls in my chest watching Brennan interact with my students. He’s not showboating. He’s thoughtfully listening before speaking—showing me a whole new side to him.
All too soon, the bell rings. My class applauds and thanks him on their way out. I wonder for a moment if I’m going to have to drag Connor out. But finally, once they leave, it’s just the two of us in the room. I announce, “You were perfect.”
“Your setup did the heavy lifting. I just picked up the drop pass.”
“You did more than that.”
“Amy?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you called.”
“So am I.” I gather my things and meet his eyes. For the first time, I don’t see the past when I meet them. In his deep blue irises, all I see is open ice.
Potential.
“Do you have to stick around? Anything planned?” He asks casually.
I shake my head. “I have some papers to grade tonight.”
He rubs the back of his neck—an old tell, familiar enough to tug at something soft in my chest. “Would you want to grab a coffee?”
It’s tentative, an olive branch. He’s asking in a way that allows me to say no gracefully but I find myself saying, “I’d like that.”
“I’ll meet you at The Honeyed Hearth?”
“See you soon.” As he heads out the door, I call out, “See if you can get a table by the window.”
Eighteen minutes later, he’s wrapping his fingers around a mug of honey latte. “So, this is happily unexpected.”
“I agree.”
“I’m trying to do things differently.”
I study him. “How so?”
He doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t joke. “You know how I started therapy? Well, it turns out I’m very good at seeking validation and very bad at understanding what drives that.”
I consider what he said before nodding. “That makes sense.”
“I’ve learned a lot about myself in a short time.”
“Such as?”
“I used to make decisions based on what was popular, not what was right.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “That’s not easy to address.”
“No, because I’ve been doing it longer than I care to admit.”
I study Brennan closely—not the boy I loved who hurt me—but the person in front of me now. I understand my need to say goodbye to the boy he was. Like the girl I was, that boy is gone. But the man in front of me was obviously affected by our separation, too. “I’m glad you shared that.”
“I just wanted you to know…” his voice trails off.
“What?”
“I heard you that night.” Our eyes hold, and I feel the same spark I did in my apartment when I decided to kiss him goodbye and it led to so much more. “I know our past is gone. But maybe…”
I raise my brows.
His gaze is steady. “Maybe we can get to know who we are now.”
It isn’t recriminations driving him to ask but something deeper. That both scares me and excites me. I lift my drink before remarking, “Why don’t we see how coffee goes?”
He relaxes. “Sounds good.”
We talk for about an hour. About my students. About his life now. About his family and mine. When we finally stand to leave, I blurt out, “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I wonder.
“I think, for both of us, it’s too new to tell.”
His words give me pause. “You’re right.”
He hesitates before asking, “Want to do this again?”
I don’t hesitate. Instead, I lean closer before answering, “Yes,”
His pupils flare. “That’s great.”
I smile back because I mean it. Even if I’m not completely ready to trust what it might lead to.
.