Hank #2
“You’re going to do great. The skills will come back to you. It’s all muscle memory,” I whisper to Nick. “It’s instinct. You ever seen those nature videos where a baby deer falls out of the mom deer’s hoo-hah, then gets up, shakes itself off, and immediately trots along with her?”
“I…as a matter of fact, I actually have,” he says, amazed.
“That’ll be you on the ice. From hoo-hah to ice.
Like that.” I snap my fingers. Nick laughs, his tongue peeking between his teeth.
“It’s so funny that you went to a George Washington High.
Two of my cousins also went to one. I swear, there’s got to be a school named after G-dubs in every town in America. ”
“Seems a safe bet,” he says, his laughter still heavy with nerves. “Wasn’t this George Washington kind of a big deal?”
I puff out a hardy laugh. “You’re funny!”
My chest fills with the special kind of joy that comes when someone matches your wavelength.
I skate onto the ice, Nick right behind me. When he steps out, I realize that he’s less newborn deer and more of a toddler out here. He’s wobbling badly. His new gear hangs on him a little wrong. Too loose at the shoulders, not snug enough at the hips.
I skate over. “You good?”
Nick nods too quickly. “Yes. Absolutely. Just…reacclimating.”
He tries to push off and nearly faceplants. I grab his elbow. I catch a quick glimpse at my teammates, who quickly avert their eyes. Except for Bill, who’s watching every second. I ignore their silent commentary and focus on Nick.
“Shit,” he whispers.
“It’s okay. You got this,” I say. “Short strides. Bend your knees.”
“I am bending,” he insists, but his knees are locked like he’s standing at attention.
Bill blows his whistle. “Alright, let’s warm up!”
We start with simple laps. Nick trails behind, arms out for balance. I drop back to skate beside him.
“Relax your shoulders,” I coach. “You’re fighting the ice.”
“I don’t trust it,” he admits. “It’s very…slippery.”
At least his sense of humor remains intact.
“Breathe in. Find your calm.”
He exhales a semi-calm breath. This time, he manages a smoother glide. Progress.
“There you go!”
His face lights up like I just gave him a gold star.
I set up in net and await the guys to shoot their pucks at me.
The firing squad part of practice. I block every one.
I take a special glee in blocking Bill’s.
I might be working extra hard to impress our new teammate.
He knows I can’t handle a Christmas tree, but at least he can see how I guard a net.
“Good, Hank.” Bill slaps my helmet. “New guy: you’re up!”
Nick sets up in net, pads slightly crooked, glove hand hovering like he’s afraid to commit. Bill sends shooters one by one.
Des winds up and slaps one wide—on purpose, I know, because he’s a softie—but Nick still flinches like he’s dodging a bee.
“You okay?” I call.
“Yes!” he yells back. “This is invigorating.”
Bill shoots next, low and hard. Nick drops too late. Goal.
“Square up. Track the puck,” Bill says.
By the fifth shot, Nick’s breathing hard, his eyes wide and alert. He’s trying, I’ll give him that. He just looks overwhelmed. Like someone dropped him into a foreign country where everyone speaks slap shot.
“I’m sorry. I suck,” he utters when I skate up to him, complete dejection in his eyes. I get flashbacks to that summer when Brody tried little league.
“Hey, you don’t suck! Look at me,” I say. Those beautiful eyes are now filled with shame. “Do you want to play hockey?”
“I probably shouldn’t. I don’t want to be the reason you lose.”
“The question isn’t whether you should. Do you want to?” Winning is great and all, but at the end of the day, we’re here to have fun. I believe sports should be used to include people, not exclude.
He nods yes. “I’m more out of practice than I thought. It’s fun when I know what I’m doing.”
“Then you’re going to keep playing. We’ll work together to get you ready for your first game. We’ll shock the emerging bald spot right off Bill’s head.”
“Are you sure?”
“Heck yeah. I need someone else on this team who laughs at my jokes.” I rub his shoulder. “I got you covered, pal.”
During a break, Bill skates over to me. “Hank.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “He’s rusty.”
“Rusty is an understatement.”
“I’ll fix it,” I promise. “He’s got the foundation. He just hasn’t played in years. It’ll come back.”
Bill crosses his arms. “You really believe that?”
I look at Nick, who’s practicing butterfly drops in the corner, half of them ending in awkward sprawls. He keeps getting up, though. No sulking. No excuses.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
Bill studies him a moment, then nods. “Alright. But he’s on thin ice.”
“Literally,” I joke.
He doesn’t laugh.
Practice ends in scrimmage. Nick gives up so many goals he’s practically a puck doorman, but he makes two really solid saves near the end.
“Nice stop, man.” Des gives him a stick tap.
Nick beams like he just won the Stanley Cup.
In the locker room, Bill claps his hands together to get our attention. “Good work tonight. Hank, a word.” He pulls me aside. “You’re serious about helping him?”
“As serious as my uncle Gene’s heart attack.”
“Then he’s your project. You vouch for him, you train him.”
“I will. Early mornings. Edge work. Rebound control. The whole deal. By Christmas, he’s going to be the king of the crease.”
Bill nods. “Alright. Prove me wrong.”
I glance across the room at Nick, who pulls off his pads. I give him a thumbs up. He smiles back, cautious but hopeful.
We’re going to turn you into a master goalie. And I’m going to do everything in my power to stop finding you so damn cute.