Chapter 14
ZEV
If you’d asked me two years ago where I’d be on a Friday in June, I’d have said: “NHL rink, first line—preferably with all my teeth.” You’d have gotten a lazy half-smile and a punch to the bicep, just to show there were no hard feelings about the dumb question.
Now, standing in the shadow of Boston’s largest performance arena, I’ve got no teeth left—metaphorically—and a noisy clump of high school hockey kids looking at me like I’m about to lead them into battle or onto a reality show.
It’s been a few weeks since Grace returned to our orbit, and I’m still not convinced the universe isn’t punking me. I’ve spent the intervening days keeping my head down, skating the edge between coaching and therapy, and pretending the scent of roses doesn’t cling to my skin like a second jersey.
“Dude, are we gonna see actual princesses?” That’s Becker, the team’s de facto mouthpiece and future career substitute teacher, if his current application of sarcasm holds.
I give him a look. “If we’re lucky, we’ll see a few survive the day without catastrophic ACL damage.”
Becker snorts. The rest of the team shuffle their bags and look back at the arena entrance with a collective wariness.
“You all good?” I check their faces, reading the nerves. Some of them have never been inside a venue like this, and for them, it must feel like walking into a cathedral built by people who worship triple axels instead of the Holy Ghost. “Phones off, or at least on vibrate, please.”
There’s a chorus of grumbles but they follow through.
I head up the steps, team trailing, and pull the side door open with my good shoulder. The difference in temperature smacks us in the face: the arena keeps its ice at a constant, arctic blast, so sweat turns instantly to goosebumps.
The security desk is manned by a retiree who could probably still take down three of my forwards without spilling his coffee. He gives us the once-over.
“Coach Walsh and high school group for Reverie tour,” I say, before he can run through his questions.
He checks the clipboard, makes a checkmark, and nods us through.
“This is so pro,” mutters Anderson. He gazes up at the rafters with reverence.
I line up the team in the side corridor and do a quick count. Sixteen, including me. No stragglers. Miraculous.
“Alright,” I say, “here’s the plan. We do the locker room tour, maybe hit the trainer’s office so you can see what real treatment tables look like, then we sit in on half the show’s rehearsal.
After, we meet a couple of the skaters. I want you all on best behavior.
These folks work ten times harder than you think, and some of them could skate backwards faster than you can spell your own name. ”
Becker immediately spells his name backwards. I ignore him.
We move through the bowels of the arena, echoing steps and an occasional dropped water bottle. I walk slower than usual. I did my first summer league game here at sixteen. Always I thought I’d be back someday wearing a pro jersey. Now, I’m the chaperone.
The Reverie Ice Show cast is already in pre-rehearsal chaos when we reach the arena level. I usher my team to a bank of seats behind the glass and tell them to keep their voices at a reasonable volume.
“Holy—” Anderson says, as a pair of male skaters launch into a synchronized leap that looks like it defies physics. “Did you see that?”
I have, in fact, seen it before, but I let them have the moment.
A ripple of respectful silence passes through the group. Then Becker, never one to let a moment of peace live, asks, “Coach, you ever have to wear a costume like that for a show?”
Once, for a charity skate when I was in juniors. The pictures haunt me to this day. “Yeah. Feathers, sequins, the whole thing. I looked like an ostrich.”
Becker’s eyes light up, probably imagining ways to weaponize this knowledge.
Roses scent hits me then. I search through the cast on the ice until I see Grace. She’s practicing moves that’d send most mortals to the ER. She’s so much more graceful than the rest of the cast, less showy. Every stride is deliberate.
My brain is a crowded place, but right now, ninety percent of it is consumed with the memory of how Connor, Fowler, and I handled things last spring.
By which I mean failed to handle anything with grace (lowercase or capital G).
I’d love to blame Fowler for leading the charge, but I followed right behind, and so did Connor.
We torched the whole thing because we were scared, and maybe because we thought we could just out-skate the problem.
Turns out, the problem could skate circles around us.
She hasn’t looked up yet. Either she’s not noticed me or she’s ignoring me with professional-level skill. I’m not sure which would sting more.
The warm-up ends and the cast disappears for a quick meeting.
I take the opportunity to shepherd my group through the side doors and down to the “museum” locker room.
It’s basically a shrine to Boston’s NHL and Old Harbor University’s college athletes, lined with framed jerseys and battered goalie masks.
My kids snap photos, poke at the gear, and argue about whose career was most tragic.
I give them five minutes before pulling them back to reality.
The trainer’s room is next. The staff are prepping for the show, wrapping ankles and mixing electrolyte bottles. Then we’re back in the stands for the main rehearsal. My group sits quietly for maybe ten seconds, then starts whispering fiercely about the routines.
Grace is front and center now, wearing a costume that looks like it was designed by a fairy tale’s most efficient union. She catches a lift from Connor, spins, lands, and then locks eyes with the audience. With me. But then she looks away like it never happened.
I pretend not to notice the way my pulse jumps. Instead, I make a show of watching the rest of the cast, offering pointers to my kids and comparing it all to hockey plays and teamwork. But no matter what, my eyes keep drifting back to Grace.
She’s better than she was in prep camp. I knew this because I’ve been to more than a few of Reverie’s shows since they started weeks ago. But it’s so clear now that I can’t deny it anymore.
She’s no longer hiding behind the choreography. She’s daring the world to keep up.
“Coach, which one do you know?” KJ asks, leaning forward with the social subtlety of a thrown brick.
“Top of the lineup, stage left,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Grace. And her pair, Connor. The leads.”
KJ grins. “She looks like she could kick your ass.”
“She could.” Probably. And without lifting a single finger.
The rehearsal ends with a group number that defies every rule of physics I ever learned.
My kids are clapping like they’re at the Oscars.
I glance at my watch, run through the rest of the day’s agenda, and realize I’m already exhausted.
Luckily, I just need to get them back to the school and then we’re done for today.
As the show cast files off the ice, I herd my group toward the exit. My kids are already plotting what snacks to raid from the vending machines before we head home. I let them have their moment. They earned it.
As we pile into the bus, Becker leans over the seat and asks, “Coach, do you think we could ever do stuff like that?”
I shrug, then smile. “I think you can do anything you set your minds to.”
Becker laughs. “That’s such a cheesy answer.”
No less true for it, though.
As the bus pulls away, my brain is still on the ice, watching Grace carve figure-eights into the rink.
Some things don’t get easier with time. But maybe we just get better at skating around the holes.