Chapter 4 Briar
Briar
“How’re you holding up, honey?”
I can see that my son’s been crying, with tell-tale pink around his eyes and faint tear tracks on his freckled cheeks.
If I could squash the other kids on his hockey team like bugs, I would .
. . not that you should do that to our wonderful insect friends.
They’re an important part of our ecosystem, even if they are weird and creepy sometimes.
His sniffle breaks my heart. “I’m fine. Connor’s right, I should’ve passed to him.”
Holding a hand up to cup my ear, I scrunch my nose in confusion.
“What? It sounded like you said Connor was right, but”—I shake my head dramatically—“that can’t be, because you know better than to second-guess your own instincts based on what someone else tells you.
” I keep my voice light and playful, but it’s a hard truth about Harley’s teammate, who acts like everyone’s boss and seeks to have the spotlight shine only on him.
“Mooom.” That single syllable has gotten longer and longer over the years. Soon, it’s gonna be more like a Siberian husky’s howl, except hopefully lower pitched.
“Harleyyyy,” I drawl out, mimicking his tone and turning it into a full-blown ambulance siren situation.
He’s not amused and continues to stare blankly at me.
More seriously, I remind him, “You had the puck. It was your responsibility to get it to the goal in the way you saw fit. That means working with your teammates if they have a better shot, but it also means trusting yourself to take the shot when it’s available. ”
He frowns deeper than a little boy should be capable of. “I know, but I missed and Connor wouldn’t have.”
“Connor’s stats are better than yours by the teensiest, tiniest sliver of a margin.
” I hold my finger and thumb up, no space between them.
“He might’ve made it. You might’ve made it.
Either of you could’ve missed. But he’s not the coach.
He doesn’t decide what you should do. You do.
” I tap his temple, reminding him of the supersmart brain beneath the mop of blond hair we really should get trimmed.
“Deciding’s hard.”
“Doesn’t get much easier as you get older,” I confide. “Sometimes I flip a coin, and in that flash of a moment when it’s in the air, I can feel what I hope it lands on, and by the time it does land, I already know what I should do. Maybe we could put a quarter in your pocket?”
He giggles the little boy laugh I will miss when it turns to a deep rumble one day. “I don’t have pockets in my uniform, Mom.”
“Oh, right. Maybe behind your ear?”
“Noooo.”
“Ooh, I got it! In your sock? But then we have to decide, left or right?” I grab his feet, which are still covered in stinky, sweaty hockey socks, lifting them as I examine each one for insight on which might be the better piggy bank for a coin.
“That tickles,” Harley laughs, squirming to get his feet free from my grasp. “No coins in my socks either.”
“Huh, guess you’ll have to make the decisions on your own then.” I give him a pointed look and he starts to smile. “Good. Let’s practice . . . chicken or beef for dinner?”
“Dino nuggets!”
“Long chicken nuggets,” I suggest, though it’s not a suggestion.
We don’t even have dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets in the freezer, but I do have an entire bag of frozen chicken strips, a.k.a.
long nuggets. If there’s one thing moms are good at, it’s reframing the unacceptable into the acceptable by any means necessary, and obviously chicken strips are disgusting while long nuggets are the best things ever.
“With honey mustard?” he asks hopefully. My son’s half hockey player, half debate champion.
“Deal.” I hold my fist out for a bump, but as Harley reaches out to bump me, I quickly switch to an open hand, wiggling my fingers. “Turkey feathers.”
He groans and rolls his eyes. “You’ve already done that one, Mom.”
I shrug, unbothered. “Still got a grin so I’m calling that a win for me, and the game was a win for you, no matter what the scoreboard said.
” To be fair, the score was 4–1, with Harley’s team taking the L.
But I’m focusing on the positives, staying in the sweet spots, and enjoying the good stuff the day has brought.
“Go hop in the shower, and dinner will be ready by the time you’re out. ”
“Okay!”
Just like that, my smiling, happy little boy is back.
He’s just trapped in an ever-growing doubt-filled shell.
In the few minutes it takes me to toss those long nuggets on a pan, a very questionable idea hits me.
I should second- and maybe even third-guess myself, but I don’t.
Like Harley needs to do, I trust my instincts.
Were you serious about helping Harley?
I half expect an instantaneous response as though Dominic was staring at his phone, waiting for me to text. When that doesn’t happen, I begin to stress clean the kitchen, taking out my doubts on crumbs that spilled out of the toaster this morning.
I’d all but written off Dominic’s offer to help my son.
He hadn’t been all that responsive after my initial thank-you text, and I didn’t hear from him after that, so I decided it’d been 1) a polite, albeit meaningless, gesture or 2) a failed attempt at getting in my pants.
Either had me moving on to one of the other dozen things on my always too-full to-do list.
But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’ll make a fool out of myself anytime for my son. Still, I can’t believe I’m doing this. Texting Dominic Lee for hockey help? What world am I living in?
Ding.
Absolutely.
The single-word response is glaringly similar to his previous text, the bubble on the left side of the screen barely a blip.
Great! He could use some help. When are you available?
That sounds like I’m scheduling a haircut, but this isn’t too far off from that. It’s not like it’s a date or anything.
Tomorrow at 6pm?
Perfect. I’ll make us a reservation at the rink.
“If this is a joke, I’m never gonna forgive you,” Harley informs me as he throws his gear bag over his shoulder. It’s nearly as big as he is, so it makes him wobbly on his feet as he looks from me to the rink door with the hope he’s scared to have blooming in his eyes.
He knows disappointment. Unfortunately, he’s learned it firsthand . . . from his father.
I’ve done my best to never say a single negative word about Tyler, but he is who he is, and he’s disappointed Harley enough on his own over the years to make our son not trust something good until it’s actually happening.
I send a silent prayer up to the sunshine-filled, blue sky, Please let Dominic be behind those rink doors. Please.
“Let’s go see,” I tell Harley with a plastered-on smile.
There’s only a handful of people on the ice, so it doesn’t take me long to find Dominic skating a slow loop around the boards.
And though his back is to us, it’s like he’s watching the door for our arrival because his eyes find mine within seconds of our entry.
The smile that steals across his face should be illegal considering it makes my heart race in my chest, pounding on my ribs.
“He’s here, Mom! He’s really here!” Harley shouts. His eyes are wide, his smile even wider as he looks at Dominic as though he’s a fictional character magically come to life.
“I told you he was coming,” I say with an implied sigh of no biggie, even though I had my own doubts. Tyler left scars on me, too, emotional not physical, though sometimes they feel equally deep.
Dominic exits the ice and immediately squats on the rubber mats outside the boards, holding his hand out. “Hey there. You must be Harley. I’m Dominic. Nice to meet you.”
My son, the one who huffs and puffs about the most minor of big boy responsibilities, stands taller, pulls his shoulders back, and shakes Dominic’s hand like he’s a full-grown man meeting another man. “My name is Harley Johns. It’s nice to meet you too. Thank you for helping me.”
Tears of pride spring to my eyes. He’s on that cusp between childhood and tweenhood, where I tend to think he’s still a baby and he thinks he’s older than he is, but in this moment, all I see is the hard work we’ve put in on having manners and being respectful.
“Hi, Briar. I’m really glad you texted.” There’s nothing inherently flirty in the words, or even the tone, but I don’t miss the sparkle in Dominic’s eyes. He thinks I’m using my son to get closer to him. He couldn’t be more wrong. This is for Harley, nothing more, nothing less.
If only the butterflies flopping around in my belly believed that too.
“Thanks for helping. He’s really excited in case you can’t tell.” I drop my eyes to the floor, where Harley has plopped down to trade tennis shoes for skates.
“Me too.” Dominic’s words are to me, but he makes sure his new student hears them too. “What’re we working on today?”
Lacing his skates, Harley offers, “Connor says I’m not good at scoring, so . . .” His voice trails off uncertainly.
“Alright, we’ll do some target work then. Skate a few laps and get warmed up while I talk to your mom.”
“Yes, sir.” And with that, Harley hits the ice and Dominic’s eyes track his progress for a few seconds before he turns to me.
“Hi.” He already greeted me, but this one feels more intimate, less child-friendly for sure even though it’s barely a syllable.
I blush instantly, and when Dominic’s smile grows as he clocks the rising heat on my cheeks, I lower my chin, hating my body’s overreaction to his nearness and focused attention.
Trying to stick to the reason we’re here, I say, “Connor isn’t his coach.
He’s Harley’s teammate, one he needs to learn not to listen to.
” I let the smallest edge enter my tone, not wanting to speak ill of a child, but also, not particularly caring for Connor.
Dominic’s expression changes in a blink, Mr. All Business as his ears fully open.
I give him the quick rundown of Harley’s team and how Connor is a bit of an ice bully and tell him that while I appreciate the help with drills, what I really want is for Harley to trust his own instincts and stand up for himself.
Nodding, he says, “Okay, we can work on that for sure. But one question . . . Is Connor right about the scoring shots? Objectively.”
“Well, he’s not laser-precise if that’s what you mean. But he’s okay compared to the rest of the players.”
Dominic glances out at Harley. “Gotcha. Let me see what he’s got.”
As Dominic joins Harley on the ice, I stand back, simply watching their interaction. They start with skating skills, doing simple footwork that Harley nails, and then moving on to stick drills. Dominic watches thoughtfully, analyzing and gently making corrections here and there.
To my surprise, Dominic is actually really great with Harley.
Though I can’t hear their conversations, I can see my son’s confidence growing with every passing minute as they work together.
Eventually I relax enough to take a seat on one of the benches, but I keep my eyes locked on the two guys who have my full attention.
One always has that. The other? It feels strange to be this locked in on a man.
I don’t do that. Not anymore. I learned that lesson the hard way and refuse to have a repeat experience of that hell.
Harley, first. Me, second. My work, third. And that leaves no time, energy, or desire for anything else, and definitely not for anyone else.
The reminder is automatic, yet my eyes keep finding Dominic again and again. His easy smile, his broad shoulders, his grace on the ice, and fine . . . his round butt in the black sweatpants he’s wearing. All make him a feast for the eyes.
Before I know it, an hour has passed and Harley speeds over to the boards, his face full of excitement. “Did you see me, Mom? I got a shot past Dom!”
Noticing the nickname, I glance at Dominic as he comes up behind my son, but he’s smiling proudly. “Sure did. Great job, man. Just gotta trust yourself to see those pockets and act on them the instant you do.”
Suddenly an apt student, Harley nods emphatically. “Trust the puck to be where I left it. Let my eyes look for where to put it. Act fast.” He says it like he’s quoting the advice Dominic gave him.
“You got it,” Dominic says as he holds a hand out for a fist bump that my son happily returns. “We’ve got the space for a few more minutes. You want to skate it out?”
Harley checks in with me and I nod, giving permission, and he’s off.
Dominic leans down, planting his elbows on the board, to get closer to my level.
“The kid’s good. Age appropriately speaking.
He’s not a prodigy, but he’s got heart, and that’s more important than skills that can be developed with practice. ”
“He’s really great, right?” I say wistfully, watching my son do the footwork drill Dominic taught him.
“I didn’t want to ask in front of him because that wouldn’t be fair, but I’d love to take you two for dinner if you have time?
” The question hangs in the air between us, both of us knowing that he’s not asking as a coach wanting to take his new student out, but rather that he’s asking me out on a date.
And again, I don’t do that.
“As friends?” The question is for my clarity as much as for his.
There is no hint of disappointment on his face, not a single flicker of it in his dark eyes as he agrees. “Sure. Friends get food together.”
He accepts the semi-yes easily, which is exactly what I want, so why do I feel disappointed?