Chapter 7 Dominic
Dominic
Practice sucks. It’s familiar in that it’s the same drills and plays I’ve done thousands of times since I was a kid, but it’s also unfamiliar in that I don’t have the same trust in my teammates that I did with the Hawks.
I’m not opposed to newness—as a pro there’s fresh faces on the team every year.
I’m just annoyed with assholes, and the Blizzard has more than its fair share as far as I can tell, especially now that we’re all practicing together.
Not just rookies and newbies, but the entire bench.
To be fair, I think they feel the same way about me—that I’m an asshole, that I’m annoying, and that they’d be better off without me.
I know Kipson does. We’re still in the stage where he’s ignoring my existence and in denial that there’s a problem, despite there being a very obvious one.
The man plays angry, but in a self-destructive way that’s going to fuck us come the season starting.
The only thing that doesn’t suck about this new gig is Briar. And Harley.
She blew me off over the weekend, which only made me more surprised when she reached out today, saying Harley was talking about me nonstop and asking if there was any way I might have a few more minutes for him. Obviously, I said yes immediately.
Practice with him is an entirely different thing.
I enjoy the time with the kid, who listens and works hard, and I especially enjoy the time with his mom, getting to know more about the woman who smiles at everything and makes me laugh at seemingly nothing.
And who is also currently watching us on the ice so I should get back to it.
“Alright, touchpoint one,” I say, pointing at a cone, “then two, three, four.” I indicate each spot as Harley follows the path I’m setting.
“In the net, right corner.” I’m working with Harley on scoring today, specifically aiming for small targets inside the net.
It’ll increase the spaces he sees during games, so he won’t only search for center shots, which get rarer the older the players get.
“Got it,” Harley tells me with a nod of certainty.
I move back, keeping a close eye on him.
The first pass is a bit slow, but as he gets more confident in the pattern, his speed increases, as does his aim.
I let him run it ten times before skating back over.
“Now, reverse,” I say with a diabolical grin.
“Your body’s using muscle memory, so we challenge it in a new way. One, two, three, four, left corner.”
He looks unsure again, but goes for it without question. I let him run the drill that direction ten times too.
“Let’s put them together. First drill, right corner. When you skate back to start, the puck will be waiting for you to do the second drill to the left corner. Keep track,” I tell him, tapping my temple with the butt of my stick. “There’s no autopilot here.”
I expect him to be hesitant at first. It’s not a complicated pattern, but it requires thinking and then moving. Slowly but surely, he gets faster and faster. His aim falters a bit as his speed increases, but after quite a few runs, he’s both fast and accurate . . . and entirely out of breath.
“Great job. Quick water break.”
He nods and beelines to Briar, who is holding his water bottle out. I pick up the cones before following. “That was rough, but you handled it like a pro,” I tell Harley and he beams. “Let me know when you’re ready for more.”
“Let’s go,” Harley says excitedly, shoving the bottle back to his mother and fixing his helmet, which had gone a little off-center with the gulps he was swallowing.
Briar’s brows lift. “We don’t want to take up your whole evening. It’s okay if you need to go.”
“Mooom.”
We’ve been here for almost an hour and it’s a school night, but there’s one last piece to this drill I’d like Harley to do.
“We’ll make it fast,” I promise, giving the kid a chin nod of get out there before she stops us.
Thankfully, he gets the message and skates away, heading back to center ice as Briar gives me a trademarked mom glare of disappointment for encouraging him to semidisobey.
But I can also see the smile trying to lift her lips.
“Bad influence?” I say, skating backward as I shoot Briar a cocky grin. I point at myself. “Who, me?”
Her smile breaks free, lighting up her face. Shaking her head good-naturedly, she sits down, but calls out, “Ten more minutes.”
I meet Harley’s eyes and in sync, we answer, “Yes, ma’am.”
I give Harley his instructions and he takes his place. From off-side, I hit pucks his way, calling right or left as I send them. His job is to react quickly, shooting to the corresponding corner. The goal is to get ten in a row in the correct corner. It’s harder than it sounds.
The first attempt, Harley makes it to three before missing. The second, seven. The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth, he still doesn’t make ten.
“Eight, right.” Thwak.
“Nine, right.” Thwak.
“Ten, left.” I hold my breath, wanting this for him probably as badly as he wants it for himself. Thwak.
“I did it!” he shouts. Behind his helmet, I can see his face light up with surprise, and as he flies to me with his hand up for a high five, his pride grows.
“Way to go, man! That was some awesome work.”
He whirls to find Briar, making sure that she saw.
Of course she did, her eyes have been locked on Harley the entire practice.
Not once has she started scrolling on her phone or looked bored.
She’s watched, rapt with what’s been happening, so she saw exactly how much work that took and is standing up, clapping proudly.
“Great job!” She starts waving her hands in the air like a pom-pom-less cheerleader, “Woo-hoo!”
The reality hits Harley and he starts jumping around. “I did it! I really did it!”
I’m grinning, watching his celebration with some pride of my own, when he wobbles on a landing. “Ow!” he shouts, instantly lifting that foot up from the ice.
“Honey? Are you okay?” Briar hollers. She’s got that oh no, not my baby horrified look that I’ve seen on my mom’s face when I’ve gotten hurt over the years.
“I got him,” I tell her, skating to Harley at full speed. “What happened?”
He looks up at me with tears starting to pool in his eyes. “I landed funny. My ankle kinda twisted. It hurts . . . a lot.”
I nod. “Did you feel a pop or anything?”
He shakes his head and I breathe again. “Good. Let’s get you off the ice.
” I grab under his armpits, tell him to hold that foot up, and steer him toward the exit gate.
I could pick him up easily, but there’s an honor to leaving the ice yourself, even if it’s with help, and I want to give Harley that dignity and respect.
But once we’re clear, I scoop him up and carry him to the closest bench before squatting down.
“We need to take off your skate. Laces won’t hurt, pulling it off might hurt a little.
” I’m as matter-of-fact and honest about it as I can be, not wanting him to be surprised by the pain.
He nods bravely and I get to it. I’m as careful as possible, fully unlacing the skate, but he still whimpers a little as I remove it.
Briar comforts him, shushing him softly as she looks at me with fix it eyes.
Under his sock, his ankle looks . . . fine?
It’s not swollen or purple thankfully, but as I press gently, he winces.
“I think we should get it checked out, just to be safe,” I tell them both. Like she was already thinking the same thing, Briar is nodding before I get the words out and starts grabbing their stuff. I make quick work of taking Harley’s other skate off and changing into tennis shoes myself.
“Can you carry him to the car?”
“Yep.” Harley is light in my arms, but my gut is churning.
The kid got hurt on my watch. It might not have been an injury at my hand, or even because of a drill I had him doing, but I still feel responsible.
Which is why I head to my truck. “There’s room for him to stretch his leg out on the back seat,” I explain to Briar, who looks ready to argue with me.
Thankfully, that makes sense to her and she nods in acceptance.
I set him down and move out of the way so she can fuss over him for a second. Once she’s sure Harley is situated safely, she comes to stand in the open passenger door and meets my eyes. I’m expecting blame, accusation, and a fair amount of anger. What I get is, “Thank you.”
The adrenaline has worn off for Harley and it’s late for his little boy body, so after a delicate exam by the doctor and an X-ray we don’t have the results for yet, he’s crashed out on the hospital gurney.
He looks tiny amid the white blankets and pillows Briar piled around him to keep him comfortable.
She’s sitting in a chair, her eyes locked on her son.
“He’ll be okay,” I tell her quietly, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Slowly, her eyes find mine, as if she’d forgotten that I’ve been standing here for the last three hours. “I know. I just wish I could take the pain away.”
I sigh, wishing the same. I’d take the kid’s pain myself if there were a way to do it.
But there’s not, there never is. “My mom has sat vigil by my bed more times than she’d like to remember.
When I was a kid, she even tried to get me to play something less physical, like golf.
” I laugh at the memory. “Dad told her that if I wasn’t attacking the ice full throttle, I’d probably get kicked out of school for fighting. He was right.”
“You were aggressive? Even as a kid?”