Chapter 8
TY
Practice should be easy. It’s hockey. It’s drills. It’s structure. I’ve stepped onto the ice in packed arenas louder than this. Except those are arenas full of fans and players. Today, it’s all chaos in ponytails, mismatched laces, and a level of side conversation I cannot cut through.
I clap my hands once. “Hey. Did anyone hear me? I need your attention.”
One girl nods at me like I’ve just told her the weather. Another keeps talking.
Cool. Great. Love that for me.
I blow the whistle, sharp and loud, the sound cutting clean across the ice. “Hey, hey. That’s enough.”
Two of them are squared off like they’re about to drop gloves, sticks gripped tight, helmets tipped forward with all the intensity of a playoff game.
I skate over, slower than I would in a real game, because I’m already aware I’m out of my depth here and charging in isn’t going to help. “Talk to me, but only one of you at a time, or I won’t know what’s happening,” I say, looking between them. “What’s going on?”
They both start talking at once. Fast. Over each other.
Something about a missed pass, someone not calling for the puck, and then it spirals into something that very clearly has nothing to do with hockey.
I catch maybe half of it. The rest stacks too quickly, their voices overlapping in a mayhem-like way that has nothing to do with the rink.
My thumb finds the edge of my ring, spinning it once, twice.
The metal rolls smoothly beneath my fingers, grounding in a way that still catches me off-guard sometimes.
Dr. Hale suggested I get a fidget ring after we started working together—something tactile to focus on when my brain starts running too hot.
I remember thinking it sounded ridiculous that a spinning ring could calm me down.
But considering the kind of morning I’ve had, I’m very glad I listened.
“We’re playing hockey,” I say, a little more carefully now, like I’m choosing each word before I let it out. “Which means we figure it out, we reset, and we go again. We don’t do”––I gesture between them––“whatever is happening here. Got it?”
There’s a couple of stubborn shrugs. One of them nods first, the other follows, and then it seems that the storm passes, at least on the surface.
Sighing, I tap my stick against the ice. “Alright. That’s practice. Good work today. Hit the locker room, we’ve got the bonding session next.”
They peel off in a noisy cluster, the tension already dissolving into chatter and laughter like it never happened. I stay where I am for a second, watching them go, trying to make sense of the shift from almost-fight to best-friends-again in under thirty seconds.
Hockey I understand. My sister’s team? Still figuring that out.
I turn toward the bench, the morning still spinning me around like I’ve been spit out of a hurricane, and that’s when I see her.
Through the glass, just past the rink doors, Vivian tosses her hair over her shoulder and steps into the community room beside the girls’ locker room, arms full of boxes.
She nudges the door open with her hip, and I see a peek of what waits beyond it.
There’s color everywhere—cords, tools, trays laid out with a kind of intention I recognize even if I don’t understand it.
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, focused, in her element.
I slow without meaning to, skates drifting toward the boards as I watch her, and something in my chest pulls tight.
It would be easy. That’s the problem. Easy to walk in there.
Easy to lean against the counter and say something that makes her roll her eyes.
Easy to close that space between us like we already have.
I know exactly what her mouth feels like.
And for a second, I let myself think about it again. What it’d be like if she didn’t stop this time, or if I didn’t pull back.
My grip tightens on my stick. I don’t get to be that guy right now.
Not when I’d be showing up with half my head somewhere else and the other half still trying to figure itself out.
She deserves better than that. I push off, harder than I need to.
I’ve got too much on my plate to start something I can’t finish right.
And she’s not the type of woman you figure those things out with.
You show up strong for them—strong and ready.
I take a few more slow laps around the rink feeling the ice, taking deep breaths of air, feeling like me.
Once all the girls are out of sight, I step off the ice and head for the bench.
By the time I drop down and start unlacing my skates, the rink’s already echoing with the sounds of the girls in the locker room—voices intertwining, gear clattering, energy still buzzing from practice.
Man, Emma did not tell me how loud they were, but I should have guessed.
I have friends who have kids, they’re active, but this group is talkative and judgmental, and tough.
I have a feeling I’m going to need some form of ear protection, like noise-cancelling headphones, before my time with them is over.
I work quickly, fingers tugging at laces, rolling my shoulders like I can shake off the feeling of being a step behind all morning.
Once I’m in sneakers, I grab my water bottle and push through the doors, the hallway quieter but not by much.
I head to the community room and pause in the doorway, knocking lightly against the frame. “Hey.”
Vivian glances up, a quick flicker of surprise before it settles into something softer. “Hey.”
I step inside, letting my gaze skim over the tables, the neatly arranged supplies, the colors that somehow feel like they belong here even if I couldn’t explain why. “You need a hand with anything?”
There’s a beat, like she’s considering it, then a small shake of her head. “I think I’ve got it. But, thank you.”
“Sure.” I nod, rocking back on my heels, suddenly aware I’ve gone from running drills to hovering in a craft setup I don’t fully understand. “Practice is done. They’ll be out in a minute.”
“Good,” she says, glancing toward the door, then back at me. “I was hoping I wasn’t too early.”
I make a small sound, something almost like a laugh. “You’re right on time.”
As if on cue, the noise from the hallway ramps up—voices getting closer, a burst of laughter, the unmistakable energy of teenage girls about to flood the room.
The door swings open and they pour in, still half in hockey mode, half already onto whatever’s next.
Vivian straightens just slightly, keeping her posture relaxed, not stiff nor formal as she waves, unleashing the most beautiful smile.
I swear the room is brighter now than it was only a second ago and it’s all her.
“Hi, guys,” she says, easy, like she’s been hanging out with them forever. “Not sure if you remember me, but we met a few weeks ago. I’m Vivian.”
A voice pipes up from the front. “You own the jewelry store?”
“Yes!” Vivian says excitedly, causing a giggle to ripple through the tiny crowd. “And I’m going to be hanging out with you for the next six weeks doing team bonding sessions.”
There’s a wave of “ohhh” through the group, curious but listening.
“We’re going to be doing all kinds of fun things in here,” she continues, gesturing to the tables.
“Part of team bonding is to have you all work together in some way, right? Emma asked me to work with each and every one of you to design the trophy for your Team MVP. So every Saturday we’ll come together to make some kind of jewelry, and for at least thirty minutes at the end of these sessions we’ll have a design meeting. ”
Eyes sparkling, the team begins staking claims on spaces at the table, sliding into chairs and getting comfortable. One girl, with ponytails wrapped in team colors of dark blue and gold, a la the Dominion, raises her hand. “What’s that like?”
Her seatmate turns and looks at her like she has eight heads. “You’ll see soon, won’t you?”
Ponytails pushes on, ignoring her friend…or would it be her enemy? “So we are making something today?”
The girl next to her sighs and rolls her eyes. These were the two who were arguing on the ice; I could have bet money we’d end up here.
“Clara. Duh. You’ve got stuff in front of you.”
I can see Clara isn’t happy by the way she pinches her lips together, and I’m pretty sure if she could shoot daggers at her seatmate, she would. “Stop it, Hannah. No one asked you.”
I swear I can see the storm coming before it lands, so I step in before it goes any further. That’s what coaches do, right? I am the adult here. Or at least one of them.
“Hey.” My voice cuts in sharper than I mean it to, the same tone I’d use if two guys were about to drop gloves. Both of them snap their heads in my direction to look at me.
So does the rest of the table. Great.
I nod once, like that settles it. “We’re not doing that.”
No reaction. Only silence as Clara blinks at me and Hannah leans back in her chair, smirking, like she’s just been handed front row seats to a Broadway show. I think Hannah scares me a little, if I’m being honest.
“We save it for the ice,” I add, because that’s what I’d say to the guys if this was happening with the team. That’s what works.
But here? It does not work.
Hannah’s mouth twitches, like she’s casting a spell on me. Clara looks like she’s deciding whether to be embarrassed for me or annoyed.
“Or,” I keep going, because apparently, I’ve committed now, “you’ve got an issue, you handle it after. Like outside, right? Not in the middle of”—I gesture vaguely at the table—“arts and crafts.”
The room stays quiet, but not the kind I’m used to.
It’s the kind of quiet where I can feel myself getting it wrong in real time.
Did I hear myself just suggest to a room full of up-and-coming hockey players to go outside and settle things in the parking lot?
And also manage to call Vivian’s workshop arts and crafts?