Page 74 of Puck the Coach's Son
I skate in slow.
“Coach.”
“Sit.”
I swing a leg over the boards.
“Sitting.”
He puts me on the bench next to Theo.
I clock it the second the lines are called. Theo's line is the defensive unit, the one Paul keeps off the power play, the one he rotates through the middle of each period. They're coming off a shift right now. Theo is already sitting. The seat next to him is empty because Marcus got called up to the first line two minutes ago and Paul hasn't backfilled.
Paul knows what he's doing.
Paul wants me inside Theo's elbow for the next twenty minutes of game time as punishment. He thinks it'll embarrass me. He thinks sitting a scoring veteran next to the green center whose line I just disrespected will shame me into remembering who the coach is.
He's a smart man and he is about to lose this one so badly.
I sit.
The bench is cold through my pants. Theo is in his gear. His helmet is in his lap. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat. He doesn't turn his head. He's looking at the ice like it's going to be on a test.
“Hi,” I say, low.
“Hi,” he says, lower.
“I was watching your video,” I say. “On the way over.”
His whole body jumps, not visibly, not if you're not touching him, but I feel it through the bench.
“I watched it four times last night.”
He doesn't answer. His jaw works once.
“Watched it once while I was eating.”
His eyes flick. Just the eyes, not the head.
“Mad.”
“Yeah.”
His glove comes up an inch on his knee like he means to stop me and thinks better of it.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
He swallows. He's watching the ice. His adam's apple moves once.
“Don't do this here.”
I lean back and fold my gloves on my lap like a man watching his team kill a penalty.
“I'm not doing anything.”
“You are.”
