Page 11 of Puck, Marry, Kill

I scoff, letting the old man allusion slide. “You are a kid.”

His smile, which seems pretty constant, fades a few degrees. “Which means I’m probably not going to get much playtime, right?”

He wants reassurance that he’ll get his turn on the ice. It’s what we all want—our time to shine, with the crowd shouting our name as we finally get the chance to turn the dream we’ve had since we picked up a stick for the first time into a reality. “Probably not,” I tell him honestly. “Might even end up doing some time in the minors again this season. But keep working. You’ll get there.”

He brightens again. “Hey, I beat you to the goal line ... once.” It’s a joke, poking fun at himself and his earlier earnest belief that he’d truly outskated me. “I’d appreciate any tips you’re offering, though. You know a helluva lot more than I do.” He lifts a plastic forkful of chicken in the air, silently thanking me for the advice I already gave.

I look from Rodney to Tomville, both of their eager faces bright with hope. They want direction, need it like air, and I have no faith that Coach Boothe is going to give it to them. Or if he does, it’ll come with a degradation and humiliation chaser.

I set my fork down. “No holds barred,” I warn them, and they nod in agreement, their faces going serious. “Rodney, you’re fast. You know that.” He starts to smile, but I continue, “You depend on that too much. You get to the puck first, and in your mind, that’s a win. But it’s barely step one.”His brows furrow as he listens closely, taking in what I’m saying. “You’re a center, which means you need to read the ice. Sometimes you’re able to skate away from trouble, but you also have to be prepared to fight off a pack and then have your eyes up to get the pass off to the open man. Don’t focus on developing speed you already have. Focus on attacking the other team the way you attack the ice. Hard. Create opportunities, and then exploit them.”

He nods firmly. “Heard.”

“Do me. Do me next,” Tomville pleads around his mouthful of food. He’s holding his hand in the air like he’s in a classroom back in school.

“Where Rodney has physical skill and needs to work on his mental game,” I point at the kid, then swing my finger toward Tomville, who is only slightly older, but shorter and lighter, “you’re the opposite. You can predict the plays before they happen, you see the holes, and you have that ‘balls to the wall’ mentality that you need.”

“But?”

I grin, glad he heard that coming. “But you need the brawn to back it up. You said you were an enforcer on your last team, but that was in the minors. The batshit crazy terrier act won’t cut it up here, this is a whole different league. Guys with six inches and nearly a hundred pounds on you are going to be coming at you full-force, and while you’ve got the mindset to not flinch, they’re gonna mow you down. It’s simple physics. You need muscle and power, like yesterday. But don’t pack it on too quick, or it’ll make you slower than shit. You need to grow steadily so your body can adjust to moving more mass each day.”

Tomville blinks several times, and for a second, I think he’s going to argue with me. Instead, he comes back with, “You got a workout plan I can follow, or should I hit the strength coach up for that?”

“Try Coach first, but I’ll take a look at your plan if you want,” I reply, having no reason to trust the Blizzard’s strength and conditioning team so far. “Basically, make sure you pick up heavy weights every day,no excuses and no skips. Low reps only, none of that ‘sets of twenty’ toning crap.”

“Will do. Thanks, Dom.”

Two coachable rookies? The odds of this season being a complete clusterfuck are decreasing. Though they’ll be years in development to fully reach their potential. But we all start somewhere.

We finish the rest of our dinner with the two kids talking about their past hockey experience. I don’t bother sharing mine, because they could probably recite it as well as I could. By the time we leave, I think they feel a bit better about themselves and their new positions on the Blizzard.

I wish I could say the same.

Hanging out with those guys was a fun, momentary distraction that I greatly appreciate, but as I open the door to my home away from home, all I feel is empty inside, just like the house. I didn’t even decorate any of this shit, it’s as soulless as a hotel room.

I flop onto the couch, one foot on the coffee table and one on the floor as I look around. My suggestion to the guys was to handle their business and go to bed before tomorrow’s camp, but all I want to do is punch the closest wall.

Chapter 4

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 tostare 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.”