Page 6 of Desire or Defense

Ignoring the gawking parents, clearly taking videos and photos on their phones, I skate to center ice where the entire team is huddled up. Max’s email said the kids' ages range from eight to thirteen. There’s even a few girls in the mix, their braids and long ponytails peeking out from under their helmets.

Aaron is on one knee, talking to the kids, when he sees me and smiles. “There’s our new assistant coach!” He stands. “Wombats, let’s give Coach Anderson an icy welcome!”

All the kids bang their hockey sticks against the ice and laugh, except one boy in the back who looks just as annoyed by the ordeal as I feel.

“Wow, thanks.” I attempt a friendly smile. “Hopefully we’ll, umm,” I pause, I’ve never been great with words—or kids—and how do you give a pre-hockey pep talk without swearing? “Hopefully we’ll have some… fun.” The word fun comes out in a strangled sound and feels foreign as I say it.

Aaron stares at me like I’m an alien from another planet who has never spoken to children before. Have I?

Finally, he claps his hands together and looks at the kids. “Well, let’s get started!” The kids take off, already knowing which station they’re starting at.

He turns back toward me. “Tonight we separate into groups and do drills. I'm going to pair you with the most skilled kids, the ones who are part of our competitive league.” He uses his stick to point to a group practicing their stick handling on the far end of the ice. Large pads separate each section, and with a quick scope of the various groupings of kids, it’s obvious the group he’s sending me to are more well-versed than the others. They’re even wearing fancier jerseys, ones with their last names on the back.

“Alright, so what do you want me to do, exactly?” I ask as I watch the group of about eight boys skate around and shoot pucks into the net, seamlessly switching from forward skating to backward skating.

Aaron slaps me on the back, hard. “Why don’t you start with teaching sportsmanship?” He winks before taking off, leaving me to my own devices.

“Okay,” I say to myself, not understanding why we’re practicing sportsmanship with a bunch of innocent-looking, young boys.

Skating over to my designated group, a puck comes flying towards my face and I swivel out of the way just in time. I glance over at my group to find them all staring at me, smirking.

“Sportsmanship,” I mutter under my breath through gritted teeth. He gave me the most skilled kids… but also the cocky bastards of the group. Well played, Aaron.

“You gonna show us how to end up in the penalty box, Anderson?” One quips, a smirk firmly in place on his rosy-cheeked face.

The kids to his right laughs, this one has reddish hair. “Or how to get suspended?”

“Maybe he’ll teach how to give a concussion 101,” another one says.

“Shut up so we can get this over with.” This comes from the boy with dark hair, the one who didn’t participate in the stick-tapping welcome.

I swallow slowly, refusing to let a bunch of little twirps get under my skin. Noticing the flash of a camera, I look over to the plexiglass and remember the photographer and Max are watching me. I skate closer to the boys, glaring at the one with freckles before wrapping an arm around his shoulder in a vice-like grip, a warning—he’s wearing tons of padding, he’ll be fine—I force a smile toward the camera and freckles does the same.

Max looks pleased. I release the kid, he stumbles when I let go. Then I turn my back on the cameraman so I can look at the boys again. “Alright, you all clearly know who I am. So, why don’t we start with you telling me your names?”

The group snickers. “What’s the magic word?” A boy with blond hair asks, batting his lashes obnoxiously.

“Now?”

All of them cross their arms in unison, like they practiced this ahead of time. The thought terrifies me.

The freckled boy speaks first, he seems to be the leader here. “Listen,” he starts calmly. I’m taking notes from him on how to command the group. “We’ll give you our names when you’ve earned our respect.”

I feel one eyebrow arch slowly up my forehead and my eye twitches in annoyance. “Do I need to have a talk with Coach Aaron?”

The boys glance at each other, snickering. The dark haired boy remains stoic and serious, though.

Freckles is the one to respond again. “You don’t seem like a snitch to me, Anderson. Now let’s get back to practice, boys.”

I raise my voice just enough to get their attention back on me, “Okay, Freckles. That’s enough. According to my knowledge, I’m the only one here with an NHL contract, and I’m the one in charge.”

The boy with dark hair laughs for the first time, and the other boys turn to glare at him. I clap my gloved hands together to get their attention back on me. Ignoring the insolent looks on their faces, I separate them into two groups. There’s only one net and one goalie, so we’ll have to set a timer and switch offense and defense.

I give my directions and they skate into place, despite Freckles attempting to walk all over me at first. The first five minutes go pretty well, the group has good skating skills and work well together passing the puck. When we switch at the five-minute mark, everything starts going downhill. Freckles seems to be in the middle of every tussle, as well as the dark-haired kid who seemed so level-headed. I begin memorizing the last names on the backs of their jerseys, so I know who to yell at. Except Freckles, that’s now his name permanently, whether he likes it or not.

When we switch again, Freckles and the kid with dark hair, Downsby, aim all their aggression on each other instead of the other boys. They’re hooking and slashing like I’ve never seen before. It’s a freaking battle out here.

The glares I give them after their penalties aren’t working, seeing as they’re not even bothering to look in my direction. I finally intervene when Downsby, the dark-haired one, high-sticks Freckles in the neck, sending him down hard on his back.