Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whispered.
Smitty rubbed at his nose and sighed. “Me too. I thought I’d be a good dad.”
I swiped at the moisture on his cheek. “You’d be the best.”
He quirked his lips. “Yeah, but at the end of the day…she wasn’t the one. I can be angry that she hurt me, but…I gotta let it go.”
“It’s not too late to have a family of your own, you know.”
“Hmm.”
A heavy silence fell. I didn’t know how to fill it, so I tugged at his T-shirt. “Can I hold you?”
Smitty flashed a watery smile and dropped his head on my shoulder.
I snaked my arms around his waist and held on tight.
We swayed in the kitchen, sharing the weight of old burdens. We didn’t speak, but words weren’t necessary. It was enough to just….be.
He hadn’t lost anything and he wasn’t alone.
Not anymore.
18
SMITTY
This was our last game before the holiday and all I wanted for Christmas was a single solitary win. Just one. Please.
I’d come a long way from the greedy kid who’d wished for new hockey equipment and the latest game consoles, none of which my family could afford. But hope sprang eternal for little Smitty Paluchek and nothing had changed ’cause let me tell ya, I hoped and prayed this was our night.
So here’s the deal. The Hawks’ program had grown in the few months I’d been in charge. I coached junior varsity and varsity with my new assistant, Quinn, a nice albeit somewhat nerdy, skinny guy with glasses who was a whiz at strategizing. Between his analytic abilities, my defensive and offensive coordination skills, and our collective experience on the ice in the fucking pros, you’d think we’d be on our way to building a powerhouse organization at Elmwood High School. And maybe we were. Just not this year.
In the win column, the JV team was doing okay and the girls’ teams were actually killing it, thanks in part to Mary-Kate Moore, a scoring machine who also happened to be Ronnie Moore’s daughter. That was nice, but if we had any hope of becoming a Division One program, the boys needed to start winning too.
Okay, it had only been a few weeks of regular season play, and we were definitely improving, so there was hope on the horizon. Just…one win. One fucking win.
I’d done the cheerleader bit, I’d been a hardass, and even tried to be a regular ol’ nice guy. Tonight, I wasn’t above begging. And being slightly ridiculous.
I tapped my clipboard with a marker, pacing the perimeter of the state-of-the-art locker room while twenty teenagers dressed in game-night gear stared up at me, patiently waiting for my inspirational spiel.
How many ways were there to say “Stay in your lane, fight for the puck, and please fucking score”?
“All right, we got Wood Hollow tonight. They’re tough, but we can do this. I want quick transitions, I want you to move the puck, attack space, reload, block those shots, and above all…do not give up. You hear me?”
“Yes, Coach!”
“Good. One more thing…” I tucked the clipboard under my arm and shifted my gaze, making eye contact with every kid in the room. “How do trees get online?”
A collective “huh?” twittered in the air.
“What do you mean, Coach?” a brave soul asked.
“It’s a joke. How do trees get online? Take a guess. No? Okay, they log in.” That earned me a couple of chuckles. “I got another one. What did the sushi say to the bee? Anyone?” I opened my arms wide and gave my over-the-top inflection, “Wassa Bee?”
“You okay, Coach?”
“I’m good, and I’m just getting started. What do you call an illegally parked frog?” I waited a beat. “Toad.”
Micah wrinkled his nose in confusion while the others snickered. “I don’t get it.”
“Someone explain it to him. How do you make a Kleenex dance? Put a little boogie in it?” That one got ’em. I bit the inside of my cheek and schooled my features till I was pretty sure I looked like a seasoned comedian delivering cutting-edge material instead of a desperate coach willing to give anything a shot. “I could keep going and believe me, I have a great source for really bad dad jokes, but here’s the thing…hollering at you to take care of the puck, skate your asses off, and up your defense is my job. It’s also my job to remind you that this game is fun.”
“Losing isn’t fun,” someone grumbled.
“No, it’s not, but it’s part of the grind. Forget winning and losing for a sec, though.” I paused to collect my thoughts. “We have different reasons for being here. Me? I love this game. Always have. There’s nothing better than skating like the wind with a bunch of guys who become your brothers, who have your back, who know your strengths and protect your weak side. There’s nothing better than being part of a team. Maybe we’re not firing on all cylinders yet, but we will be. It’s gonna happen. Loosen up, take a deep breath, and remind yourselves how lucky you are to be here, hosting your rivals on this amazing new rink in front of your families and your friends before the holidays. I get it. You got other things on your minds too. But do me this one favor…for this next hour or so, let go of the noise, let go of the negative BS, and remember hockey is fun. Also…please pass the goddamn puck. Got it?”