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They have the kind of on-ice chemistry that youth hockey coaches point to and tell their kids “be like them.” Stefan always knows where Alex is on the ice and vice versa, and along with the third member of their line, Pat Larsson, they bring back memories of The Assembly Line. When the three of them take to the ice for their shifts, they work together in a way that looks effortless. Their passing and puck handling is a thing of beauty.
“It’s getting late,” Stefan looks at his watch as the waitress drops off our bill and clears Stefan’s empty plate. I box my food up in the styrofoam container I’m offered, and reach for the bill at the same time as Stefan, our fingers brushing for a moment. Stefan wraps his hand around mine and wiggles the bill out of my grasp with a sly smile.
“It’s on me,” he reaches for his wallet in the pocket of his suit coat, “maybe I’ll let you get the next one.”
“Oh…I don’t know if we should…you know, since I’m an official and you’re…you.”
“Yeah. Of course.” There’s a note of disappointment in his voice that I choose not to dissect as we walk out of the restaurant together. And he walks me to my car, waiting as I get inside, even closing the door for me. He’s such a contradiction. On the ice he leads the team in penalty minutes, but off the ice he’s kind and soft spoken. He’s gentle. It’s a wonder that he spends as much time as he does in the box.
CHAPTER 4
WORLDS COLLIDE
STEFAN
“You’ve beenin a mood since Monday night,” Alex grips me by the shoulders, as we stand on the sidewalk outside of the nearby community ice rink. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Nope.” Because how do I explain that Monday night I was hoping Francine would say yes to another night out? How do I explain that she let me down as nicely as possible and it still made me grouchy? And she’s not wrong. That’s the worst part of it. I know she’s right; she’s an official and I’m a player and that’s not a good look. But if I’m going to talk to anyone about it, itshouldbe Alex since he’s a players union rep. But I stick with, “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Gabriel Bouchard, one of the Union goalies, approaches us from the parking lot, hands stuffed in his pockets and a smile on his face. “But how can you not be fine on a day like this?”
“You’re obnoxious,” I want to scowl, but Gabriel makes everyone smile, no matter their mood. “I really am fine.”
“I’m not buying whateverthisis,” Alex waves his hands in the general vicinity of my body, “so snap out of it. If not for me, then for the kids.”
Once a month or so, when the game schedule allows, Alex grabs whichever teammates he can and brings us along to a youth hockey camp that he hosts at the local community center. We skate for a bit, run drills with the kids, feed them pizza, and then attempt an organized game.Attemptbeing the key word.
“Seriously, guys. I’m fine.”
“In that case, you’re coaching a team today. You too, Bouchard.” Alex pushes us through the doors and into the rink, already filled with kids on the ice and parents in the stands. The kids turn to look at us as the doors open, eyes wide when they see us step onto the ice.
“Who thinks we should put coach Stefan in goal today?” Gabriel yells, eliciting a raucous cheer from the kids and earning a scowl from me and a gesture I keep hidden from the kids.
“Alright you little ding dongs,” I gather my usual group of boys and girls around me as we head down to our half of the ice, and they laugh the whole way. “Pair up for passing!”
Harper, a ten year old girl with a wicked slapshot, is left without a partner so I call her forward to help me demonstrate our passing drills for the morning. If ever there was a definition of tape to tape passing, Harper embodies it. Her passes are crisp and precise, and even when we start moving and incorporating more puck handling into the drills, she nails it.
Harper alsoknowshockey.
She grills me about my last game while we drill. Asking about my penalty minutes and why I passed instead of taking a shot when, according to her, I had a clear opening to score. I try to tell her that while I did have a clear opening to score I also had a skater who was much bigger than me skating at me full tilt and it was pass or be flattened like a pancake on the ice.
“I guess that’s a good excuse,” she gives me a cheeky smile and an eye roll to go along with it. “And an assist still counts for something.”
I hope she remembers that come game time this afternoon.
After pizza, the kids gear up and Gabriel and I serve as coaches and on-ice officials for the game. Alex serves as bench minder, making sure line changes happen as smoothly as possible. Harper is on my first line and squares up for the first face off, winning decisively and passing the puck to her teammate who streaks toward the goal before meeting Alex’s twin – literally, a set of fraternal brother and sister twins – defenders.
Sometime during the third period, the rink starts to fill up a little more, and there’s jostling for space on the benches. Alex calls time and skates to the bench, chatting with a woman who has a gear bag slung over her shoulder and skates in her hand. There’s a handful of other women behind her watching and waiting. Alex nods and so does the woman, offering him a handshake before he skates back to Gabriel and me.
“There’s a women’s league that uses the arena too. Usually on Thursdays, but they switched to Saturday this week because one of the forwards works this Thursday night.”
“Okay…” I draw out the word, hoping Alex hears the unspoken ‘what do I care?’ in my voice. “What does this mean for the kids?”
“They’re going to wait for us to finish. Some of them even want to watch. And then we are going to grab one of those leftover pizzas, camp out in the stands, and watch some hockey.” Alex skates away from us before I can argue, and play resumes.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask, reaching for a cold slice of pizza.
“Because,” Alex lounges so his back is against the row of bleachers behind us, “you need to watch hockey. Just for fun. We all do.”
