Page 102 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

I step out. “You’re supposed to be breaking those.”

“One day at a time.” He says it lightly, but I hear the truth beneath it.

Inside, the rink smells like cold air, rubber mats, sharpened steel, and hot chocolate. Parents crowd into worn wooden bleachers along one side. Children weave across the ice in mismatched jerseys while two volunteer coaches attempt to organize them into lines.

Nobody notices Jamie at first. He seems pleased by that. He stands beside the boards, watching a little boy make three determined attempts to stop without falling. The fourth ends with the child sitting hard on the ice.

Jamie smiles. The boy pushes himself up, tries again. Then a young girl near center ice turns toward the boards. Her eyes widen. “Captain Jamie!”

Every helmet on the rink swivels in our direction. The response is immediate. “Captain Jamie!”

“He’s here!”

“Jamie!”

Children abandon their lines and race toward the gate in a wave of skates, sticks, and excited voices. The coaches don’t even try to stop them.

Jamie braces himself instinctively, protecting his healing shoulder as the first group of children reach him. “Easy,” he says, laughing. “Nobody takes out the injured guy.” A small girl in a purple helmet throws both arms around his waist.

His right arm circles her shoulders while his left stays carefully protected.

“Hey, Sophie.”

She pulls back. “You remembered me.”

“You scored your first goal last month.”

Her mouth falls open. “My dad told you?” “I was here.”

“You saw it?” “I did.”

Her entire face lights. Jamie crouches carefully until they are eye to eye, one hand braced against the boards for balance. “Top corner.”

She nods so hard, her helmet shifts. “I practiced.”

“It showed.”

A boy wearing goalie pads shuffles closer. “Captain Jamie, I got new gloves.”

Jamie examines them with complete seriousness. “Those are excellent.”

“They’re secondhand.”

“Most of my first equipment was secondhand.” The boy looks surprised. “Really?”

“Best glove I ever owned had somebody else’s name written inside.”

The child grins. Another boy holds up a math worksheet pulled out of his pocket. “I got a B.” Jamie takes the paper. “You were aiming for a C.”

“I know.”

“So that’s a win.” The child nods, proud enough to stand taller in his skates.

I remain a few steps away. Watching. Jamie remembers names. Birthdays. Positions. A lost tooth. A spelling test. He knows which child was afraid of skating backward and which one wanted to become a goalie despite being the shortest person on the ice.

This is not the polished kindness of a celebrity making an appearance. There are no cameras. Jamie isn’t performing. He belongs here. The little girl in the purple helmet reaches toward his sling-less arm. “Are you better now?”

“Getting there.”