Page 103 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

“Can you skate?”

“Not yet.”

Her smile disappears. Jamie notices. He always notices. “But I can watch you.” She considers that. “Will you?”

“I was hoping you’d let me.” The smile returns. She hurries toward the gate before stopping. “I learned crossovers.”

“Then I need to see them.”

Within minutes, the children return to the ice. Jamie stands at the boards, calling encouragement as they attempt drills. He doesn’t offer corrections unless a coach asks. He doesn’t turn the attention toward himself. He simply watches every child as though their next tiny victory matters.

A woman with silver hair approaches me carrying two paper cups of hot chocolate. “You must be Annette.”

I accept the cup before realizing what she said. “How do you know my name?”

She smiles. “Jamie mentioned his rehabilitation specialist might bring him.”

I glance toward the boards. He is helping the young goalie tighten the strap on one glove using only his right hand.

The woman offers her hand. “Evelyn Reynolds. I manage the rink.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You’re the one making sure he behaves?”

“I attempt to.”

Mrs. Reynolds laughs. “Good luck.”

“I need it.”

We watch Jamie for a moment. The purple-helmeted girl completes a shaky crossover near the boards. Jamie lifts his fist in celebration. She beams.

“He’s been coming here for years,” Mrs. Reynolds says.

“Since before he became captain?”

“Long before.”

A young boy skates past wearing a jersey two sizes too large. Mrs. Reynolds’s gaze follows him. “Most people think the equipment program and skating scholarships come from anonymous donors.”

I look at her. “They don’t?”

Her expression turns almost mischievous. “They come through the Walker Foundation.”

The name catches. “Walker Foundation?”

Before she can explain, Jamie turns from the boards. “Mrs. Reynolds, how’s Noah enjoying goalie camp?” She looks toward him. Then at me. A knowing smile touches her face. “He loves it.”

“Good. He worked hard for that spot.”

“He did.”

Lowering her voice, Mrs. Reynolds adds, “Jamie would rather the kids be remembered than the person who helped them.”

Walker Foundation. I store the name alongside everything else I am beginning to learn about him.

The notebook. The cabin. The community rink. The children who race toward him because he remembers their report cards and first goals. Each piece reveals a man much larger than the public version printed across headlines. And far quieter.