Page 82 of Scoring Chance

“Go, Davy!” I call when the coach waves him onto the ice.

He doesn’t look back. He’s all nerves and focus, his expression carved in stone.

I grip the edge of the bleacher so tight my knuckles ache, but Davy’s out there flying, and for a second I forget to breathe. He’s got the puck on his stick, weaving past kids bigger than him, faster than him, like he was born out here. My chest swells, pride and relief tangling together, and I catch myself grinning like an idiot. He’s holding his own. Hell, he’s shining.

Then it happens.

A stumble, a tangle of skates, and the puck slides away like it never belonged to him. He sprawls across the ice, arms flailing. The moment lasts for years in my head, but in reality, he’s back up less than five seconds later. And yet I can see how he’s begun to unravel, how everything he built in those first few minutes is slipping through his little hands.

He tries to get back his confidence, but his movements on the ice get jerky, desperate.

And then they get sluggish with resignation. It’s over. It’s all over.

I want to run down there, scoop him up, shield him from the eyes watching, judging. Tell him it doesn’t matter, that one screw-up doesn’t erase his brilliance. But I can’t. All I can do is sit here, heart breaking for my boy who’s fighting tears he won’t let fall.

Around me, the other parents keep clapping and cheering—encouraging murmurs and polite applause—but it feels miles away. My hands go numb. I want to storm down there and pull him off the ice, wrap him in a blanket and tell him he never has to try anything scary ever again.

But I can’t. This is his.

And I know the second he skates off the ice—head down, trying to stay tall but visibly crumbling—that he knows. He didn’t make it.

Coach confirms it gently after the last group finishes. "He’s got hustle," he tells me. “Good attitude. Just not quite ready this year.”

I thank him. I shake his hand. I nod like it doesn’t feel like someone kicked me in the chest.

Davy is sitting in the locker room, his helmet still on like he doesn’t want to face the world without it.

“Hey, bud,” I say, kneeling next to him.

He doesn’t answer.

“You were really brave out there. Most kids wouldn’t have gotten back up at all.”

Still nothing. He’s gripping his stick like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

My throat is tight. “I know this hurts.”

He shrugs, but his chin wobbles.

“We’ll work harder. Try again next season.”

His voice is so small I almost miss it. “Maybe I’m just not good at anything.”

God. Watching your kid hurt is worse than heartbreak, worse than loss. It’s helplessness in its rawest form. He is crushed; I am completely and utterly flattened.

I wrap my arm around his shoulders. “This doesn’t define you.”

He doesn’t answer.

We drive home in silence. I watch him in the rearview mirror the whole time. His face pressed against the window, eyes dry but far away. I want to fix this. I want to snap my fingers and make the pain disappear.

When we walk through the front door, Des is in the kitchen chopping vegetables. Even though the state of our fake marriage is in a weird place, he still insisted on making dinner tonight.

He sees our faces immediately.

“What happened?”

Davy just walks past him, straight out the sliding glass door into the backyard. Des looks at me.