Page 21 of King of the Crease

He exhales a semi-calm breath. This time, he manages a smoother glide. Progress.

“There you go!”

His face lights up like I just gave him a gold star.

I set up in net and await the guys to shoot their pucks at me. The firing squad part of practice. I block every one. I take a special glee in blocking Bill’s. I might be working extra hard to impress our new teammate. He knows I can’t handle a Christmas tree, but at least he can see how I guard a net.

“Good, Hank.” Bill slaps my helmet. “New guy: you’re up!”

Nick sets up in net, pads slightly crooked, glove hand hovering like he’s afraid to commit. Bill sends shooters one by one.

Des winds up and slaps one wide—on purpose, I know, because he’s a softie—but Nick still flinches like he’s dodging a bee.

“You okay?” I call.

“Yes!” he yells back. “This is invigorating.”

Bill shoots next, low and hard. Nick drops too late. Goal.

“Square up. Track the puck,” Bill says.

By the fifth shot, Nick’s breathing hard, his eyes wide and alert. He’s trying, I’ll give him that. He just looks overwhelmed. Like someone dropped him into a foreign country where everyone speaks slap shot.

“I’m sorry. I suck,” he utters when I skate up to him, complete dejection in his eyes. I get flashbacks to that summer when Brody tried little league.

“Hey, you don’t suck! Look at me,” I say. Those beautiful eyes are now filled with shame. “Do you want to play hockey?”

“I probably shouldn’t. I don’t want to be the reason you lose.”

“The question isn’t whether you should. Do you want to?” Winning is great and all, but at the end of the day, we’re here to have fun. I believe sports should be used to include people, not exclude.

He nods yes. “I’m more out of practice than I thought. It’s fun when I know what I’m doing.”

“Then you’re going to keep playing. We’ll work together to get you ready for your first game. We’ll shock the emerging bald spot right off Bill’s head.”

“Are you sure?”

“Heck yeah. I need someone else on this team who laughs at my jokes.” I rub his shoulder. “I got you covered, pal.”

During a break, Bill skates over to me. “Hank.”

“I know,” I say quickly. “He’s rusty.”

“Rusty is an understatement.”

“I’ll fix it,” I promise. “He’s got the foundation. He just hasn’t played in years. It’ll come back.”

Bill crosses his arms. “You really believe that?”

I look at Nick, who’s practicing butterfly drops in the corner, half of them ending in awkward sprawls. He keeps getting up, though. No sulking. No excuses.

“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

Bill studies him a moment, then nods. “Alright. But he’s on thin ice.”

“Literally,” I joke.

He doesn’t laugh.