Page 49 of One Wild Chance

They immediately quiet down, then drift over, bumping and stumbling into each other on the way.

“Who’s that?” one of them asks, pointing at me.

“It’s a Chance brother, dumbhead,” another says, whacking him on the back of his head. “He’s a professional hockey player.”

“Is your name Rhett?” a third kid asks.

“No, I’m Jaxon. The other hockey player in the family.” The brother who has apparently been demoted to youth leagues. “I used to play for the Carolina Crushers.”

“The Crushers?” A kid in the back makes a face. “Are they any good?”

“They’re a great team, actually.”

“Did you play in the NHL?”

“One season. The rest of the time I played for the AHL.”

The kid from the parking lot raises his hand. “I thought you said you were just here to watch.”

“Your coach asked me to stay,” I say.

“Would you want to run the practice?” Dave asks eagerly. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble?”

Dave is clearly one step away from losing it with this team. I give him credit for stepping up. “I don’t have anything prepared.”

“That’s okay.” Dave brightens. “I’m sure you’re more prepared than I am. And the team would love to learn from a pro.” He turns to the group. “Right, guys?”

Two kids nod half-heartedly. The rest aren’t even paying attention.

“All right.” I clap my hands to get their attention. “Line up in two lines, facing each other. You’re going to pass the puck back and forth. Last person shoots on goal. Who’s our goalie?”

A hand shoots up from the back of the group. The team parts, and a girl skates forward.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Didn’t see you.”

“I’m too short to be seen,” she says with a shrug.

“Are you the goalie?”

She nods. “Aunt Summer told me I had to be, since none of the boys wanted to volunteer.”

“She’s not your real aunt,” a boy says.

“I know that!” she says. “She’s my mom’s friend.”

Aunt Summer? I turn, expecting to see someone else. But there she is, sitting in the bleachers with her blonde hair curling softly around her shoulders.

Summer lifts her hand slowly and waves to me. No wonder she wanted me to volunteer with the team. It all makes sense. And now she’s watching me mess up in real time.

I turn back to the little girl. “What’s your name?”

“Remi.” She has two long braids that stick out from her helmet, and she’s only half the size of some of the boys. She’s going to get destroyed out there.

“Okay, Remi, get into your position,” I say. “Everyone else, get into two lines. And take it easy on the goalie.”

They take ten minutes to form the worst line ever, and once they finally figure that out, what follows is the most chaotic sequence of passing drills I have ever witnessed.

Two boys spend twenty seconds arguing about who goes first, then a smaller kid trips over his own skate and takes down the boy next to him.