Page 50 of One Wild Chance

We try again. This time goes better—we actually pass it down the line, albeit very slowly, until the final shot, which sails so wide of the net it might as well be in the next county.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. This team is a disaster. They can’t pass. They can’t shoot. They can’t even line up.

Dave leans in. “That’s better than anything I’ve gotten them to do.”

Two kids chase down the puck and then start hitting each other with their sticks.

I hold up my hands. “Okay. Stop. Let me show you how to do it.”

I thought showing up unprepared would mean I wouldn’t have to actually participate. Not my smartest move. But I used to do this without skates all the time when the pond would freeze over.

I step onto the rink, then nod to the kid with the shaggy hair. “What’s your name?”

“Bailey.”

“Okay, Bailey, come down here with the puck,” I say. “Then pass it right here, on the line.” I point to where I want it.

I hit the puck to him, but instead of scrambling for it, he watches it slide right past him.

“You were supposed to get that.” I motion toward the puck.

“I didn’t know you were passing it!”

I close my eyes and let out a breath through my teeth. “Let’s try it again,” I grind out.

Bailey follows me down the ice. When I crouch to get the puck, he takes a full swing with his stick without checking where I am.

I don’t see it coming until the last second, and by then it’s too late—the stick catches me square in the forehead, hard enough to knock me back a step.

The entire team erupts in laughter as I reach to see if there’s blood. My hand comes away clean, but that doesn’t help the shooting pain.

“I’m so sorry!” Bailey says, totally horrified. “I didn’t know you were there!”

“Give me a minute,” I mutter, holding my forehead. I blink, waiting for the room to stop spinning. The ice is the one place I’m supposed to have it together.

“Take five, team.” The kids skate off while I lean against the boards, holding my head in my hands. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. When I open them, Summer is standing before me, brow pinched, holding out an ice pack.

“Where’d you find that?” I ask.

“First aid kit,” she says. “Hold still.”

“I can do it⁠—”

She doesn’t listen, just presses it to my forehead, and I hiss in pain. “Dang, that’s cold.”

“Give it a minute.”

I close my eyes, just so I don’t have to look at her. The cold numbs the pain almost immediately. Or maybe it’s her, standing this close, that’s doing it. She keeps her hand on the cold pack, her arm brushing my shoulder, sending a current through my body. Clearly, I’m not thinking straight.

“You don’t have to stay,” I mutter.

“I’m staying anyway,” she insists.

Of course she is. She has no idea what kind of effect she’s having on me.

“I didn’t know you were coming to practice,” I say.

“I bring Remi twice a week. Her mom works second shift.” She adjusts the pack slightly. “Single mom, like mine. I know what it’s like to miss out on things.”