Page 61 of Put a Rink on It

“What are you doing here?” another one asks.

“And who’s she?” the goalie demands.

Nero wraps his arm around my waist, shifting me closer to him. We’re still on the ice with skates on, so I grab onto the edge of the handrail so I don’t fall. Not that Nero would let me.

“My fiancée, Marina. We came to skate. But our time is up now, so we’ll let you have the ice. Big game coming up?”

“We’ve got a tournament in Massachusetts this weekend. We’re hoping to win it all. You should come. Uh, if you’re not busy.”

The goalie slaps his chest. “Of course he’s busy. He’s Ne-ro Champion.” He tilts his head. “Is that your real last name?”

“Yep, pretty cool, huh?”

“The coolest. Way better than Dankworth.” His head bows down, embarrassment over something he can’t control shining through.

“Boys, what’s the holdup?” an adult male voice calls out, followed by the man himself. He stops short when he catches sight of Nero. “Oh, hey.” He’s not quite as starstruck as the boys, but it’s clear there’s respect for Nero.

Nero stretches out his hand, and the man shakes it. “Nero Champion. Your team and I were having a chat. Though I suppose my fiancée and I should clear the ice so the Zamboni can clean it for your practice.”

Like the parting of the sea, the boys form two lines on each side of the door for us to pass through. Nero goes first, holding his hand out behind him. It takes a minute for his action to make sense. When it does, I fit mine into his.

It’s probably for show—don’t think I didn’t miss the fact he referred to me as his fiancée twice—but it feels more real, yet also different from times in the past when he’s held my hand. More important somehow. It’s probably crazy, but we’ve already established I’m off my rocker by agreeing to this entire charade.

We left our bags in the second row of the stands, and Nero leads us over to them, encouraging me to sit on the bench. A few of the boys follow.

“Boys, let Mr. Champion be. Your focus should be on hockey,” the coach instructs.

“Your coach is right about the last part. But if it’s alright with him, I’ve got a little while to stay and watch.”

If you had told these boys Christmas was canceled this year, I don’t think any of them would care. Their faces light up brighter than any holiday lights.

As a collective group, they face their coach.

“Say yes, Coach Tim,” one boy pleads, fingers together in a fist under his chin.

“Please let him stay,” another cajoles.

“We won’t complain at all,” another promises, and all players’ heads bob up and down.

“We’ll do all the drills with no whining,” another adds.

“Puh-lease. He’s gotta stay. We’ll never have this chance again.”

They’re persistent as all heck and cute as pie. Fat chance the coach will say no, which was probably never his intention anyway. Why would he pass up the opportunity for a professional player to watch their practice? He’d be a fool.

“Since you’ve all asked so nicely, I say yes,” the coach declares to an uproar of cheers and a couple of gloves floating into the air. “But any complaints or distractions, and you’ll be doing double laps at the end of practice.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” The goalie salutes, his two fingers hitting his helmet.

The Zamboni finishes clearing the ice, and the team skates out, most of them checking to make sure Nero hasn’t left.

If I didn’t already know what kind of guy Nero was, this would prove it. He could have given out a few high-fives, maybe signed a few autographs, but he suggested staying for their practice. No doubt they’ll play their hearts out.

“This is going to be the highlight of their season. Nah, probably their year. Thank you for staying.” The coach stretches out his arm, his gratitude clear.

Nero takes his hand with a smile. “I’m always happy to support youth hockey. I can’t promise we’ll stay the entire practice, but happy to see which young fans might be coming up the pipeline one day.”

“Keep your eye on number ten. Of all the kids I’ve coached over the years, he’s got the most potential if he keeps his head in the game.”