Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“You too.” I bumped his fist and held out a hand to the waifish preteen at his side wearing a pink Elmwood Ice sweatshirt and black leggings. “Hi, there. I’m Court.”
“I’m Mary-Kate. The kids call me MK, though. Uncle Vinnie started that one and it stuck,” she said with a laugh, her long brown ponytail swaying behind her.
My jaw dropped. “No way. You can’t be Mary-Kate. She’s five. Tops.”
Mary-Kate snickered. “I’m almost twelve.”
“Wow. Okay.” I rubbed my stubbled jaw and blinked as if coming out of a haze. “I forgot I was so old.”
“Well, if you’re old, I’m Methuselah.” Ronnie snorted, patting my shoulder. “Mary-Kate is going to help you with the Mighty Mites. They’re good kids, but it can be like wrangling cats. I’ve been handling this one for a while, and it takes a certain amount of patience.”
“I’m not exactly known for that particular virtue. Is there anything else you need help with around here?”
“I believe in you, Court. And I’m also a little desperate. We need the help. The program is growing faster than I can hire new coaches and sadly, no one is clamoring for this gig. The good news is…Mary-Kate here is a natural. She can run the basic drills on her own, but it takes two to keep this crew focused.”
“Sounds like a babysitting gig,” I commented ruefully.
“Yeah…maybe a little,” he drawled, eyes alight with humor as he waved to the group of little kids waddle-skating toward us. “Here they are now. Have fun.”
“Hang on.” I grasped at Ronnie’s shirt before he escaped. “That kid is shuffling over here, not skating. I don’t know what to do with that.”
Ronnie gently unpeeled my fingers and bumped my chest. “You’ve got this. Just teach them the basics. The very basics. The juniors will be rolling in after you’re finished, and we’ll need your help there too. Don’t worry. I believe in you, Henderson.”
My protests were swallowed by a squawk of miniature people with pink cheeks carrying miniature sticks. I shot a panicked glance Mary-Kate’s way.
She smiled graciously and introduced me as the newest member of Team Mighty Mites.
Fuck my life.
So here’s the thing about the six- to nine-year-old age span. Age had nothing to do with skill levels. Archie Menlo’s kid and his cousin were both eight and they were decent skaters, but other than knowing that the objective was to put the puck in the net, they didn’t know the game. Stella, a precocious six-year-old with blond pigtails wanted to be goalie so she could practice her gymnastic moves on the bars. Trey was seven and might one day be a decent defender, but he also had the attention span of a gnat. Rosie was nine and was probably the best shooter on the team. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to skate backward. At all.
In other words, it was a hot mess.
I suggested we start with them showing me how they played, then watched helplessly as they tangled their sticks in an effort to knock the puck free. This was hell.
“Where do I begin?”
Mary-Kate shrugged. “My dad has them skate around the cones and take shots on goal. Should we do that?”
“I guess. Do they know how to stop? That kid is flying toward the wall and—oh, crap.” I sped to the kid waving his arms like a bird with clipped wings. I stopped him, shredding ice at his feet and redirecting him to the group MK had gathered in a huddle. “Okay, let’s do this all over again. Apparently, I asked the wrong questions. Show of hands. Who knows how to skate?”
“Is that a trick question?” Jason asked, glancing at the other kids who’d all raised their hands.
“Maybe. Who can skate backward?” I showed what I meant, adding, “Who can turn? Who can stop while skating backward? I didn’t think so.”
“Can you teach us?” Stella piped in. “And do you know how to do any fancy turns?”
“That’s figure skating,” Mary-Kate reminded her.
“Ooh, let’s do that! Let’s do figure-skating hockey.”
“That’s dumb,” someone said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“No…”
Right.
I stood impotently with my hands on my hips while Mary-Kate mediated a mini brawl. My body was on the ice, but the rest of me was tripping through time. A month ago I’d played actual hockey on a real team with adults and now I was a glorified, not to mention unqualified, babysitter.
Was this torture really worth a meeting with Vinnie’s agent? Yes. Gary McDermott had serious connections. I could be in LA or Vegas next month and maybe land a job with the Kings or the Knights when I retired for real. And Elmwood would be a distant memory.
But I still had to get through this. Fuck.
Okay, think, Henderson.
I searched my memory and came up blank. I couldn’t remember a time I didn’t know how to skate…it was something I did well that had set me apart from my brother the gifted student and my parents, who were business people and bakers. I was the athlete. I was the kid who’d loved the sting of cold air and the feel of blades gliding beneath me. I loved the fast pace and the sense of freedom I had on the ice. But how did you teach shit like that?