Page 172 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
Or see Oliver trying to avoid my gaze.
Dad’s coaching voice is the same, even after all these years. It triggers memories of being on the ice with him as a kid. Those are the ones that often come back whenever I think about my childhood with him.
“Ruiz. A moment.”
My eyes snap open.
Oliver and Dad remain at the bench.
“Do you remember what I told you at my house?” Dad asks.
Oliver blanches. He clears his throat and says, “That I have my whole life ahead of me to date girls. But not this girl.”
“And yet…”
“And yet,” Oliver repeats. His expression blanks. “Are you going to kick me off the team, Coach?”
“No. I am going to make the whole fucking team skate until their legs fall off as soon as we get back to Framingham.” Dad smiles. “So you have that to look forward to. I’m sure your teammates will thank you. Now get back out there.”
He skates away.
I groan. “Jeez, thanks.”
“What?” Dad shakes his head. “I’m just protecting my baby girl.”
fifty-three
penn
Exercise clears my mind.
Sort of.
Normal exercise, like playing hockey, doesn’t. I’m focused, sure, but my mind whirls at the next level above genius. I am one with the puck. I am a body language reader, predictor of shots and angles. My cat-like reflexes are unmatched.
We won our second game in Michigan. The plane ride home was energized to everyone except Ollie, who seems to be growing more distant by the second.
And now that we’re experiencing true pain through exercise, I’ve turned to scheming.
Coach blows the whistle, and there’s a collective groan as we go again. My skates aren’t built for speed, my pads too cumbersome. It’s fucking irritating to come in nearly last every time we have to go down and back—but then, there’s a shift. And I start coming in second to last, then third to last.
We go again.
Guys puke on the ice.
We go again.
There’s a way to fix Oliver and Sydney. I just need to think of it. And while my brain is wiped clean, like a glossy, freshly cleaned ice rink, a solution has yet to manifest. Other than locking them in a room together…
We go again.
We already tried locking them in together, and it didn’t exactly work. Maybe it made him understand, but it sure didn’t put any fight in him. I get back to the goal line and struggle to catch my breath. My mouth is dry, my lungs are screaming.
I run for fun. But these sprints are way, way past fun.
RIP to the ice maintenance guys who’ll have to deal with the vomit on the ice. Although from this angle, there’s not much substance to it.
I glance at Coach, who stands on the bench with the whistle in his mouth and his arms crossed. There’s a point to this, I’m sure there is, but I haven’t put much thought into that.