Page 138 of Get Me to the Starting Line
I let my three-year-old go as she lets out a wail. “DADDY!” Damn, her voice is loud. After raising the quietest kid known to man, our daughter came into the world with the biggest set of lungs on her.
Her voice carries across the ice to Julien, who sends Levi and the rest of the team to the bench before the game starts. He skates over to the boards where we’re sitting and sprays ice onto the glass right in front of us.
Émilie laughs loudly, her dark curls bouncing, and Julien beams at both of us before skating back to his position on the bench, removing his equipment.
He insists on getting geared up before every game, happy to take photos with any kid who wants one. It’s so sweet, even if it means we have to get to games a million hours earlier than necessary.
But I do love watching him take everything off and morph into Coach Julien. Coach Daddy. He’s so kind and patient with them. He was born to work with children. And I love that he gets to coach ours.
If I thought watching Julien in net during playoff season was stressful, it’s nothing like watching a player skate towards my eight-year-old on a breakaway. As the goalie mom, I’m the most stressed-out parent in the stands.
I watch my observant, quiet kid track the player as he skates into our end. The shot goes high and there’s a loud thunk. The puck lands in Levi’s glove. I barely even saw him move.
He saves goals exactly like his daddy.
My heart rate increases as the game continues. There’s a giant on the other team. Though Levi is tall, this kid looks like he’s starting high school. Or college.
He’s skating towards Levi and though I can’t watch, I jump to my feet anyway, Émilie in my arms. It happens in slow motion and the past and present catch up. I watch the shot, the save, and then the crash.
This huge kid throws his stick in frustration and then slams right into Levi, knocking him down and the net off its posts. My heart screeches to a halt before leaping into my throat as Levi goes down. And he stays down, not moving.
Before I can react, Julien launches himself over the boards and races to Levi, getting to him before anyone else.
I watch from the boards as Julien takes Levi’s helmet off and I see them talking. Relief floods through me when he helps Levi to his feet. Julien looks back at me and nods, assuring me he’s okay.
I can’t find it in me to pity the other team’s coaches. Julien has fire in his eyes.
That kid hurt his son.
He marches over, steps not faltering on the ice for a second, and towers over the other team’s coach. Even after all these years, he hasn’t gotten any louder. I wish he was yelling so I could hear what he’s saying.
I want to yell and scream. But the coaches’ faces are pale, as though they just beheld the eyes of the devil and survived, so Julien must’ve scared them straight.
Nothing like having a 6’5” retired NHL goaltender rip you a new one.
The other team pulls the kid who smashed into Levi, and he doesn’t play the rest of the game. After Levi’s had some rest, he skates back out onto the ice, waving at me and his little sister.
Thankfully, the rest of the game is uneventful. Levi misses some shots but saves more, and their team pulls out a win.
Whenthekidsshuffleinto the dressing room, I wrestle with Émilie as I wait in the lobby with all the other parents. The parents from the other team file out, one set in particular looking pissed as hell.
Julien comes out first, as usual. I watch him as he marches through the crowd. He may not be any louder, but he no longer makes himself small. He takes up all the space he needs, including my personal space.
“Hey, Daddy, how’re you feeling?” I ask, teasing and concern warring in my tone.
“You know I can’t resist it when you call me that,” he growls low so no one else can hear.
“I know.”
Levi comes out a few minutes later, running to us, awkwardly rolling his giant goalie bag behind him.
“Did you see it, Mommy?” he asks once he reaches us.
“I did, buddy. Big hit.”
He nods, serious, staring up at Julien. I’ll never get over the bond those two have. It makes my heart soar.
“I still can’t believe he hit me, Daddy,” his quiet voice says, so much conviction for an eight-year-old.
