I forced my expression to stay neutral, but inside, years of careful maintenance work began to buckle. That stick looked exactly like the one I'd used during my last season of organized hockey in Whistleport. Same manufacturer, same model, and same exaggerated curve that coaches told us would be illegal in a few years. For a second, I almost reached for the initials I knew might still be carved into the shaft beneath the grime.
Eric tested the stick's weight, holding it at the balance point with the blade resting against the cracked asphalt. "Think it's still usable?"
"It's rotten. Wood's probably soft all the way through."
Eric ignored my comments. He was already moving, sliding his hands into a grip that was close to correct and taking a few experimental swipes at an imaginary puck. His form was terrible—hands too far apart and shoulders twisted at the wrong angle. At least he was enthusiastic.
"God, this feels weird." He laughed, attempting what might have been a slap shot motion. "How do you guys make this look so easy?"
He skated a few steps with his boots. His movements were awkward but committed like a kid pretending to be a sports hero in his backyard.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I walked across the uneven surface toward him. "You're fighting the stick. Let it do the work."
Eric stopped his awkward skating and looked at me with surprise. "Show me?"
I hesitated, unsure initially, but his enthusiastic grin won me over. "Give it here."
Eric handed me the stick without hesitation, and the moment my fingers wrapped around the familiar grip, my hands remembered what my mind had tried to forget. The weight distribution felt right despite the decay, balanced, like an extension of my arms.
"You need to hold your body differently."
I demonstrated the basic stance—knees bent, weight centered over the balls of my feet, shoulders square to an imaginary target. The movements came back without conscious thought, smooth and practiced despite sixteen years of rust.
"Try it." I stepped back to give him room.
Eric mimicked my posture, but his shoulders stayed rigid, and his weight shifted too far forward. He thought too hard about each element instead of letting them work together.
"Here." I moved behind him.
I reached around, my chest nearly touching his back, and placed my hands over his on the stick. "Feel that?"
Eric froze. "Yeah."
My voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Lower your stance. Shift your weight back."
I guided his hands to the proper positions. His body was warm against mine. We aligned ourselves—hips, shoulders, and my chest pressed against his back.
"Better."
Eric tilted his head slightly. When he turned, we were close enough that his hair brushed against my jaw.
"This feels different."
"You'll know when it's right." The words slipped out before I considered their double meaning.
Eric turned his head a fraction more, bringing his face close enough for me to feel his breath against my cheek. "Thanks."
It was a fragile, electric moment. I couldn't stop gazing at the curve of his mouth. Time suddenly compressed, driven by the pounding of my heart.
I kissed him.
I didn't plan it. At the moment, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Our lips met gently. We both tested whether it was something we wanted.
Eric's answer was, "Yes." He leaned into the kiss. When he parted his lips, his mouth was warm, and I tasted the slight bitterness of his coffee. He reached out and rested his hand on my chest.
The hockey stick clattered to the ground beneath us, forgotten.
We separated slowly, neither eager to shatter whatever had just happened. Eric's eyes were still closed as if trying to memorize the sensation.
