Wes's face flushed. "That was a long time ago."
Brooks rubbed his chin. "Skills like that don't disappear. They only step out of the spotlight and wait."
Wes was still watching the rink, his eyes following a young boy attempting a wide turn but drifting too far inside. Without even realizing it, Wes muttered, "He needs to widen his base. He's leaning too much on the inside edge."
Brooks, beside him, raised an eyebrow. "You still see everything."
Wes looked a little sheepish. "It's habit. Can't help noticing when someone's about to fall."
Rory chuckled. "Funny. That's precisely the kind of eye we could use."
Wes turned toward them, surprised. "For what?"
Rory gestured with his clipboard toward a group of parents at the edge of the rink. A mom knelt beside a girl who was clutching the boards.
"We're expanding the youth program," Rory said. "Interest has gone way up. Many of these kids are trying hockey for the first time, and their parents are figuring out they don't need private coaching to get them started right."
Brooks added, "We've got the numbers, but not enough people who know how toseethe game. Not only the drills—but the real stuff. The stuff you pointed out without thinking."
Wes blinked. "I was just—"
"Exactly," Rory said. "You weren't performing. You were teaching without even trying."
"I don't know if I have anything left to teach."
I said, "You helped that kid on Main Street yesterday. His whole skating style changed with one adjustment."
Brooks's eyebrows rose. "What kind of adjustment?"
"Grip position." Wes pantomimed holding a stick. "He was choking up too high on the shaft, fighting the stick instead of working with it."
Rory smiled. "That's what we need. Not someone who'll try to turn every kid into a future NHL star, but someone who can help them fall in love with doing it right."
Wes was quiet as he looked around at the other skaters moving across the ice. I watched his face.
"I'll think about it."
It was enough for Brooks. "It's all anyone can ask."
Wes allowed himself to imagine a future that included more than solitary work on island maintenance. The possibility looked good on him.
A voice boomed from the stands above us.
"Well, I'll be damned!"
We all turned toward the sound, necks craning upward to locate its source. Dottie Perkins, queen of local gossip, stood in the bleachers three rows up, hands planted firmly on her hips, surveying our group like a general reviewing troops.
"I thought you were a myth," she called out. "Like Bigfoot, only crankier."
Ziggy snorted so hard he nearly lost his balance. Dottie wasn't finished. She descended from the stands and stepped onto the ice with the confidence of someone who'd navigated frozen surfaces since before most of us were born.
She wore skates, and they were ancient leather things that looked like they'd undergone resoling multiple times, but her movements were steady and sure as she glided directly toward Wes.
"Mrs. Perkins," he managed, and then he gasped as she wrapped him in a hug that could have doubled as a wrestling hold.
"Don't you Mrs. Perkins me, Wesley Hunter. We all missed you."
When she finally released him, Wes looked slightly dazed, like he'd barely escaped from a benevolent tornado. There was something else in his expression—affection.
