“I don’t like it.”
I watched the kids in their uniforms across the way. A bunch skating in our direction. Including the college kid who made Jax fall.
“You turn down lessons from me so you could teach him yourself. You do know this isn’t figure skating, right? We’re actually playing a sport,” the kid teased.
The nerve. Who gave him the right to talk to parents like this?
My face burned and I was a millisecond away from giving this kid a piece of my mind, but remembered there were children surrounding us.
Instead, I did a heel spin. “I do. I also realize that the second I saw you attempt tocoachmy kid, I knew he’s better off withliterallyanyone else.”
He scoffed.
I cocked my head in a friendly way. “What’s your name?”
“Miles Broder, coach’s assistant.”
“Well Miles,” I placed my hand on my chest, “not that I’ve been staring, but for someone who's worked with pro hockey players for most of her career, it’s hard not to notice an amateur on the ice especially when he’s training our young stars. Your edge work was a little choppy, your push-offs could be stronger if you just bent your knee forward instead of to the side. And your deep turns,” I demonstrated a solid deep turn, while maneuvering my stick to follow behind me, “are laughable for a guy your age.” Then I added in a lower voice, as if letting him in on a secret, “it's all in the knees and balance, kid. You’ll get there.”
Miles had no words and just shook his head, backing up, yet lingering as if he needed to say something else. I glared at him to dare aim it at my kid.
A broad frame came out of nowhere and skidded to a stop directly in front of us. He towered over Miles, who suddenly looked like a whimpering puppy at the sight of a wolf.
“Aren’t you on the wrong side of the rink?” Logan’s voice was low, but the presence of him carried its own weight. Like he knew he didn’t need to raise it to be heard.
Miles’ mouth dropped and some kids behind him whispered. I wondered what it was and then realized. Logan had his cap off. They’d recognized him.
Logan dragged a finger above their heads in mid-air. “Those cones close off this section for private lessons.”
Miles gaped. “Hey, you’re Logan Danes. You were on the New York Dexter’s.” The guy stood awestruck.
Logan shot me a confused glance. “Not clear if that was a question, but yes I am.” He stretched out a hand. “You a trainer here, right?”
“Uh yeah. Well, I’m actually on the Junior Hockey League here in Buffalo.”
Logan nodded enthusiastically. “Well I certainly hope you have better team spirit than I’ve seen here. Jax isn’t getting in your way, so it would only be common courtesy to stay out of his until he’s ready for tryouts.”
The guy blinked as if he didn’t know if Logan was serious or not. “Oh no, I was just messing around here. These kids know I’m just playin’.”
Logan simply glared.
“In—in fact, hey, Jax, right? You want to come scrimmage around with us for a few?”
Jax raised a brow. “Scrimmage?”
Logan lowered his head and whispered. “It’s like a practice game.”
“Oh, okay.” He turned to me. “Can I play with them, mom?”
“Yeah. Just be careful.” I shot a warning glance at Miles letting him know I’d be watching him.
As soon as Jax crossed the cones and was joined with the team, Logan scraped against the ice turning to me with a tentative grin. “Look I know—you were handling it, but I also couldn’t just stand by—”
“Thank you.”
“Sorry?”
“Thank you,” I repeated. “I really appreciate you sliding in.”
