“Why would he be here?”
“But he kinda sucks, right?”
Lifting my hands in surrender, I admit, “Don’t be mad. I needed a distraction, and you looked like you were having fun.”
One of the girls huffs. “I knew you looked familiar. You got traded recently, right?”
“Yeah, this season.”
“That’s wild,” another one mutters. “You’re in the League, and you were driving past us and stopped to play for fun?”
I shrug. “This is where it starts, right? Playing outside, freezing our asses off, loving every second of it.”
Some of them still stare at me, afraid I might disappear if they dare to blink. But others are nodding, agreeing with what I’m saying.
“So,” the lanky kid starts hesitantly. “How does one even make it to the professional level?”
It’s a question I’ve heard a thousand times before. The answer is never as simple as people want it to be.
“A lot of things have to line up. You need talent, yeah, but you also need to work harder than everyone else. And I mean everyone. Even when you’re tired, even when you don’t feel like playing. You keep showing up.”
“And you have to love it,” I add. “You have to love the game more than other things in life because that’s the only way you get through the shitty parts. The injuries, the slumps, the times you wonder if you’re good enough.”
One of the younger kids shifts on his skates. “Were there times you thought you weren’t good enough?”
I let out a breath. “Yeah. Plenty.”
Based on their reactions, they didn’t expect that.
“But I kept going,” I put it simply. “Because I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Hockey has always been my first love.”
“That’s sick,” the blonde kid comments.
“You’re good players. Keep playing, pushing each other, and who knows?” I tell the group. “The sky is the limit.”
They all straighten at my words, as if I told them they had a shot. Maybe some of them do. Maybe they won’t make it past high school or juniors, but if they love the game, that’s enough. That’s what really matters.
Freckles clears his throat. “Uh, can we take a picture? To prove this actually happened?”
“Yeah, of course.”
They pull out their phones, and we take a few selfies, some of the kids posing with grins wider than Cup winners have. After that, we play a little longer until I finally tap my stick against the ice.
“Alright, kiddos, I gotta get going.”
They groan in protest, but don’t argue. The lanky kid moves forward, extending his fist. “Thanks for playing with us, man. This was unreal.”
I bump his fist with mine. “Thanks for letting me.”
As I take off my skates and head back to my car, my head is clearer, and my body relaxed. I needed this. And now, I’m ready to go home to Haisley.
22
MEATBALL WANTS OATMEAL COOKIES
HAISLEY
Not wanting to waste the entire day in bed, I take the stairs slowly, one hand gripping the railing as I try to shake off the sluggishness weighing me down. Pregnancy exhaustion is no joke. The nausea from earlier has mostly faded, but it drained me. My body has been wrung out and left to dry. I could sleep for days and still not feel fully rested.
