Page 71 of Unloved

“Should I put my skates on here?” I ask, still smiling, even though it’s making my cheeks hurt now.

“If you aren’t having fun, tell him you want to go home. He’ll bring you right back.”

My mom’s voice reverberates in my ears. But I don’t want to go home. I want Dad to like me.

“Yeah,” he says, sliding my bag off his shoulder and dropping it onto the bench next to me. “Just… get your skates on and get on the ice. Gotta talk to someone real quick.”

He’s gone before I can say that it’s still hard for me to get the laces just right. That sometimes my mind starts to wander, and I forget where I am or what I’m doing, so I need someone to watch me do it—to help.

There’s a weird pressure on my chest for a moment as I stand by my bag, pulling on my sweatshirt strings as my dad jogs to the other side of the space, slaps another man on the back, and shakes his hand.

His smile is wider than it’s been all day.

“You good, champ?”

The new voice rocks me, and I tilt back to look up at the very tall man in front of me. There’s a boy standing next to him around my age, maybe older, because he’s kinda big for a kid. Bigger than most of the kids on my team, with his arms leaning on his stick.

“I, um…” I scratch at my neck. “I need help with my laces.”

The man nods and smiles. “That’s all right. They’re complicated sometimes. Why don’t you sit on the bench there and I can help.”

I nod again, sliding over and dragging my bag next to me. Pulling my skates out, I sit on the bench and try not to kick my feet.

“Hold your breath for five seconds and blow it out for five. Don’t think about it.” My mom’s voice echoes through my head as I follow her usual instructions.

My eyes start to wander as he laces my skates, flitting across the Winnipeg Jets logo on the gray fabric stretched across his chest.

“The Jets,” I say, nodding a little. “Henney is a beauty this year.”

The man laughs, nodding as he smiles. I feel foolish, but I know he probably agrees with me. I may not be the best in school, but I watch hockey constantly. I think about it all the time.

And Coach Archer says I think like an all-star already.

“He is,” the man says, pulling my other foot into his lap while I stretch my ankle and check his work. “Do you like the Jets?”

“Yeah, but I’m a Dallas fan.” I smile. “My dad plays for them.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your name, champ?”

“Matt Fredderic,” I say, peeking over at the kid my age who hasn’t said a word, still just staring at me. “But my team calls me Matty.”

“Nice to meet you, Matt.” He smiles. “Your dad is John Fredderic, huh?”

There’s an edge to his voice and I hesitate because I’ve heard that before. The adults always act like that with my dad. But I nod anyway.

“Yeah, he brought me today to skate with me. I don’t get to spend a lot of time with him.”

“Reiner,” my dad says, rejoining us with a plastered-on smile that looks almost painfully fake as he reaches a hand out—even though the man is still working on my laces.

He pointedly ignores my dad and loops the last double knot.

“How do those feel, champ?” Mr. Reiner asks, smiling at me. I stillfeel like I might be in trouble, stomach sinking, so I nod quickly before even checking the left one.

Finally, he tilts his head up and stands, taller than my dad—he looks like Coach Archer, super tall, dark hair and a short beard, but he isn’t as tan. “John. Good to see you.”

“Sorry about this,” my dad says as he gestures vaguely down at me. “Didn’t know the kid can’t tie his own damn skates.”

He laughs, and I decide as soon as they’re done talking I’ll ask him to take me home.

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