Page 17 of Reach Around

I clap my gloves together, trying not to let it show that even these mini pipsqueaks are in on the joke now. “Alright, you little chirpers—line up! You’re here to learn how to skate not roast your coach.”

“Coach BroFettiiii!”

The high-pitched squeal comes from one of the kids near the boards. A couple of them start doing the cha-cha slide right there on the ice, slipping and laughing like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.

Harper’s voice floats through my head—“The kids love this stuff.”

Yeah, until they don’t.

I force a grin, skating right up to the little ringleader who’s still shimmying like a broken bobblehead. “You think Shep’s got better moves than me, huh?”

The kid nods, fearless. “Way better. He didn’t look like he was gonna cry.”

Jesus. These kids are savages.

I glance toward the bleachers where Coach Duff’s standing with his arms crossed, watching like he’s waiting for me to fold.

Nah. Not today.

Dropping my stick to the ice with a loud clack, I point at the kid. “Alright, hotshot. Bet you can’t beat me to the blue line.”

His grin falters for half a second, but then he’s nodding like I just threw down a gauntlet.

“Loser does ten pushups!” another kid shouts.

“Deal,” I say, already turning. “Line up. First whistle wins.”

Coach Duff blows it before I even get my stance set, and suddenly I’m racing five tiny maniacs down the ice like my life depends on it. I let them win—barely—but the way they cheer like they just scored the game-winner in the Kelly Cup Final makes my throat go tight.

We run the drill again. And again. And again.

No more BroFetti. No Shep this, Shep that.

Just me. Just them. Just… this.

Somewhere between the third and fourth race, it hits me. I don’t feel like a fucking failure out here. I don’t feel like the dumbest Foster brother. I don’t feel like a clown in a jersey waiting to get cut.

I feel… right.

By the time we’re deep into the practice drills, the same kid who called me BroFetti is the first in line for a fist bump. His face is flushed, his grin is wide, and when he reaches me, he leans in and says, “Nice job today, Coach Foster.”

It’s not much, but I’ll take it.

I’m herding the Mites into a huddle when I spot Tommy—eight years old, gear two sizes too big, helmet sitting crooked like he borrowed it from his dad’s beer league team. He’s out here flopping around like a newborn giraffe, but damn if he isn’t trying harder than anyone.

I skate over, crouch low, and tap my stick on the ice next to him. “What do you say, Tommy? Think you can give me your best Mighty Ducks power stride?”

He pushes up, wobbles, and immediately eats ice again.

“Yup,” I say under my breath, helping him back to his feet. “Dead ringer for Charlie Conway.”

The other kids giggle, but Tommy’s grinning like he can handle anything that gets thrown at him. “I’m okay!” he shouts, punching his little gloved fists in the air.

I give him a tap on the helmet. “Dang right you are.”

While the rest of the kids run basic skating drills, I stick with Tommy, showing him how to bend his knees and keep his weight forward. “Look where you’re going, not where you’re falling,” I tell him, skating slow circles around him until he finally gets his feet under him.

And that’s when I spot Mia. Quiet. Steady. Hanging back like she’s trying to disappear into her jersey.

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