Page 14 of Reckless On Ice

“This is a new neighborhood for us, so the kids are still wary. It’s been a struggle to get their cooperation. If you could help Abel teach them about running the produce stands, counting money, making change, weighing vegetables, and also get some produce boxes made, that would be so helpful,” she says. “They always seem to love working with you, Knox.”

“It’s my pleasure, and I think they like Elysium more than anything. I’m just here to help.” Paige waves as she heads to a tool shed, and we split off.

I lead Ryder to the produce stand, which is actually a freestanding storefront. When we walk in, Abel, a familiar face with the garden project, greets us and waves us over to a few tables covered in various produce boxes, scales, bags, and cash registers, all ready for us.

“Good to see you, Knox. Looks like you brought a friend this time?” the veteran gardener who moves around the foundation’s sites asks. A handful of curious faces, ranging from early teens to probably twenty, stare at us with varying shades of interest, some trying to hide it more than others.

“Right back at you, Abel. This is Ryder Kingston, the goalie for the Hydras hockey team here in town. He’s going to help us out today,” I say, making the introduction. Ryder waves.

“You guys are freakishly tall,” one boy in a worn black hoodie with floppy dark brown curls says. He has to be about fifteen, but he’s small for his age. He might be acutely aware of it to make that kind of statement.

“Or you’re just freakishly small,” Ryder says immediately. I elbow him in the ribs discreetly and look over, catching his eye in warning. He bites his lip, and holy hell, I know he’s doing it in embarrassment, but it looks a little too mischievous and sexy for his own good. I turn my attention back to the kid in the hoodie.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

“Samuel,” he says, flicking his curls out of his eyes with a head shake.

“Well, Samuel, it sounds like you and Ryder here have something in common to work on today. While that’s an accurate observation, sometimes there are these things called intrusive thoughts that don't always have to be spoken out loud or can be phrased differently. I wouldn’t mind if you asked me how tall I am instead,” I say gently with a smile.

The kid’s cheeks turn red, but he doesn’t shut down at the correction, which is good. He’s teachable. Ryder, I’m not sure.

“Okay, how tall are you?” the kid asks.

“I’m six feet six inches tall. Ryder here is six feet four inches tall, but there are guys on both our teams who are under six feet and are absolute beasts. What about you, my man, how tall are you?” I ask.

“I’m five-four,” he says quietly. “But I’ll probably be six feet,easy. My mom says my dad was big, and I’ll have a growth spurt.” He looks up with fire in his eyes. I was right about this subject being a bit sore for him.

“Sure you will,” another boy says, and laughs. “You ain’t hitting six feet. Your dad was probably some short bald dude. You’ll be lucky if you grow any more at all. You’ll be little your whole life.”

“You don't know that,” Ryder says, moving next to Samuel and staring down at the other kid, who is closer to six feet. “Why does height matter so much? Do either of you want to be a basketball star or a defensive lineman? Because that’s probably the only place where your height comes into play.” He puts his hand on Samuel’s shoulder and looks over at the mouthy kid again. “But if Samuel here wants to play, his height won't stop him. Greatness comes with passion and commitment, not a measuring stick. Besides, if any of you want to work in sports and not play, there are so many opportunities available. You could be a sports agent, a physical therapist or team doctor, a reporter, a trainer, a sports statistician, do public relations or social media for a team, be an equipment manager, or work at an arena or stadium, just to name a few.”

Samuel looks up at Ryder with appreciation before he stuffs his hands in his hoodie pocket and plays off the whole interaction like it didn’t mean anything. Ryder playfully knocks his shoulder with his fist and holds it out for Samuel to bump. Samuel pulls a hand out of his pocket and bumps Ryder’s fist.

Well, look at that. Ryder stepped up and stopped a bit of bullying and taught his own valuable lesson. He can learn after all. I swallow the proud lump in my throat and clap my hands together.

“Okay, who wants to learn how to make these dang scales work right? Because I know the first few times I tried them, they messed me up good,” I say to the group to get us back on track.

We spend the next few hours arranging the produce stand, hanging out with the kids, and teaching them how to work the cash registers and count back change in different amounts since that seems to be tricky in the age of cashless purchases. I notice Ryder spends a lot of time with Samuel, getting him to open up, and they chat throughout their time setting up the produce. I’m glad to see him taking an interest and investing in the kids. They need it. So does he.

We also make produce boxes to deliver to families and seniors identified in the immediate area who want fresh produce. Ryder is remarkably on his best behavior, and aside from some good-natured teasing comments back and forth with the kids, he doesn’t rise to any of their bait. He also leaves me alone and doesn’t try to get under my skin. On the ride home, he finally talks to me again.

“That Samuel kid has it rough. He opened up a bit when we were stocking the shelves. No dad in the picture, and his mom works a couple of jobs. He’s at the garden to try tomake some extra money to help her out and get food for a little brother who stays with a neighbor.”

“A lot of the kids who come to the community gardens have stories just like his, or worse. We just give them a safe place to learn some new skills and make sure they get paid for any work they do and take home food for their families,” I explain. “There’s even a weekly class at the garden sites that teaches canning so the veggies last longer. Okra and cucumbers seem to fly off the shelves when they're pickled around here.”

“Samuel also mentioned he gets picked on a lot because he’s small and wears the same hoodie every day,” Ryder says, looking out his window and gripping the door handle as his knee bounces.

“How’d that make you feel?” I ask, tone neutral.

“Oh, is this a therapy session now in addition to a lesson about controlling my emotions?” Ryder snaps, pulling his hat off and dragging a hand through his hair.

“I was just asking because it seems like you need to talk.”

“It pissed me off,” he grumbles. “And that made me feel like a hypocrite,” he admits.

Holy fuck, that’s huge for him to say. I remain silent, not wanting him to stop if he’s in a sharing mood. But he stays quiet. I pull into the parking lot of a small shopping area and find a spot.

“What are you doing?” Ryder asks, looking around at the random assortment of shops and storefronts.

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