Page 85 of The Puckable Playbook

His words are softened by my concentration of getting my legs to work in tune with the blades, syncing them up so I don’t make a fool of myself. Zaiah watches me and talks at the same time like some sort of savant.

“Then I figured you out. It wasn’t hockey at all. It was him. It was your whole life being smothered and you wanting to breakfree. I saw it all,” he finally says, squeezing my hand. “That’s why you don’t want to work with him, isn’t it?”

I skate a few clunky strides, thinking about how I want to say this. My dad is a touchy subject. It’s not like he’s a bad person. He’s not mean, he’s actually just trying to do good things. “I want to be my own person,” I start. “His whole life is hockey, which meant for a very long time, my whole life was hockey. I never had a mother figure—that I remember, anyway—to steer me another way. To add another layer. It was hockey and dad all the time. And I guess I don’t hate it. I just don’t want it to be my identity. I don’t want to live in the Robertson shadow my entire life. You know?”

“I get it,” Zaiah says. “Admittedly, I was confused when he first showed up at the restaurant. I was expecting a tyrant twirling a thin mustache. Which is ridiculous because I’ve seen pictures of your father.” He laughs to himself. “But there’s more than one way to be…overbearing.”

“I do love him.”

“He knows that.”

I shrug. “Sometimes I think we’re the exact same. He wanted to make something of himself, and that’s how I feel. I just don’t understand why he doesn’t get that it doesn’t have to be hockey for me. It can be something else.”

“I think…and I may be completely off base, but I think because he made this bigger-than-lifelife,he wants to pass it on to you—or at the very least, share it. He wants to give you the best things, and this is the only way he knows how.”

“I want to show him that whatever my life turns out to be, it’s what I want. I might not be rich by his standards, but I want to be fulfilled. No offense, but hockey isn’t going to fulfill me.”

He nods as we make the turn around the back of the goalie net. “I’ve been thinking. Our whole deal is off. You don’t need towrite the article about the team. I never would’ve asked you to if I understood everything.”

I stop sloppily, my skates unsteady. He turns on his edge, facing me, and I place my hands on my hips. “A deal’s a deal, Coach. Plus, I’ve already started writing it in my head, and I think you’re really going to like it.”

He skates toward me, threading his fingers through mine. “I don’t want to be your dad in your eyes.”

I swallow, his gesture nearly melting me. “You aren’t, Zaiah, because you’re not dictating what I write. I won’t give anything away, but I’m doing the article my way. It will still be about the team, but I’m putting my spin on it.”

He starts skating backward, pulling me along. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” I tell him, staring into his eyes. I’m sure of a lot of things at this moment. Like how right it feels to be here with him, to hold his hand, to have this primal reaction to him in my stomach. A tug. A yearning.

“What did you think about my dad, anyway?”

He smirks. “For the answer to that, you’re going to have to catch me.” He untangles his fingers from mine and skates backward, easily skimming over the surface and picking up speed.

I wobble after him, my movements becoming less jerky as I try to pick up speed. I get into a rhythm, and he smiles when I reach out. He dodges out of the way, of course, then turns around to skate faster, and I know I have no hope of catching him. Before we get to the other turn, he slows so I don’t hurt myself, capturing my hand again.

“So?” I prompt, though there’s no way I actually won.

“Honestly, I was inspired.”

“He is inspiring,” I agree, smiling to myself. “I really don’t hate my father.”

“I know,” he says, rubbing my hand with his thumb. “I was inspired by how he took action and made his life what he wanted. He strikes me as the kind of person who wouldn’t let setbacks get in his way. As he said, he just kept solving problems that made a big difference. I envied him.”

A pride-filled bubble surrounds me. My father, the walking TED Talk.

Zaiah stares down at the ice as we skate. “I was thinking all last night about the future, and it made me come to terms with the fact that I really want a career in hockey. I want to play, I want to coach. I want to be around it, and I’m mad now.”

“Mad?”

“I stayed at Warner all this time for nothing. An underrated hockey team. No scout visits. No interest from the next level whatsoever. And now I’m a senior with no prospects.”

His shoulders slump forward. Seeing him like this kills me. “There has to be a way,” I say softly. “If it’s what you really want, you have to try. We can brainstorm. We can figure it out together.” Immediately, my mind starts sparking with ideas. “You need a lot more than local interest in your hockey team. My article isn’t going to cut it.”

He tilts his head back, the strong line of his jaw more cutting in the arena lights. “I’m mad at myself,” he admits. “It’s a lot easier living in complacency, isn’t it?”

“Oh God, yes. If I wanted a job right out of college, I’d go to my dad. He’d pay me handsomely and give me a generous time-off package with great benefits. Writing hockey bullshit is enticing. Complacency is enticing. But that’s not what I want. The easy way out isn’t necessarily the best way.”

“Hockey bullshit, huh?”

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