Page 41 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“There are a lot on mine too,” I agree, mentally picturing Dilbert and his punchable face, then picturing me punching said face. Then picturing Cali giving me a whopping kiss in front of everyone and chanting, “My hero!”
Teague looks down at his skates. “Can we…maybe go over the play one more time?” His voice is small, picked apart by a timidness that I wish he didn’t feel around me.
“Of course we can. Remember what we discussed, yeah? Don’t be afraid of the puck. I know it can be scary when you get that sucker in front of you, but indecisiveness will only slow you down. If you have a clear shot of the goal, don’t give the puck up too soon. Try to follow through, even if you’re scared. And when you are forced to give up the puck, make sure you look for options before blindly coughing it up.”
Teague nods, but I’m not sure how much of that he retained. Or how much made sense. I’ve never coached anyone before—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I want to make him proud. I want to show Cali that I take her and her brother seriously. So here’s to hoping my advice holds some merit.
I position myself in front of the goal, tightening my hands around my stick and praying that my decision not to suffocate myself with goalie pads won’t result in another injury. My hip’s feeling better, but I’m not a hundred percent yet.
Teague slugs over to the center line, shuffling the puck inch by inch with his blade before bumbling to get it in front of him. As soon as I blow the whistle, Teague’s whole body whisks intooffense mode, and he treads across the ice as if it’s an active war zone, closing in on the goal unbelievably slowly despite there being no outside opposition. If this is how slow he moves without being under pressure, I don’t want to know what pace he moves at during a real game.
He’s actually so far away that my muscles loosen from their defensive bind, and I stand up straight, guessing that he’ll make it to me within two to three business days.
“Don’t be afraid, T! Show that puck who’s boss!” I shout.
His head snaps up at my encouragement. Something switches inside him, emboldening him to pick up his skates and charge the goal, and he gets closer to me before swinging his stick back and slapping the puck toward the net.
Granted, he did directly aim for the middle instead of the harder-to-defend corners, but I think that was the first time I saw him place any belief in his stick. I block his shot without having to strain my hip much, and Teague’s shoulders slump in disappointment.
“I suck!” he exclaims, his tone nearing teary territory that I’mdefinitelynot equipped to handle. He falls onto his butt as worked-up breaths sail out of his helmet’s cage.
“No, you don’t.” I skate over to him and join him on the ground, clapping him on the back. “You’re still learning. And the best advice I can give you is to be easy on yourself. I know how frustrating it can be when you don’t get things on the first try, but you can’t keep beating yourself up over common mistakes.”
He sniffs. “You don’t make mistakes.”
HA. Oh, sweet, sweet Teague.
“All the time,” I reply, a good-natured smile working its way onto my mouth. “In fact, I’ve probably made a thousand more mistakes than you have.”
“Really?”
“Really. Sometimes I suck at tracking the puck, and I end upthinking I can block a shot just based on my peripheral vision. It’s cost my team a lot of losses.”
Teague throws his arms up. “But you’re a professional hockey player!”
A tepid warmth like the tail end of summer consolidates in my chest, birthing different kinds of butterflies in my stomach. “Even professionals make mistakes.”
I’ve never had someone look up to me before. It feels…weird. I’m barely responsible for myself, and now I feel this responsibility to make Teague proud. It freaks me out. I can’t have Teague looking up at me with all this hero worship. That’s how my brother used to look at me. And I failed him in the end. It’s just a matter of time until I repeat the same process with Teague.
Thankfully, Cali steps onto the ice and saves me from my overactive thoughts, wearing her signature ponytail and a new zip-up hoodie to stave off the cold.
“Keep practicing your shooting,” I tell him, hopping so quickly to my feet that a concerning stab lances up my hip, but the unmitigated yearning to inhale Cali’s cinnamon scent and feel her pliable body in my arms makes me disregard my injury’s outcry.
I teleport over to her, eliciting a gasp from her even though she saw me coming from miles away.
“Jesus. I really need to put a bell on you,” she mutters.
“You can put whatever you want on me.”
When she crosses her arms over her chest, her apricot ponytail flicks behind her. “You use that line on all the girls you schmooze?”
“No girls, Spitfire. Just you,” I flirt, feeling warmth incinerate every inch of my body. Every time I think I have a handle on my nerves, they slip out of my grasp.
“What makes me so special?” There’s a joking bite to her tone, and I wish she could see herself the way I see her.
It’s like the stars handpicked her to carry on their legacy, to deem her worthy enough to be the bright light in my life, scaring away the darkness and desolation from the corners of my mind.
“How much time do you have?”
