Page 14 of The Parent Playbook
Scotty laughs, a sound that seems to resonate straight through to my core. “I’d better,huh? See you around, Angel.” He gives me a little salute before reaching for his daughter.
As they walk away—Lil chattering and Scotty listening like it’s the most important conversation in the world—it’s easy to forget about the letter sitting heavily in my pocket. The picture of the two of them takes me to a different world. Scotty wraps his arm around Lil’s shoulders and the two walk off like it’s the best day of their lives.
Now,that’sa dad.
And my belly just did that funny something again. I seriously hope it was indigestion.
CHAPTER 6
SCOTTY
Ilove how the rink buzzes with enough energy to make five in the morning feel like midday. The guys are out on the ice, slicing through it like hot knives through butter, running what I’ve dubbed the “Puck Pass Parade” drill. One player skates toward the goal with the puck, passes it to a teammate positioned at the boards, who then immediately passes it back, setting up a shot.
Kind of like tossing a hot potato, but with more finesse and a lot less burnt fingers. It’s about timing, anticipation, and reading your teammate. Things that a newly formed team need if we’re going to meet the expectations of Zach Hart.
“Focus, guys! Keep those passes sharp,” I call out, trying to sound more like the coach I’m supposed to be and less like a guy who’s got his head in the clouds. The players respond, the rhythm of the drill picking up, and the sound of their effort cutting through my thoughts. I watch from the sidelines, clipboard in hand like it’s supposed to make me look more coach-like, but my mind’s not on the drill.
It keeps drifting to that breath of fresh air in woman form.
Angel’s got this vibe—like she could probablyfix a flat tire in the rain without breaking a sweat. There’s a grit to her, a kind of fire that says she’s fought battles and come out swinging.
It’s way too early in the game for me to have feelings, especially when we’ve barely started the first period. It’s ridiculous, really. I just met the woman, and I’m feeling all … what? Nostalgic? For what, I don’t even know.
These mental gymnastics are head-spinning. Trying to watch the guys while also having this new and old sensation bubbling up is a sport of its own.
“Hey, Coach, you planning to join us, or are you gonna daydream about your next coffee fix?” one of the players, Ted Powell, calls out, snapping me back to reality.
I chuckle, ready with a comeback. “I’m admiring the view, you know, making sure the ice doesn’t melt from all your hot shots.”
Ted rolls his eyes, but I catch the hint of a grin. Dad jokes for the win.
Shaking off the distraction, I refocus on the team. “Come on, boys, let’s keep it moving. Remember, it’s about finding your rhythm, not just making the shot.”
We dive back into the drill, the sound of the puck hitting sticks, then boards, then the back of the net filling the rink. It’s a good sound, honest and straightforward, unlike the tangled mess of thoughts about Angel and whatever’s brewing in my head.
Whatever it is, I’ve got to put it on ice. I may be debating whether Maple Falls could be the place where Lily and I set some new roots, but I’ve got a team to run, a daughter who’s my world, and a whole lot of personal baggage I’m not ready to unpack.
For now, I’m good old Coach Scotty, master of drills and dad jokes.
Catching a sneak peek of Zach Hart, our team’s owner, half-hidden behind a pillar, feels like spotting a rare bird. He’s gotthat “I’m not really here” vibe, but his eagle eyes miss nothing. It’s like being under surveillance without the cameras.
Down on the ice, Nate and Ted are turning a routine drill into a full-blown soap opera over a botched pass. They’re squaring off, tempers flaring, making it seem we’ve swapped hockey for daytime drama. I’ve been hanging back, hoping they’d cool down on their own. Wishful thinking, I guess.
Stepping in before fists fly, I skate over. “Whoa, whoa, easy, guys. What’s the drama? Someone forget their morning coffee?”
Nate’s practically steaming from the ears. “He’s puck-hogging like we’re back in high school!”
Ted’s not having it. “Maybe if your shots didn’t flirt with the ceiling, I’d pass more!”
Time to channel my inner peacekeeper. “Gents, we’re not here to audition for ‘The Real Housewives of the NHL.’ Missing passes and shots, it’s part of the game. You know that. These are early days, and your expectations are based on your home teams. But you’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Zach’s shadow looms from above, a silent cue that this is my circus, my monkey to manage.
“What matters is we keep our cool and pull together. We clear?” I’m using my dad-voice, which seems to be as effective with these guys as it is with Lily. Thank goodness.
Their grumbling apologies cut through the tension, and they skate off, egos slightly bruised but intact.
I sneak a glance upwards. Zach’s vanished, probably off to haunt some other part of the rink. Crisis managed, team spirit salvaged. Now, if only figuring out my own life’s missteps were as straightforward as navigating ice rink squabbles.
