Page 15 of The Parent Playbook
As Nate and Ted skate back into formation, I take this moment to let the rest of the guys in on the issue. They may be huffing and trying to act like they weren’t watching, but it’s a lame act.
“Listen, Zach Hart’s turned this place into his personal eagle’s nest this morning. Seems he’s more into live feeds thanNetflix.” A few of them crane their necks, looking up toward the spot where Zach was perched, but it’s empty now. His brief appearance was like spotting a ghost—now you see him, now you don’t. “Let’s say he’s got eyes on the ice that could give the NSA a run for their money. So, how about we show him the kind of teamwork that wouldn’t embarrass a peewee team, huh?”
The message is clear. Professionalism isn’t a fancy word to throw around in interviews; it’s practiced here, where the cold bites and the stakes are high. We’re molding this group of hotshots into a team that’s as formidable in character as it is in skill. As their coach, it’s on me to lead that charge, under Zach’s watchful eyes or not. It’s my job.
“Let’s go again.”
In the heart of the formation, I adjust the players’ positions. It’s a dance I know by heart, though my dancing shoes have been hung up for a while. As I glide away, confident that the tweak might make the difference in our play, Nate’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and biting.
“Scotty’s been off the ice for years. Pep talks are one thing, but he chose to walk away. The game’s changed.”
The remark stings, more than I care to admit. Before I can turn around, Cooper jumps in.
“You’re way off base,” Cooper snaps back. “Scotty stepped away from the spotlight, not because he lost his love for the game, but because his wife was in the fight of her life. Every day, instead of lacing up for the ice, he was at her side, showing up for her in ways most of us can’t even imagine. He did it with more strength and dignity than any championship could ever offer. Get that straight.” Cooper’s words carve through the air.
I’d kept Corrie’s illness quiet because that was what we both wanted. But a few of the guys knew from the start. Cooper was one of them, since we go back to minor league days. After she was gone, it wasn’t a secret anymore, but I’d left the limelight and didn’t have any intention of going back.
Until now.
The words hang heavy in the rink as I skate to the sidelines, feeling the weight of every pair of eyes on me. The murmur of surprise—or is it pity?—fills the space between us.
I don’t want their pity. I’ve never wanted it. My life, my choices—they’re mine to bear. I took care of my wife because she was my world, not for some moral high ground or to be some kind of saint. The game, as much as I loved it, paled in comparison to her smile, her courage, her fight. Those memories are sacred, private, not fodder for locker room banter or to be dissected under the fluorescent lights of an ice rink.
I don’t need them to understand. I don’t need their sympathy. What I need is the ice beneath my feet, the game in front of me, and the memory of her love to keep me grounded. Hockey’s a part of me, but it’s not my everything. Not anymore. That title belongs to Lily, my beacon in a world that’s been a little darker, a little colder since my wife left it.
I miss her, every day, and stepping away from the game was a choice I’d make again in a heartbeat. But standing here, on the sidelines of a world I once ruled, the distance between who I was and who I’ve become feels bigger than ever.
The players resume their drill, a semblance of normalcy returning, and my mind floats again to the idea of moving to Maple Falls. Would coming here really be the new start I thought it might be? Back in Colorado, at the Dog’s Paw dog spa, I’m good old Scotty. And I like that. The thought of being “just a dad” makes me smile.
But I have to do what’s right for Lily. A clean start could be it.
Whatever it is, I’ll do it.
A chill clings to me as I step off the ice, but it passes quickly when I catch sight of my little Lily. Except she doesn’t look like her usually sunny self. There’s a cloud over her too. Standing off to the side, her small figure is swallowed up by the vastness of the arena. She looks so small.
“Lilybug, what are you doing here? Blair’s supposed to take you to school,” I say, the concern evident in my voice. What asaving grace that most of us are staying in the same lodge, so that others from the extended team can pitch in when I can’t. While we might not stay, I’ve got Lily registered in the local school, just in case. It’s important that she makes some connections and doesn’t lose momentum in school since she’s always been top of her class.
She looks up, and it’s like I’m seeing the first crack of dawn after a long night. “Blair’s waiting for me, but I wanted to see you first. Can I have a hug?”
A hug. It sounds simple, but with Lily, I know it’s never just a hug. So, I sit us down on the nearest bench, the cold of the metal seeping through my tracksuit, a discomfort I gladly endure for this time with her.
“Talk to me, kiddo. What’s up?”
Her eyes meet mine, a tumult of pre-teen emotions. “I don’t know how to explain it. School here is different. Andy isn’t even in my class. He’s in the split grade and the kids in my class look at me like I’m the abominable snowman.”
“Ah,” I nod. “The curse of being the new kid.”
“It’s not bad, it’s just not …” She looks across the ice. “I miss home.”
Home.
The word echoes, heavy with everything we left behind—mountains that touched the sky, friends who were like family, and a house that held too many memories, both joyous and painful.
“I know, Lilybug. I know,” I say, but my heart is heavy. “I thought coming here would be good for us. But if you’re unhappy, we could look at you staying with Rita or Amelia or one of the others from the Dog’s Paw?—”
“No, it’s not that,” she interrupts, her resolve firming. “I want to be here, with you, doing this. It’s just hard, you know? Starting over. And I miss …” Her voice trails off. She doesn’t have to finish the sentence.
I nod, understanding more than she might think. Thebackground noise of the rink fades, leaving the two of us in our bubble. “I get it, Lily. I do. It’s okay to miss it, to miss her.”
