Page 6 of Almost Ours
My chest tightened. Compliments like that always did. I gave her a half-shrug, trying not to let it sink too deep. “Well, someone’s gotta keep the town in one piece.”
She followed me to the front door, the same knowing smile still tugging at her lips.
“Well, I hate to run,” I said, stepping outside and adjusting the toolbox on my shoulder. “But I’ve got practice in twenty.”
“Go whip those boys into shape, Coach,” she said with a wink.
I grinned. “Trying my best. They’ve got heart… just need a little direction.”
Mrs. Nickols chuckled, her eyes twinkling. “With you in charge, I’m sure they’ve got more than a little. You’re good for them, Ryan. You’ve got a gift.”
I paused, glancing back at her. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“Oh, and I’ll call you if anything else comes up!” she added. “Next time you’re here, I’m sending you home with my oatmeal raisin cookies–whether you want them or not.”
I laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Nickols.”
She gave me a playful shooing motion. “Go on with you.”
I stepped down the porch, the creaky wooden steps groaning beneath my boots. Cold air slipped down the back of my collar as I crossed the short path to the curb. The sky had already begun to darken, casting long shadows over the quiet neighbourhood. Porch lights flickered on one by one, glowing like little beacons against the creeping dusk.
My red Ford F-150 sat parked at the edge of the driveway, its cab dusted with fresh snow. I yanked the door open and climbed in, the cold leather seat stiff beneath me. The door thunked shut, sealing me in a pocket of silence broken only by my breath fogging the air. I started the engine, and the heater groaned to life with a low whir.
For a moment, I just sat there, watching the soft golden light glowing behind Mrs. Nickols’ window as she shuffled back inside.
Her words still clung to the air like frost on glass.
You’re a good man, Ryan.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter than I meant to.
She meant well. She always did. Though if she really knew me–knew the things I’d done, the choices I made–I wasn’t so sure she’d think the same.
Good men didn’t make the kind of mistakes I did.
The truck rumbled down the quiet street, snow piled up along the shoulders, shimmering under the glow of the streetlights. Brookhaven had a way of wrapping itself around you, quiet and steady, like a heavy quilt on a freezing night. It was the kind of peace you didn’t notice you were missing untilit was right in front of you. Even here, though–far from the spotlight of the National Hockey League–the past still found ways to surface.
The arena was only ten minutes away, long enough for my thoughts to wander where they shouldn't. My grip on the steering wheel tightened, Mrs. Nickols’ words replaying in my head. Maybe she believed those things about me, but I wasn’t sure I did. Yeah, I fixed light fixtures, patched leaky roofs, and kept her ancient boiler running through winter. But that wasn’t exactly the same as being a guy worth trusting, was it?
The parking lot came into view, the arena lights casting long shadows over the snowbanks. I forgot how fast the darkness crept in at this time of year. I pulled into my usual spot, cut the engine, and sat there longer than I needed to. I glanced out at the snow-covered pines blurring past and I let out a long breath.
Maybe Mrs. Nickols was right. Maybe I did have it in me to be the guy people believed I was. Keeping to myself had always felt safer–less chance of messing things up that way. And right now, I wasn’t sure I was ready to find out if I deserved the benefit of the doubt. Grabbing my bag from the passenger seat, I climbed out, the cold biting at my face as I headed for the doors. Inside the rink, the kids waited. They didn’t care about my past or what I thought of myself. All they cared about was hockey, and that was one thing I could give them without screwing it up.
At least, I hoped so.
The soundof skates carving into the ice echoed through the arena as I stood just inside the blue line near the boards, watching the warm-up while jotting notes on my clipboard–skating drills to revisit, line combinations to test, habits we needed to break.
Blades cut smooth arcs, breath fogging in the cold air, shouts and laughter bouncing around the rink. Heavy boots thudded behind me, crossing the rubber mats from the tunnel.
“Look alive, Coach.”
The deep voice was unmistakable. Shane O’Connell, all six-foot-four of him, lumbered toward the bench with a grin as wide as the rink itself. A wall of muscle with a scowl that could make grown men flinch–but I knew better. Underneath, he was a soft-hearted bruiser who loved the game.
“Afternoon, O’Connell,” I said, with a smirk, as he dropped onto the bench. “You’re late.”
“Late?” he scoffed, tugging off his boots and grabbing his skates. “I’ve been here thirty minutes, buddy. You’re the one who strolled in just in time. I didn’t want to interrupt your intense note-taking session.” He nodded toward my clipboard, mouth twitching with amusement.
“Some of us have real jobs you know,” I shot back as he bent to lace his skates.
