Page 11 of Hearts on Ice
“Alright, champs,” I called, grinning when a few kids straightened like they’d just been drafted. “Let’s see how you hold those sticks.”
The chatter started right away—skates clacking, someone shouting, “Like this?” before I’d even finished the sentence.
Devin joined me, his easy grin settling the younger ones. Beau followed, quiet but solid, demonstrating how to plant skates shoulder-width apart. Lily floated between us like a spark of energy, correcting posture, adjusting a helmet strap.
Half an hour in, the kids were laughing, slipping, shouting for passes. I crouched to help a boy whose laces kept coming untied. “Double knot. Best trick in hockey.” The kid’s gap-toothed grin lit up when he managed it.
A cheer rose near the entrance, drawing my eyes up. Mack had arrived.
He wasn’t dressed for the ice, more PR-ready than practice-ready—team hoodie under a black softshell jacket, fitted slacks instead of joggers. His hair was still damp, like he’d showered quick before coming. I thought he’d hang back, shake a few hands, maybe take a photo with the banner strung above us. Instead, when a cluster of kids shouted, “Coach! Coach Mack!” he actually stepped onto the bench and then down to the ice, a grin breaking through the usual reserve.
“Thought you were allergic to youth programs,” I teased when he passed close enough.
His mouth twitched—almost a smile. “PR said five minutes.”
Five minutes stretched into twenty. He leaned on the boards, then took a stick one of the kids shoved at him, showing grip without hesitation. The little ones clustered tighter, magnetized. Watching him, I felt a shift in my gut I couldn’t name.
A girl no taller than his waist wobbled forward. Her ponytail swung, eyes bright under a helmet a size too big. Something about her—the slight stoop of her shoulders, maybe the lilt in her voice—made my chest ache. She looked around five.
When I glanced at Mack, his face wasn’t guarded. It was… bare. Still. His gaze held on her longer than on any other kid, and something in it—grief, memory, maybe both—hung there like light through fog. I’d seen every version of his expressions over the years: focus, frustration, the rare flicker of pride. But never this.
He crouched when she tugged at his sleeve, listening like she had the playbook. His voice dropped low—whatever he said made her laugh, clear and small, like glass chimes.
My fingers tightened on my stick. I looked away, then back again, wondering if I was reading it wrong, or if the air between them really carried something I couldn’t name.
I remembered reading the news about the accident back when he joined us. Everyone did. The headlines, the condolences. His daughter had been five, maybe six. I’d never thought much past that—how he kept showing up, how he never missed a drill, never gave anything away.
Now, watching him, I realized I’d never asked him how he was doing. Never tried to know the man behind the clipboard. The thought sat heavy, strange. Not guilt exactly, but something close.
I shook it off, adjusted my grip, called out to a boy fumbling his stick tape. Not my place. Not the time. But the picture of him crouched beside that little girl wouldn’t leave my head.
The scrape of skates and the chatter of kids pulled me back. I refocused on the drills—hands, knees, balance—forcing my thoughts into motion. That’s when his voice came from beside me.
“Nice form,” Mack said, nodding toward the boy I’d been helping. I hadn’t even noticed him move closer.
I huffed a laugh. “Kid’s better at five than I was at fifteen.”
“That’s how it should be,” he said. “Next generation’s supposed to pass us.”
“Guess that means we did something right.”
“Maybe,” he said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “My knee still disagrees.”
The admission slipped out so quietly I almost missed it. My gaze flicked to his hand where it rubbed absently at his thigh, the habit I’d caught more than once. He noticed me noticing, and his hand stilled.
“You were good with them,” I said after a beat, nodding toward the cluster of kids at center ice. “Didn’t think you’d be the one down here tying skates and cheering breakaways.”
Something shifted in his face—not pride or modesty. Just honesty.
“Didn’t think I would’ve been, either,” he said. “But I think I needed the company and a reminder of what joy looks like.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. The tone wasn’t self-deprecating; it was too quiet for that. Like he was still a little surprised by himself.
I scrambled for lighter ground.
“My niece back in Santo Domingo—Elena—she’s six,” I said. “Her dad, my brother, wants her to play street hockey, but she’d rather draw it. Last week she sent me a picture of me in-net. Made my pads about twice my size.”
Mack’s mouth curved again. “Smart kid. Knows how to make her uncle look unstoppable.”
