Page 4 of Pucked Up Plans
“Silly face. I guess I’ll allow it.”
I swear I don’t know where she comes up with half the shit she says. Her mother, my ex, Megan, blames it all on me, but my mother claims I wasn’t half as sassy as Lennon is at her age. Between you and me, I blame Megan.
“Thanks, Squirt.”
A kiss to the top of her head, I set off for the driver’s side, ready to tackle errands with my best girl.
Hours later, we’re at the rink at Aspenridge. It’s become like a third home to me in the past three years I’ve played hockey for the college.
Lennon practically grew up at the ice rink. She took her first steps at “my” rink, and one of her first words was “tick.” She was born in the offseason, in September of my junior year of high school, but at less than a month old, Megan or my mom had her on the sidelines once practices started. Bundled up in a stroller or the baby Bjorn, we made it work so I didn’t have to give up the most important thing in my life. Now, she ranks highest, but hockey is a close second. I’m grateful every time she lights up about going to the rink. More so when she laces up her skates.
Megan didn’t fight me when I had her on skates a little after her first birthday. She loves watching her zoom around the ice almost as much as I do. Whether it’s private ice time, open skate, or lessons, Lennon’s not picky as long as she’s on the ice. Hockey may not be in her future, but she’s got ice in her veins, and untilLennon decides she wants to give it up—which will be never if I have any input—we both agreed neither of us is allowed to take it away.
Dressed in her “skate” attire—purple snow pants, a light blue fleece, black snow gloves, and a helmet—she kicks her legs excitedly while I lace up her skates. We started with the Velcro ones, but the girl wasn’t having it and demanded lace skates like Daddy. She has tiny feet, so my first pair, which my mother still has, are still too big. We found a pair on a tag sale site, thinking no way she’d want to lace them up every time. As usual, the girl proved us all wrong and never hurries us or begs us to tie them faster.
She wears a sappy grin, happy to be in the rink where I play hockey. Because as much as she loves the rundown Nordic rink, the Aspenridge arena is state-of-the-art and brand-new, even the practice rink currently reserved for us.
“I can’t believe I get this whole place to myself,” she marvels, eyes fixated as the Zamboni finishes its loop around the ice.
“You agreed I could join you,” I remind her.
She sizes me up, her eyes narrowed and nose scrunched, darts her eyes to the rink, then back to me. “You take the visitor half. I’ll keep the home team side.”
“Big of you.” My clipped tone does nothing to dissuade her or change her mind.
The fact she knows the rules of hockey warms my heart. She’s become the unofficial team mascot for the Aspenridge Maple Moose men’s hockey team, and she never fails to make the guys laugh. It helps assuage some of the guilt of losing parenting time to play college hockey.
Her skates all tightened, she hops down off the bench and hobbles over to wait for the Zamboni to clear the ice. The minute she gets the thumbs up from the driver, she’s off, one foot in front of the other, gliding toward the center of the ice.
For five years old, she’s got the mechanics down pat. Even when she stumbles and falls, she picks herself up and keeps going. She takes breaks often, her petite legs getting tired from the constant motion around the rink, but she wears a smile on her face the entire time. And she never wants to leave when it’s time to come off the ice, an attitude I had to curb quickly. One “If you give me a hard time when it’s time to leave, you won’t be able to come back,” and she learned the lesson. As much as I’m biased, she is the best kid.
I watch her from the bench for a few minutes. Out on the ice by herself, skating around, practicing different stops she’s picked up here and there, having fun. Her smile brings an immediate one to my face. I can’t help the pride exuding off me at not only her skill level, but her love of skating.
Joining her, I signal her over so we can skate together. She obeys, and we spend the next half hour gliding around the ice. When she gets tired, she’s up in my arms or on my shoulders, sounds of glee emanating as she cheers me faster.
“Faster, Keeley. Go faster,” she commands, her voice full of pure elation, an emotion she wouldn’t be able to fake.
When I’m finally tired, I make a move for the exit.
Kenny Ferguson, Aspenridge’s rink manager, sits in the stands, off to the side of our stuff.
“I didn’t realize you were the special VIP this evening, Ms. Lennon. Looking great out there.”
Lennon’s lips curve into a smile. “I know. Did you see my spiral?”
If it’s what I think she’s talking about, it resembled nothing like a spiral a figure skater might do, but Kenny plays along.
“Best one I’ve seen all day.” Radiating confidence, my girl beams at the compliment. “Walsh, got a second?”
I sit Lennon down on the bench, quickly unlacing her skates. “Squirt, I’m going to talk with Mr. Kenny for a minute or two.Take off your gear. There’s water and a snack in the cooler. Be back in a flash.”
A nod of her head confirms she got my message. I don’t bother with my skates, following Kenny just out of earshot of Lennon.
He motions for me to have a seat on the bleachers, sitting after me.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m all ears.”
