Page 49 of Pucked Up Plans
“Nice shot, Keeley.”
“Way to commit to the goal,” Coach commends. My chest puffs with the compliment.
Skating over to the bench, I use the door, my legs too tired to hop over.
While the next line takes over, I chug water from the Gatorade bottle. Tristan Ford and Andre Greeley face off with mumbles of trash talk, like in a real game. Sometimes it’s more contentious against your own teammate to gain an edge. To show the coach what you have. A few of the younger players think it’s a way to get ahead. I learned early on to keep it to a minimum. As much as displaying your skills is important, showing off gets you benched.
I get distracted by an excited “Keeley.” At Lennon’s voice, I turn my head. And I’m not the only one who notices her.
“Little Lennon!” Gabe Kolligan calls.
“Squirt!” Cody bellows, his voice loud above the ruckus.
Lennon’s hand gestures wildly in the air, as if she’s waving to her fans. Which, in her mind, she is. Dad follows her to a seat directly behind our bench, Lennon’s backpack slung over his shoulders. He doesn’t seem too irritated drawing the short straw for preschool pickup. Must have been a slow day at work.
“Hey, Squirt. How was school?” I remove my helmet, shaking off the sweat.
“Mostly boring.” Her shoulders lift in indifference. If she’s bored in preschool, I can’t imagine what kindergarten will be like. “Poppa picked me up, and we went to the barn. The lady said I should come back and ride the pony.” She peers up at Dad over her shoulder, but his sight bounces around the stadium. His cheeks blush red, chagrined to be called out by the kid.
“Maybe in the spring. When the weather’s nicer.” The whistle blows, signaling the end of practice. “Gotta listen to Coach’s instructions. Stay with Poppa.”
We gather on center ice, my legs wobbly from the difficult practice. We have a game coming up this weekend against a rival Vermont college. As it draws nearer, the practice intensity will increase. Despite the challenge, I love the rush of adrenaline, the relentless pursuit of perfection, each repetition and stride propelling me forward, both on the ice and toward my goals in life. The trials faced during practices serve as a reminder that pursuing excellence requires unwavering commitment and an insatiable hunger for improvement.
Coach goes over his list of notes before dismissing us. Before I make it back to the bench, my friends surround Lennon, inquiring about her day, what’s new in her life, and when theycan skate with her. My girl craves their devotion, lapping it up like a dog with water.
I hear her, “I can’t stay. Gotta go somewhere with Poppa,” disappointment settling deep in her tone.
A collective “aww” rises from the group. As if they want to spend their time entertaining a five-year-old. As much as the guys, except for Ezra, have no genuine interest in kids, Lennon’s different. Whenever she’s around, they melt like ice cream on a hot day.
“But you’ll come back soon, right?” Gabe requests, complete with prayer hands.
“Duh.” She finds me among the crowd. “When can I come back and skate with the boys?”
“We’ll have to consult your social calendar. You keep filling it up with playdates.” As the words barrel out of my mouth, my mind drifts to Tate. But I can’t get too off track. “But I bet Momma will bring you to the game this weekend.”
She fist pumps and high fives my teammates. I can’t tell who’s more excited—her or them. Especially Cody. Big and brawny and the “player” of my friend group, he’s got a soft spot for my kid. Which is both comforting and worrisome.
“You’re our good luck charm,” someone claims. Maybe Andre.
“I’ll make sure Mimi washes my jersey,” she informs. “Gotta show my team spirit. Number sixteen like Keeley.”
My eyes roll of their own accord, but I don’t fight it. What’s the use? Only when she’s inappropriate will I curb the things she says. Otherwise, she’ll continue to crack others up with what comes out of her mouth.
“Next time, bring Mimi,” another teammate comments.
Neither I nor Lennon are fazed by the request.
Mom’s been the “team mom” since I started playing hockey, but more so at Aspenridge. She brings treats to games andpractices, serves dinners at our house, and is a listening ear for whenever a player misses home and needs “Mom” advice. Heck, she even rode in the ambulance when a prior teammate had no one to go to the hospital with. And I’m the lucky one to call her Mom.
After another round of high fives—Lennon doesn’t miss a player—the team and I head to the locker room to change.
Outside the arena, I catch up with Lennon and Dad. “You riding with Poppa or me?”
“Poppa. His car needs a wash, and I’ll watch from the window.” Her voice pitches higher with her excitement. Dad likes to take her for the cheap entertainment value. If it’s busy, she’ll sit for a good hour without complaining, the suds covering the different vehicles fascinating her.
“Great. Have fun. What’s Mimi making for dinner?”
She plants her feet wide and fists her hands on her hips. “How the heck should I know?”
