Page 27 of Puck Fest
By 10:05, we’re ready to start.
Masterson gathers the kids at center ice. He’s good at this kind of thing, making eye contact, learning names, cracking jokes that get the kids laughing. Within five minutes, they’re eating out of his hand.
“Alright, we’re gonna work on defensive positioning today,” he says. “Who knows what that means?”
A few hands go up. He calls on a kid wearing a Jack Larson jersey.
“It means stopping the other team from scoring,” the kid says.
“Exactly. And how do we do that?”
“Block them?”
“Close. We position ourselves so they can’t get where they want to go.” Masterson demonstrates, skating backward, showing them how to angle an opponent toward the boards. “It’s not about being the biggest or the fastest. It’s about being smart.”
He’s patient. Encouraging. When a smaller kid struggles with the footwork, Masterson slows down, demonstrates again, and skates with him until he gets it.
And fuck me, my heart does a little dance in my chest.
I grit my teeth and scribble notes on my iPad to document the clinic for the league’s community service requirements. That’s my job. That’s all this is.
Halfway through, Masterson calls for a water break. The kids skate off the ice, grabbing water bottles set up on a table while they talk about what they’ve learned. Masterson skates over to where I’m standing at the boards.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
“Fine. You’re doing well with them.”
“Just well? Come on, Noah. I’m killing it.”
He grins, and I hate how it affects me. Hate that my first instinct is to smile back instead of maintaining professional distance.
“You’re adequately meeting the requirements of your community service,” I say instead.
His grin fades slightly. “Adequately. That’s what we’re going with?”
“That’s accurate.”
He studies me for a long minute, clearly trying to figure out how to chip away at the wall I’ve thrown up between us.
“You’ve been quiet today,” he says.
“I’m always quiet during clinics. I’m here to observe and document.”
“Right.” He leans against the boards, close enough that I can smell the fresh, clean scent of his deodorant and the ice-cold airthat clings to his gear. “You know, most people would at least crack a smile when thirty kids are having the time of their lives.”
“I’m not here to smile. I’m here to supervise your community service.”
“Yeah, I get that. But would it kill you to lighten up a little?”
“This is a professional obligation, Masterson. Not a social event.”
“Got it. Professional.” He lifts an eyebrow. “”Does it ever get lonely behind that wall?
I recoil. “What wall?”
“The one that keeps everyoneout.”
“It’s not a wall. I have professional boundaries. There’s a difference.”
