Page 26 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Have it faster. Forty third graders. They’ve been given sticks.”
The clinic is chaos in the best possible way. Forty peewee players, half barely vertical, the other half wildly overconfident and armed with composite sticks they have no business holding. I’m stationed at the blue line, running a passing drill that devolves into keep away. And I’m losing.
A kid named Marcus, maybe eight, crooked-grinned and fearless, fires a pass between my legs.
“Megged you!” he shrieks, and his teammates erupt like he just netted the Cup winner.
I scowl. “This is hockey, not soccer.”
“Whatever, dude!” Marcus gestures something at me, and I will ignore him for the good of both of us. I set up the drill again, and somewhere in the rhythm—stick tap, pass, correction, knees bent, eyes up, follow through—something loosens in my chest.
This is what Coach did for me. On this ice. Twenty-three years ago, he saw a scrawny kid skating alone and started feeding him drills, and that was the beginning of everything I am now.
I adjust Marcus’s grip, nudge his elbow—and realize I’m using Coach’s exact technique, passing it forward to another wide-eyed and grinning kid on the same scarred ice.
Maybe I’ll cut Marcus some slack.
We break for fifteen, and I step off the ice, wander into the mall in search of water.
Northwoods Mall is the same mall it’s always been—not booming, not dying, just humming along in that particular suburban petri dish where an Orange Julius and a Hot Topic can coexist. The corridor outside the rink connects to the main concourse, and the smell shifts from ice and rubber to floor wax and the ghosts of a thousand Auntie Anne’s pretzels. The stores are open and busy, Saturday foot traffic boosted by the rink event spilling crowds into the concourse. The Penalty Box has a kid with his nose flattened against the Blue Ox jersey display. Sutton Sweets is doing brisk business in caramel apples the size of softballs. Blue Line Books has a local author display I glance at and keep walking past because I do not need to think about authors right now.
The corridor bends toward the food court, and I can see Blake’s Café at the far end. A chalkboard sign in rainbow chalk reads Still here. Still brewing. Come say goodbye to the rink and hello to our hot chocolate.
That’s when I see her.
She’s standing by the old atrium fountain—basin dry, a few stubborn pennies cemented to the bottom by time and oxidation. Jeans. Oversized cable-knit sweater. Real winter boots. She’s holding a camera—lens the size of a coffee can—tilted up, photographing the glass ceiling where winter light filters down in dusty shafts.
Her back is to me, but I know that rich red hair.
Not the dark, choppy bob from the gala. Curls—red ones. Wild and alive, tucked up in a familiar bun that’s both elegant and messy—natural and effortless. They catch the light and glow. Turn copper.
Freckles. Vivid. Uncovered—she’s turned just enough in her chair that the rink light catches her profile. The crooked glasses pushed up with one finger.
Everly.
This is the Everly I actually remember. The girl who sat in these stands doing homework while Coach ran practice. The one whose hair was always escaping, always rioting.
The dark hair was the costume. This is the real one.
She looks completely different.
Or…maybe she looks exactly the same.
I’m going over there.
NO. Nope. No. Do not seek out Everly Hart.
It’s too late. Whatever sense I’d jammed into my head earlier is gone. I’m walking.
“Hey,” I say. Friendly. Nice.
She lowers the camera, and her whole body stiffens. Okay…? Maybe I missed the mark on friendly and nice.
She glances away, her eyes looking anywhere but at me. “Hey.”
“You look different,” I say, because apparently, around her I can’t stop talking.
Her hand goes to her hair, and she gives me a wry look. “This is actually what I look like.”
