Page 19 of Puck, Marry, Kill

The first attempt, Harley makes it to three before missing. The second, seven. The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth, he still doesn’t make ten.

“Eight, right.”Thwak.

“Nine, right.”Thwak.

“Ten, left.” I hold my breath, wanting this for him probably as badly as he wants it for himself.Thwak.

“I did it!” he shouts. Behind his helmet, I can see his face light up with surprise, and as he flies to me with his hand up for a high five, his pride grows.

“Way to go, man! That was some awesome work.”

He whirls to find Briar, making sure that she saw. Of course she did, her eyes have been locked on Harley the entire practice. Not once has she started scrolling on her phone or looked bored. She’s watched, rapt with what’s been happening, so she saw exactly how much work that took and is standing up, clapping proudly.

“Great job!” She starts waving her hands in the air like a pom-pom-less cheerleader, “Woo-hoo!”

The reality hits Harley and he starts jumping around. “I did it! I really did it!”

I’m grinning, watching his celebration with some pride of my own, when he wobbles on a landing. “Ow!” he shouts, instantly lifting that foot up from the ice.

“Honey? Are you okay?” Briar hollers. She’s got thatoh no, not my babyhorrified look that I’ve seen on my mom’s face when I’ve gotten hurt over the years.

“I got him,” I tell her, skating to Harley at full speed. “What happened?”

He looks up at me with tears starting to pool in his eyes. “I landed funny. My ankle kinda twisted. It hurts ... a lot.”

I nod. “Did you feel a pop or anything?”

He shakes his head and I breathe again. “Good. Let’s get you off the ice.” I grab under his armpits, tell him to hold that foot up, and steer him toward the exit gate. I could pick him up easily, but there’s an honor to leaving the ice yourself, even if it’s with help, and I want to give Harley that dignity and respect. But once we’re clear, I scoop him up and carry him to the closest bench before squatting down. “We need to take off your skate. Laces won’t hurt, pulling it off might hurt a little.” I’m as matter-of-fact and honest about it as I can be, not wanting him to be surprised by the pain.

He nods bravely and I get to it. I’m as careful as possible, fully unlacing the skate, but he still whimpers a little as I remove it. Briar comforts him, shushing him softly as she looks at me withfix iteyes.Under his sock, his ankle looks ... fine? It’s not swollen or purple thankfully, but as I press gently, he winces.

“I think we should get it checked out, just to be safe,” I tell them both. Like she was already thinking the same thing, Briar is nodding before I get the words out and starts grabbing their stuff. I make quick work of taking Harley’s other skate off and changing into tennis shoes myself.

“Can you carry him to the car?”

“Yep.” Harley is light in my arms, but my gut is churning. The kid got hurt on my watch. It might not have been an injury at my hand, or even because of a drill I had him doing, but I still feel responsible. Which is why I head to my truck. “There’s room for him to stretch his leg out on the back seat,” I explain to Briar, who looks ready to argue with me. Thankfully, that makes sense to her and she nods in acceptance.

I set him down and move out of the way so she can fuss over him for a second. Once she’s sure Harley is situated safely, she comes to stand in the open passenger door and meets my eyes. I’m expecting blame, accusation, and a fair amount of anger. What I get is, “Thank you.”

The adrenaline has worn off for Harley and it’s late for his little boy body, so after a delicate exam by the doctor and an X-ray we don’t have the results for yet, he’s crashed out on the hospital gurney. He looks tiny amid the white blankets and pillows Briar piled around him to keep him comfortable. She’s sitting in a chair, her eyes locked on her son.

“He’ll be okay,” I tell her quietly, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Slowly, her eyes find mine, as if she’d forgotten that I’ve been standing here for the last three hours. “I know. I just wish I could take the pain away.”

I sigh, wishing the same. I’d take the kid’s pain myself if there were a way to do it. But there’s not, there never is. “My mom has sat vigil by my bed more times than she’d like to remember. When I was a kid, she even tried to get me to play something less physical, like golf.” I laugh at the memory. “Dad told her that if I wasn’t attacking the ice full throttle, I’d probably get kicked out of school for fighting. He was right.”

“You were aggressive? Even as a kid?”

“I wasn’t aggressive, then or now. I wasactive.” That’s putting it mildly. I was a wild child that constantly climbed, ran, and roughhoused, and according to Mom, gave her the first gray hairs of her life. “Plus all my friends played hockey. Some of them still do, though not professionally. Now, it’s my job. One I love, but I don’t go around getting violent off the ice.” I’m admittedly a bit offended. I know the hockey stereotype, especially for defensemen, that we’re all big lunks of brainless muscle looking for any opportunity to beat the shit out of someone. But that’s not how I play and definitely not how I live.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Briar waves her hand by way of explanation, and I decide to give her a break. She’s a mama bear whose cub is injured. The doctor is lucky Briar didn’t bite his hand when he pressed on Harley’s ankle. I nod, accepting the apology, and she sighs. Her eyes locked on her sleeping son’s face, she says, “Harley used to like watching hockey with Tyler, but he was so young that he never asked to play. I was thankful for that. Then, a few years ago, seemingly out of nowhere, he got angry ... at Tyler, at me, at everyone. He was only six, but he was so mad.”

She swallows thickly, like she can still feel her son’s pain. Not the ankle, but his heartbreak. “We talked, and basically, it boiled down to him realizing that other boys in his class had fathers who showed up for Donuts with Daddy, practices and games, and even just for dinner. It was the first time he saw that our family was different. His best friend played hockey and I talked to the coach, who said a sport can be good for kids. Not only for the usual ‘learn discipline’ and ‘wear them out’ stuff, but to express their emotions in different ways.Healthy ways.So he started playing and he loves it so much.”

“I’m glad you didn’t talk to your dad then,” I note, and Briar scoffs in agreement. There’s no way she’d get a healthy outlook on hockey from him.

“True. But I was convinced, so I let Harley play. I’m glad I did.” Her eyes lift to mine, something in their depths I can’t quite pinpoint.