Page 9 of Taking Sides

“Thought we could offer some defense,” Penn says.

A flash of surprise appears on her face, but it’s quickly replaced with a nod of approval.

“What do you think?” she asks the boys. “Think you can pass around a couple of professional hockey players?”

There’s another chorus of excited agreement. I’m thankful that I won’t have to do any talking. I’m much better at hockey.

Penn moves into position first. “Take it easy on me, boys. I haven’t been this far from the net since grade school.”

The boys laugh good-naturedly, and I take my spot a couple feet from him, putting myself between the net and Whitney.

Her gaze locks on mine and for a few seconds I can’t look away. I’m frozen. Captivated. About to pass out maybe? Fuck. It’s embarrassing to be a twenty-five-year-old man who can’t talk to a woman without sweating.

This time, she’s the first to break eye contact.

“Okay. Let’s do this,” she says as she gets into position. There it is again, that natural athleticism as she grips the stick and fires a pass to the right. I’m slow to defend because it takes effort to stop watching her instead of the gangly teenager that now has the puck.

I shift my body, and my attention, to the drill. The kid in front of me is only a few inches shorter than me with a broad build but an awkward lankiness to him. Despite how scrawny he is, there’s an intensity and power behind his movements. Scrappy is the word that comes to mind.

If he’s at all freaked out that an NHL defender is pressuring him, I can’t tell. He’s cool, composed, taking his time as he skates slowly, waiting for his teammate to get open. I’m impressed.

He finally sends a pass to the left, and his teammate fires the puck at the goal. Everyone turns to watch it find the back of the net. The boys cheer, and I turn my stare back to Whitney to watch a pleased, proud smile curve up her lips.

“Nice job,” she says with that lilt of amusement in her tone. She always sounds like she’s on the brink of laughter. The side-eye she gives me tells me she knows that was some half-ass defense. I don’t know what she expects. I’m not going to strip the puck from this kid just to prove I can.

We go through the entire line of kids. Each one is eager for their turn. Most of them have that determination to do their best in front of us, but a few let nerves get the better of them. One freshman they call Pepper (I’m guessing it has something to do with the red hair), misses the puck completely when he attempts to pass it and falls in front of me. I bite back a laugh and hold out a hand to help him up.

“Fuck,” he mutters quietly under his breath. He looks everywhere but at me as he accepts my hand. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I say as he gets back on his feet.

“You’re kind of my hero, so this is one of those moments I’m going to replay over and over again as the time I ate it in front of the greatest defender of all time.”

His words ping with pride in my chest. I am not the greatest defender of all time, at least not yet, but even if this kid is the only one who thinks so, it feels good. I remember looking up to guys the same way.

“In my first NHL game, I scored in the wrong goal in front of my hero.”

Pepper lets a smile loosen on his lips. “Really?”

“Yeah.” I nod. It was over two years ago, and I can still feel the humiliation.

“Which player?” His brows furrow as he gets a contemplative look on his face.

I lean closer to him to whisper the name. His eyes widen and he lets out a gasp.

“You scored in the wrong goal in front of Jack Wyld?!”

I hold up a hand to stop him and let out a small chuckle. “Don’t even say it.”

“Wow.” Pepper’s grinning now.

“Don’t sweat it. We all make mistakes. You have a good awareness of other players.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He relaxes and I do too.