The Score (Off-Campus #3)(34)
At a red light, I shoot a quick text to my teammate Fitzy—Hey, do u know how 2 make a voodoo doll?
His response doesn’t come until I reach the small arena across the street from the school.
Him: I’d think u were fcking with me, but the question is stupid enuff to feel legit. No idea how to make v-doll. Can prolly use any old doll? Challenge will be finding a voodoo witch to link it to your target.
Me: That makes sense.
Him: Does it??
Me: Voodoo implies magic, hexes, etc. I don’t think any doll would work. Otherwise every doll is a v-doll, right?
Him: Right.
Me: Anyway. Thx. Thought u might know.
Him: Why the fuck would I know?
Me: Ur into all those fantasy role-play games. U know magic.
Him: I’m not Harry Potter, ffs.
Me: HP is a nerd. Ur a nerd. Ergo, ur a boy wizard.
He sends a middle-finger emoji, then says, Bday beers at Malone’s 2nite. U still down?
Me: Yup.
Him: C U ltr.
I tuck my phone in my jacket pocket and hop out of the car. At least I have something to look forward to after this. Celebratory beers for Fitzy’s twenty-first birthday will be my reward for spending the afternoon coaching children against my will.
The rink is empty when I stride through the double doors. The cold air greets me like an old friend and I breathe it in, shifting my duffel to my other shoulder and making my way to the home team bench, where a tall man in a red sweater and scuffed black hockey skates is peering at a clipboard. The whistle around his neck tells me he’s the coach of the Hurricanes.
“Di Laurentis?” When I nod, he extends a hand. “Doug Ellis. Nice to meet you, kid. I watched your Frozen Four game on TV in April. You played well.”
“Thanks.” I gesture to the deserted ice. I’m ten minutes early, just like O’Shea ordered me to be. “Where’re the kids?”
“Locker room. They should be out soon.” He sets the clipboard on the ledge that spans the bench. “Chad fill you in on what’s expected of you?”
“Nope.” Despite what O’Shea told me, I don’t think Coach Jensen has any idea I’ve been recruited to work with the Hurricanes.
“Well, it’s not all that complicated. We start each practice with thirty minutes of drills, then do a thirty-minute scrimmage split up into three ten-minute periods. The boys work their asses off. Good kids, the lot of them. Talented, smart, eager to sharpen their skills and get better.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“They loved Kayla—” At my blank expression, he says, “Your predecessor.” Right, the chick who’d come down with mono. “Anyway, she worked mostly with the offense. Did a terrific job, but I’ll be honest, I’m glad to have a D-man on board. A few of the boys have trouble manning the defensive zone. I’d like for you to work closely with them.”
We chat for a few minutes about my duties, and then he delivers a few warnings about not dropping F-bombs around the kids and not manhandling them in any way.
“Got it—keep it PG and don’t touch ’em. Anything else?” I ask.
“Naah. You’ll figure out the rest as you go along.”
All in all, Ellis seems like a decent man, and when the kids thunder out of the locker room and greet him like he’s Jesus Christ brought back to life, my opinion of him climbs higher. He told me he’s the school gym teacher but that even if he lost his job, he’d never walk away from this team. Or the eighth grade girls’ volleyball team, which he apparently also coaches.
I drop onto the bench and quickly kick off my Timberlands, replacing them with the Bauers I stowed in my duffel. Then I hop the ledge and skate toward Ellis and the kids. Half of them are wearing red practice jerseys, the other half are in black. Ellis introduces me to the team, who oooh and aaah when he informs them of my multiple Frozen Four wins. By the time we set up the first skating drill, every kid on the ice is begging for one-on-one attention from me.
I’m not gonna lie—I have a blast from the word go. The boys’ passion for the game reminds me of when I was a kid, how excited I was to put on a pair of skates and tear down the ice. Their enthusiasm is downright contagious.
When Ellis blows his whistle to signal it’s time for the scrimmage, I find I’m genuinely disappointed that the drills are over. I’d been giving tips to a seventh-grader named Robbie during the last shooting drill, and the wrist shot he’d floated past the goalie had been a beauty. I want to see him do it again, but now it’s time for the boys to take the skills they just learned and apply them to the scrimmage.
Ellis and I serve as both refs and coaches, calling out penalties and offering advice when needed. The thirty-minute game ends way too fast for my liking. I could stay out there forever, but Ellis signals the end of the scrimmage and gestures for everyone to skate forward.
There’s a strange clench in my chest as he addresses each boy, one at a time, to tell them one thing they did right at practice today. Face after face lights up at his compliments, and by the time Ellis is done I think I might be in love with him.
Damn, he’s a great coach.
After that, we follow the kids to the locker room and help them put away their equipment in the proper cubbies. They’re a loud, boisterous group, laughing and joking and chirping each other as they change into their street clothes. The hallway outside the door is littered with vending machines and parents waiting for their sons. Robbie, however, stays behind. He’s changed out of his practice uniform, but I’m troubled to see him lacing up his skates again and tucking the bottoms of his jeans into them.