his hand out for Luke’s stick. It was shorter than what he played with but for demonstration purposes, it’d have to do.
“This is a quick shot,” he said, facing the row of pucks, the net to his right. “There are two ways to do it—” He bent his legs, his right hand at the top of the stick, his left a third of the way down. “First one, get low to the ice and just shovel the puck up and in.” He scooped up the puck, sending it into the upper net. “Up and in,” he said again, repeating the motion for all the pucks. “Got it?”
Luke nodded and took his stick back to line up the pucks once again.
“Good,” Neil said when Luke shot the first puck, “but if you want to get the shot off this close to the net, you need to be faster.”
As Luke lined them up and shot through them again, Neil checked on Bree. She sat on the first row of bleachers behind him. He lifted a hand, waved for her to join them but she shook her head.
Turning to Luke, Neil taught him another method, this one pulling the puck back a little bit to get some momentum, lifting the puck onto the blade and rifling it up and in with power.
“Good job,” Neil said after they’d gone through the drill a dozen or so times. He checked on Bree again. Still sitting. Still watching him in that way that made him feel as if she was sizing him up and found him lacking.
“Thanks for the help,” Luke said as the locker room door opened and the members of the high school hockey team skated out. “I’ll stay after practice and keep working on it.”
One by one the boys approached Neil. He signed sticks, gave advice and had a conversation with the head coach about giving them pointers on their offense, prompting Neil to agree to come back during practice tomorrow. It was ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.
But when the crowd around him finally dispersed and he looked once again for Bree, she was gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BREE STARED UP at the ice rink from the bottom of the concrete steps. She’d been out there a real long time. Long enough for the sun to have warmed her chilled skin, for sweat to have formed at the small of her back. For her to wish she’d worn something other than sweats.
She’d counted the number of stairs leading to the building and all the cars in the parking lot. And still, the doors remained shut. Her dad hadn’t come out, frantic and upset that she’d disappeared.
He probably didn’t even know she was gone.
Which was fine with her. She hadn’t left so he’d chase after her, so he’d be worried, wondering where she’d gone, if she was all right. She’d been tired and cold. And as much as she liked daydreaming about the day when Luke would fall in love with the older, skinnier, prettier version of herself, watching him flip puck after puck into the net was superboring.
But it wasn’t until those other boys had come in and surrounded her dad, all trying to get his attention so they could tell him how cool and great he was, that she’d slipped out. She’d had to. Her chest had been tight and she’d started breathing fast, as if her dad had made her run again. She’d thought for sure she’d puke, right there in front of everyone.
Or worse, start yelling, screaming at them all that they were wrong. That her dad wasn’t great.
He was a liar. He’d told her he wanted to take her skating, just the two of them, but as soon as Luke showed up, her dad had ditched her.
She had every right to get away from him.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d run away or done anything wrong. She was right here, right where he’d easily see her when he finally got done paying attention to everyone else. She’d just explain that she hadn’t told him she was leaving because she’d been taught it was rude to interrupt adults when they were busy.
Her dad was always busy. Too busy for her.
But she was awfully hot, what with the sun beating down on her and all. The sunscreen she’d put on before soccer was long gone, which meant she was just begging for a sunburn or worse, skin cancer, by standing on this concrete.
Biting her lip, she scanned the area. There were some trees by the