as Anna’s assistant coach, but I stepped into her position during her maternity leave. She’d struggled after her C-section and I’d agreed to finish out the season as the head coach.
“Jacie,” Anna shouted, “watch your line, you’re offsides.”
I sent Anna a thumbs-up; somehow I’d missed that. This team would progress even more if I had a ref on the ice during practice skirmishes. Being rec—recreational hockey—rather than club hockey, meant many of these girls were only playing for fun, so not all the rules and subsequent protocol and penalties were firmly cemented in their heads. Unlike club players, like I’d been, who memorized hockey rules and regulations as catechism at a very early age.
“Face off, ladies.”
Just as they got into position and I crouched down to drop the puck, the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of class. Rather than skating off to the dressing room, all the players, including those on the bench, skated to me.
“All right. I saw excellent hustle out here today from everyone. Be proud. You’re more than ready to face the Raptors on Sunday. We’ll meet here, ninety minutes before the game. That’ll give us time to drive to Rosewood Arena, get suited up and warm up. If something changes in your schedule, and you’re not able to make the game, text me or Anna as soon as you’re aware of the conflict. Anna will pass out family game passes in the dressing room after you fill out the transportation sheet for game day.” I paused. “Any questions?”
“Gotcha, Coach Welk.”
“Have a good weekend, ladies. Rest up, stay out of trouble and—”
“Wash your gear!” they shouted in unison.
I laughed. I’d at least drilled that much into their heads. “Dismissed.”
While Anna dealt with the paperwork, I moved the nets off the ice, picked up the pucks and checked the players’ benches for any trash. Usually the girls helped clear the ice since their class was the last one on Friday nights. But I’d worked them hard and I would’ve been anxious to get away from me too at their age. Besides, there was something cleansing about ending my workweek the same way I’d started it—alone on the ice.
“Gabi.”
I looked up into the face of my sister. I’d zoned out so much I hadn’t noticed her standing in the front row of the spectator seats.
A week and a half had passed since Tyson had broken up with me. During that time I’d avoided talking to Dani. Not because I was mad at her, but because I really didn’t know how to respond to her without coming across as A) insincere, B) nosy or C) bitter. And really, did she want to deal with the questions foremost on my mind?
Am I supposed to congratulate you?
Have you slept with him yet?
Do I have to beg you not to ask me to be in the wedding?
What did Mom and Dad say?
Awkward situations freaked me out, which is why I avoided them. Case in point, when Nolan showed up for Mimi’s practice on Wednesday, smiling at me as if he hadn’t insulted me on the one day my female ego needed bolstering . . . I oh-so-maturely had flipped him off instead of talking to him.
Seeing Dani’s miserable face, I knew I couldn’t retreat to that brusque demeanor. “How long have you been here?”
“Since their team practice started. I stayed in the top level so I wouldn’t distract you. I love watching you coach. You’re amazing.”
Being this close to Dani just reminded me that we looked nothing alike. She had flaxen blond hair, whereas mine was basic light brown. Her eyes were a golden amber, mine were boring blue. Her lanky appearance of delicacy belied her athletic strength, while I was shorter and sturdier with more obvious muscle mass. On the ice, she was grace with instant adaptability. Whereas I embodied a freight train; scarily fast, my focus on one track.
“Why are you staring at me without saying anything? Figuring out where to punch me first?”
I gave her another purposeful once-over. “You know I only hit you when we’re on the ice. So if you wanna suit up . . .”
She laughed. Then covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry. I just—”
“Tell me one thing, okay? Are you happy with Tyson? The I-found-my-other-half, giddy-over-the-moon, crazily-in-love-with-him type of happiness?”
“Yes. He’s . . . everything.” She sighed.
She motherfucking sighed. Dreamily, no less.
Jesus. Had I ever sighed like that over any man, say nothing of sighing like that over Tyson?