“The guys are off today,” Pacey said. I glided up beside him. The colorful parachutes weaved and bobbed as the players battled their resistance.

  “Anyone can see that.” The lethargy on the ice was palpable. The players not involved with the drills were lounging against the boards, gossiping like school girls.

  “Do it again,” I shouted.

  The groans weren’t audible, but I could see the frustration on their faces. I blew the whistle and Pacey passed the puck to Leo, the captain. Leo the Lion, or Flow, as some of the guys called him, was one of the lucky guys that had natural ability, and had relied on it to get him to the Northern Professional League. But, if he didn’t start honing his skills, luck wasn’t going to get him any further. Leo backhanded the puck to Mike Ryan, one of the defensemen, who tick tocked it to one of the rookies, a kid named Jasper. Instead of tipping the puck in front of the net to Leo, as the play sheet directed, the little bastard wound up and slap shot it into the net just as the timer buzzed.

  “What was that?” I shouted.

  Jasper grinned and shrugged. “Seemed better than the play.”

  A few years ago, an attitude like that would have sent me through the roof. “Where do you think you’re going?” The players had congregated near the boards. “You’re not leaving this rink until you can do that play with your eyes shut.”

  “Coach…” Mike, one of the more outspoken players, protested.

  I crossed my arms across my chest. Mike’s objection faded and he skated back to center ice. The rest of the players followed suit. “Now,” I shouted and slapped the back of my clipboard. “Hustle!” Blades gripped into the ice as the players took their places.

  I blew the whistle. The players repeated the drill, and this time the guys played like they actually meant it. Jasper faked the shot and then passed to Leo who tipped the puck into the net behind the practice goalie, Beckett.

  “Finally.” I shook my head. “What is it going to take to get you guys to practice like you mean it?”

  No one spoke and I wasn’t expecting them to. Some guys shuffled their skates and looked down at the ice shavings between their feet, the senior players, leaned on their sticks, waiting for me to either blow my top or dismiss them.

  “Get out of here.” I dismissed the practice with a wave of my clipboard.

  As I followed the team off the ice, I realized that someone had been watching the practice. “Shit,” I muttered, just loud enough for Pacey to hear. The general manager, Vincent Wellington was holding the door open for the players.

  “Coach,” Vincent said as I reached the door.

  “Mr. Wellington.” I glanced back to see Pacey busying himself within earshot, collecting the water bottles, orange pylons, and pucks.

  “Do you want to address the team?” It wasn’t often, but every once in a while, Mr. Wellington liked to show his face in front of the players, to let them know who was really calling the shots.

  “Not today.” His lips narrowed. “I want to have a word with you.”

  I stepped off the ice. “Let me get out of my skates and we can meet in my office.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  This was not protocol. Wellington and I had a good relationship, and we met either in his office or mine, we never had a haphazard conversation out in the open. “Okay.” I balled my hands into fists and tried not to cross my arms over my chest. I knew what was coming.

  “McManus is not happy with the stats.”

  “It’s early in the season—” I started to protest.

  “It’s not that early,” Wellington interrupted. “And it’s not just this season. Last year the Otters went from winning the playoffs to the bottom of the league.”

  “It’s a young team. It’s going to take a bit of time.” We had lost four of the top Otters to other leagues a couple of years ago. Tanner Townsend and Kane Fitzgerald had been pillars, holding up the team, and without them, the camaraderie was crumbling. Dylan Moss, the team clown had fallen on hard times and had completely quit playing hockey altogether. I had never talked about it with the team, but I knew watching Dylan crumble had been hard on them. Brodie Bishop, one of the best rookies the team had ever seen, had left the Northern League to play college hockey. To say there were a few holes in the team would be an understatement. There were empty chasms that I didn’t know how to fill.

  “What do you need, Coach?” Wellington asked. His voice was sincere.

  “Time.” I sighed. “Or, a star.”

  Wellington narrowed his lips further. “We’ve run out of time, Covington. But, I agree. Someone is missing out there. I can make a case to Jake, and maybe he can up our talent budget for the season. If you think that’s what we need.”

  Jake McManus was a retired National League Player who built the arena and owned the Otters. Laketown was the summer playground for celebrities and sports stars. Many of the National League players, both active and retired owned cottages, or rather, mansions along the shoreline of Lake Casper. McManus built the stadium to host national level camps; the Otters were a hobby of his, one that he took very seriously.

  “I think that’s what we need.” I could hear the waver in my voice and hoped that Wellington couldn’t. Could a star player turn around a losing season? Maybe.

  “Wellington put his foot up on the bleacher beside me and leaned in. Pacey was clearing the ice at a snail’s pace and I wondered how much of the conversation he had overheard. “I’ll get you your player. I’ll make the recommendation to McManus. But Coach, if this team doesn’t start winning, I’m going to change that recommendation.”

  I nodded. He didn’t have to say it. The new recommendation would be to replace me.

  Wellington left and Pacey skated silently to the boards, the bucket of pucks in his hand. “What was that all about?”

  “We’re getting a new player.” I cleared my throat and a shiver ran through my body, my feet had turned to blocks of ice inside my skates.

  Pacey nodded slowly. If he had heard the conversation, he didn’t let on. “That might help.”

  “It better.” I shook my head and took a deep breath. “Pacey, do you mind doing the breakdown with the guys today?”

  Like a theater director, I went over my ‘notes’ with the team after every practice. It was something I had done for years and tried to keep it positive. Today, I didn’t have it in me. The guys were already beaten down and I didn’t want to bring them down any further. I had to turn things around. A new player wasn’t going to do that on his own, that was a lot to put on a young guy’s shoulders. Everything had to change – including me.

  “Sure, Coach.” Pacey disappeared into the dressing room and I took a seat on the cold bleachers. The audience heating system was only turned-on during games, so the plastic creaked under my weight, and the coldness seeped through my warmup pants.

  I took out my whiteboard pen and flipped to the laminated play chart. The scribbles on the whiteboard turned to players, and as I consulted the play and looked to the ice surface, I could see the play as though it were happening in real-time in front of me. I dragged my thumb across the final pass and saw the play through Jasper’s eyes. He was right. The kid was following his instinct, something that I used to do. And he was spot on.

  “Wellington looked pretty serious.” A voice interrupted my visualization and I jumped in my seat. Andy, the Zamboni driver was leaning on the boards right beside me.

  “What are you, a cat? You shouldn’t be sneaking up on people like that.” My voice shook and I played it off like a joke, but my friend had seriously startled me.

  Andy had a bucket of ice shavings in his hand and set it down on the ground. “Sounds like the guys really need to pick up their socks.”

  I shook my head. “This arena has ears, doesn’t it? Did everyone hear that Wellington is about to fire me?”

  Andy’s head jerked back slightly.

  “Sorry, Andy.” I sighed. “I’m a little on edge.”

  “I can see that.” Andy stepped past me and took a seat so we were both staring out at the scarred ice surface. “They’re not going to fire you.” Andy rubbed his work gloves together.

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “Have you seen the stats?”

  “When was the last time you got out and had any fun?” Andy asked. He turned his gaze from center ice to me.

  “Ugh,” I groaned. “Not this again.”

  Like me, Andy had more than a few veneers and when he grinned he looked like a young Kurt Russell. “Come on, Dean. It’s fun.”

  Andy had been trying to get me to join his team. The Laketown Browns. The number one team in the -- I shuddered as the words went through my mind -- Old-Timer League. For a player who had been drafted to the National League and was on his way to the Olympics, putting on a brown jersey and skating with the local dentists and car salesmen felt like rock bottom. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  “I’m sure it’s fun, but ever since Kira left, I don’t have time for fun.” That was the truth. When I wasn’t working, I was picking up or dropping Chloe off at school, or figure skating, or helping her with her homework. Being a single dad was a great reason why I couldn’t swallow my pride and lace up with the huff and puff league.

  “How is Chloe?” Andy asked.

  I closed my clipboard. “For a kid whose mom picked up and moved to a new continent six months ago, she’s doing really well I mean, almost too well. I worry about her.”

  Andy nodded. “Is she still skating?”

  I pulled up my sleeve to check my watch. “She is. As a matter of fact, she’s there for another hour.” Unlike McManus Place, the Fitzgerald Rink allowed figure skaters to practice on its ice and the award-winning program had been a lifesaver. Luckily, Chloe loved it. The figure skating program was grueling, three hours of practice a night, three nights a week, plus every Sunday morning, but it meant that my daughter was getting top-notch skating instruction that doubled as babysitting. The best money I had ever spent.

  “An hour?” Andy asked.

  I nodded.

  “Wait here.” He grabbed the bucket of ice shavings and disappeared into the cavernous belly of McManus Place. I stretched my arms above my head and placed my hand on my knee as I stood up. Ever since the surgery, my knee gave me problems when I kept in one position for too long.

  Andy returned, holding his skates in his hand, his stick over his shoulder. He kicked off his work boots and laced up his skates. “Come on.” He smacked my arm and the door to the ice clanged as he leapt onto the ice. In three strides, he was at the faceoff circle. He banged his stick on the ice. “I need a puck,” he shouted.

  The last thing I wanted to do was get back on the ice.

  “Come on, old man,” Andy shouted.

  He knew how to push my buttons. I grabbed my stick and a puck and joined him on the ice. “You’re older than I am,” I laughed and passed him the puck.

  “Age is just a number.” Andy caught the puck like it was a Faberge egg, toggled it back and forth between the heel and toe of his stick, and then skated off like a rocket. Andy’s wavy surfer hair flowed out behind him as he barreled towards me. Andy’s hockey hair could rival Leo the Lion’s mane. He leaned back heavily onto the heels of his skates and carved a small arc around me. Then, the man in blue work pants and matching shirt with his name embroidered on the chest skated faster and harder than any of my players and launched the puck into the empty net.

  Andy stopped, plucked the puck from the back with his stick, and as he skated toward me, brushed off the shoulders of his shirt with his glove. “Let’s see the Coach do that.” He passed the puck to me.

  At least, I thought he was going to pass the puck to me. He faked the pass and circled me again.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” I shouted and all the muscles in my legs fired as I chased Andy as fast as I could. He was light and fast, but I had more power, and like a train, once I was up to speed, there was no stopping me. I edged him aside with my elbow, snatched the puck from his stick, and doubled my speed as I arced behind the net.

  This is what a breakaway felt like, and just like that, I was transported back in time. The crowd roared as I left the opposition’s players behind. I could see the fear in the goalie’s eyes as he shuffled from side to side, trying to read my mind. If he’d studied the game tapes, he’d know I always went top shelf. And as I barreled down the ice, I could see him preparing to deflect a high shot. I faked and then slid it in right beside him.

  “Wooohooooo!” Andy shoved his arm through the hole in the plexiglass and pushed the game siren button. I retrieved the puck from the net. The red light flashed and with an empty rink, the siren was ear-splitting.

  “Nice shooting, Tex.” Andy skated up to me, ready to high five.

  I raised my hand and instead of high-fiving him, I gave him a light body check. He stumbled but stayed on his skates. We repeated the drill, but this time I was smiling the entire time.

  After about thirty minutes of hard skating, I was spent and so was Andy. He looked up at the time clock. “McManus is coming in with some friends. I should get working on the ice.” He pointed to the surface, which at this point, didn’t have one inch that hadn’t been slashed by our blades. This time when Andy raised his hand in a high five, I met it.

  “Thanks, man, I needed that.”

  Andy smiled. “You’re welcome. Any time.” He skated to the end of the ice and I watched as he disappeared alongside the Zamboni. Andy was one of the best guys that I knew. Sometimes I wondered if he was putting on a show. There was no way someone could be that content with his life. I mean, he drove the Zamboni, lived alone, and was almost forty years old. What good could possibly be in his life? How could he be that happy all the time?

  Stepping out of McManus Place, I was met with ankle-deep snow. Flakes the size of quarters were falling heavily in the streetlights. By the time I reached The Fitzgerald arena, I was breaking trail with the Jeep and the bumper was plowing snow. I had hoped to get to Chloe’s practice to see her free skate, and the best part of her lessons, the jumps and spins, but what typically took fifteen minutes had taken me thirty. Chloe was standing behind the glass doors waiting when I arrived.

  She beamed when I pulled up in front of the doors, waved to her friends, and then trundled out to the Jeep, dragging her wheeled skate bag behind her. I met her halfway and grunted as I picked up her bag. “What have you got in here? Rocks?”

  “Actually, yeah, I do.” She laughed. “Veronica gave me some amethyst.”

  Veronica was Chloe’s skating coach, an old friend of mine – and in my opinion, the best in the business. One of her star students was Jessie Moss, who now skated on the U.S. Team and was gunning for a spot in the next Olympics.

  “An amethyst?”

  “Yeah, it’s good luck.”

  “Hop in, kiddo.” I opened the back door and put her skate bag in the back seat.

  Butternut Street looked like a winter wonderland. Tree branches hung heavy with snow and the electrical wires looked like fuzzy white pipe cleaners.

  A new start.

  Five

  Amber

  Sixteen. That’s how I felt when I woke up, the nerves jittering in my stomach like I’d eaten some bad leftovers. The first day of work felt like the first day at a new school. I switched off my alarm and blinked into the darkness. Seven-thirty looked a lot different in Florida, here in Laketown it felt like the middle of the night.

  I slipped into one of my new wool dresses and contorted myself to pull up the gold zipper that ran up the dress, shivering as the cold metal rested against my bare back. Pantyhose felt foreign on my legs, but I assumed that bare legs in the winter weren’t going to work in my new hometown.

  Town. I corrected myself and wondered if this dark cold place would ever feel like home.

  The interior design firm in Laketown held flexible hours, but I wanted to show up before nine on the first day. To say I was excited was an understatement. In my online interview, my soon-to-be new boss, Melissa asked why I wanted to work in Laketown. The answer was easy, cottage design. I was tired of tropical prints and longed for plaid, faux fur, and stone hearths with crackling fireplaces.

  After finishing my bowl of steel-cut oats, I pulled on a pair of gorgeous brown suede gloves with a fringe, slipped into a pair of leather boots, opting for flats rather than a stiletto heel. I wasn’t sure how formal Mel. D. Cottage Designs was, but I had the feeling that sky-high heels might be pushing the envelope.

  The garage door whirred open and a blast of cold air assaulted my face. I gasped as the air instantly froze the inside of my nose. “Oh, my god.” I stepped back inside, clamped my hands over my nose and mouth, and then draped a gorgeous gold silk scarf around my neck and hurried to the car. It had snowed overnight – a lot. As I put the car into reverse, its lights shone on a huge drift that had spilled into the garage.

  With the car in reverse, I took a deep breath and pressed on the gas pedal with a very cold foot. The snow made a dull crunching sound under the tires and as I eased out of the light of the garage, the backup camera went dark.

  Halfway down my short driveway, my backward momentum started to slow. I pressed on the accelerator, the engine revved, and the car rocked slightly, but wouldn’t budge. “Dammit.” I hissed to myself. I unbuckled the seatbelt and had to push the door with all my might to open it, the bottom edge leaving a crescent mark as it plowed through the snow. “Shit, shit, shit. This was not good.”

  My boots sank to the tops into the snow as I eased myself out of the car. I cringed as I felt the snow melting down my calves, soaking the feet of my pantyhose. I made my way to the back of the rental car, lifting my feet like a marching soldier above the snow instead of shuffling through it. The bumper of the car had made a giant wall of snow that was now stopping it from going any further.

  At Dean’s house, the porch light was on and in its light, I could see tire tracks leaving the driveway. How could it have snowed this much overnight? I retraced my steps, gingerly dipping my boot into the deep holes I’d previously made until I was sitting back in the driver’s seat. I tried to reverse once more, but the tires just spun. I hung my head briefly and then put the car in drive, clenching my eyes shut as I stepped on the gas, and breathed a sigh of relief when the car easily traveled back into the garage.