Sincerely, The Puck Bunny （Totally Pucked #2）
Maren Moore
One
Then
Second chances are rarely ever easy. Take it from me, a guy who’s done more than his share of fucking up the last few years. Truth be told, I’ve lost track of what chance I’m on, and this time, I’m giving it all I’ve got. While that might not be admittedly much, I’m trying.
I hear that’s what matters.
From the team appointed shrink that is, but I figure if I have to sit there for a mandatory hour of listening to him talk, I should take something from it. Besides the headache when I leave.
After all, the shrink is what put me here, coaching youth hockey, in the first place.
“When you’re holding your stick, get a firm grip on the shaft of the stick. Do what feels comfortable, but you want to be able to keep it close, so you still have enough room to maneuver it how you need to, even when battling a guy for the puck.”
A dozen helmet-clad eight year olds’ nod at my instructions.
“Alright, let’s do some puck practice. Ten minutes. I want you to get familiar with your stick and the puck before we really start moving on the ice.”
I blow the ridiculously loud whistle, and the kids disperse to their spots on the ice to practice the drill.
There are a lot of things I’m good at. Like pissing my coach off in two seconds’ flat. Generally, that requires at least one of the following things: whiskey, a puck bunny, or a camera. Sometimes fighting, sometimes spending the night in a jail cell until I’m sober enough to walk out on my own.
I never said any of the things I was good at were good things. Most of the time, they’re not. But, if there’s one rewarding thing in my life, besides playing professional hockey for the Avalanches, it’s this. Coaching the Mighty Pucks. The youth hockey team for underprivileged kids that my team sponsors. What started as a punishment for my behavior and the only way to keep my spot on the team, turned into one of the only things I look forward to when waking up in the mornings. It gives me a purpose. A way to repent for everything that I have fucked up.
Then I realized how much these kids need me, and nothing comes close to the feeling of pride, watching something I’ve taught them, clicking in their eyes and seeing it unfold on the ice. If anything, though, I’m the one who needs them. They taught me patience and understanding. They showed me what really matters in life. Funny how quickly things can change.
“Hey Coach Wilson, like this?” Nolan Alfred asks, showing me how he maneuvers the puck in a circle around him.
“Perfect. Keep practicing, just like that. You should be able to do it with your eyes closed.”
He scrunches his nose and tries to close his eyes to skate in a circle, and then loses his footing and falls hard onto the ice. It won’t be the last fall he has, and definitely not the worst, but each time you fall… you learn from it. Which way to not hit the puck, which way to avoid the defense trying to steal it from right underneath your nose. I can sit here all day and teach someone how to hit a puck into a net, but what I’m teaching these kids goes beyond that.
Most of these kids come from a less-than-ideal home situation. Whether they’re in foster care, group homes, or with relatives who’ve taken them in. Some of their parents are junkies, some are in jail, some are dead. You can see it in their eyes that being here, having the opportunity to play hockey, it’s the highlight of their day. When I pulled my head out of my ass and stopped being such a selfish fuck, I realized that I was the lucky one to be able to come here and teach them. It’s my way of repenting for the things I’ve done.
Of all the shit I’ve been through in the past few years, of all the times that I thought I hit rock bottom, only to fall further, and of all the people who tried to save me from it, it took a bunch of kids to make me see the light of day. Go figure.
My phone begins vibrating in the pocket of my sweats, over and over, causing my head to begin pounding in sync with the incessant buzzing. There’s only one person who calls a minimum of ten times if I don’t pick up.
Mom.
I pull it from my pocket and reject the call, then switch it from vibrate to silent. I can’t deal with her, not right now. It’s been over a week since I’ve answered her calls because my heads fucked up, and when I’m in this headspace, the less I have to deal with my family, the better.
I push it out of my head and focus on the kids. They’re eager and willing to learn this season, which makes practice fly by at a faster than normal pace, and before I know it, it’s time to leave.
“Alright guys, see you here on Wednesday. Practice at home if you have free time, make sure to work on skating backwards, and what’s the number one rule?” I ask the crowd.
“Don’t be afraid of the ice,” they chant in unison.
“Good, have a good night.”
As they start to pack up, I keep an eye on all of the kids. Some are new this year, and I don’t know much about them. Except what their info sheet says. Then, some are repeat kids from last year and with me for another year before they move up in the league.
Soon, everyone’s gone but one kid. I noticed him when he first walked into practice today. Quiet, and probably the smallest kid on the team. Didn’t have much to say to anyone but followed every direction I gave him. It’s obvious this isn’t his first time playing hockey, but I haven’t had the chance to spend any one-on-one time with him yet.
Jake is his name.
I watch as he shoots the puck over and over into the empty net. His unkempt, shaggy black hair falls into his eyes. I noticed most of practice he was pushing it from his face, and when his helmet was on, it was almost covering his eyes. When I skate to him, he looks up at me with bright, striking green eyes that seem to go with the smattering of mismatched freckles along his nose.
“Your slap shot’s good,” I tell him.
He nods, his gaze connecting with mine for a moment before he diverts it back to the net. “I’ve been practicing for a long time. Kids pick on me. Say I’m too small to have a powerful shot.”
Kids are fucking brutal. I remember those days. I was a small kid, and it took a lot of practice and hard work before anyone took me seriously.
“Nah, not true. I know plenty of guys who aren’t built like a brick shithouse and have powerful slap shots.”
Jake looks at me with wide eyes, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes again. He quickly pushes it out of his face to watch me.
“It’s not just about your size, it’s about technique. The trick is to keep practicing. Every day, do a hundred shots back-to-back in the net. But do it with the opposite hand. You left-handed?”
He nods, so I take the stick and put it in his right hand.
“Do it with your right hand. Your body has muscle memory, and your muscles are used to you shooting with the left. You practice with your right hand, a hundred shots a day, then you’ll get that permanent muscle memory. It’s all about repetition. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t; prove ‘em wrong. Show them that you can.”
Using my stick, I shoot with the opposite hand, and the puck hits the net so fast Jake’s eyes can hardly watch as it flies.
“Holy shit,” he whispers in awe.