going to be to have Dad as a coach, even if it was only for a few days. I hoped it would be longer than that because he would play me to my strengths, and I had the feeling I could score some serious goals.
Bosko and me had been splitting right wing down the middle, and we had a tight partnership, but an extra minute or two on the ice wouldn’t hurt my stats a bit. Dad calling the shots would be a good opportunity for me to take over the lead.
I was already looking forward to leaving Bosko in the dust.
I towelled off, threw on my sweats and grabbed my school books before heading downstairs.
When I walked into the kitchen, Dad was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, reading yesterday’s paper.
I checked the counter for a toasted bagel or English muffin, but all I saw was a bowl of —
“Oatmeal,” Dad said, grinning like it was a good thing.
“Oh,” I said, carrying it over to the table and sitting down across from him.
“It sticks to the stomach,” he said, flipping a page.
From what I could tell when I tried to lift my spoon, it stuck to everything, including itself. “Thanks, Dad.”
“No problem.”
I shoved the first mouthful in and realized I was going to need something to wash it down. When I got up to get some milk from the fridge, I saw the time on the microwave.
“Dad, it’s quarter past.”
“Mmm,” he said, continuing to read.
“If you’re going to have a shower …”
“Right,” he said, folding the paper and drinking the last of his coffee in one gulp. “Be back in a flash.”
He was pretty quick in the shower and I had just finished loading the dishwasher when he came downstairs.
“Awesome look,” I said, happy to see him wearing his classic Nordiques jersey for practice. “Are you ready?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I just have to grab my skates.”
He opened the door to the garage, which was a very bad sign. It was so jam-packed with stuff, I couldn’t have found a
car
in there, if there’d actually been room for one.
I’d never even seen skates in there.
Ever.
“Do you know where they are?” I asked, glancing at the microwave.
Nuts.
We couldn’t be late for his very first practice!
“Yeah, I think they’re hanging by my workbench.”
There was a workbench? Hidden under what?
While Dad tried to track down the skates, I grabbed my hockey bag from the mudroom. It was so heavy I could barely lift it. As I leaned against the kitchen counter and waited for him, I wondered why Mum hadn’t made Dad get his stuff ready the night before.
I always had to.
Luckily, by the time Dad found his skates, we were only two minutes late leaving. He grabbed his keys and started for the door.
“Uh, Dad?” I asked. “Where’s my lunch?”
“Your what?” he asked, turning the knob.
“My lunch. For school.”
“I thought you were making it while I was in the shower.”
“I thought you were making it while breakfast was cooking. That’s what Mum does.”
“She does?” he asked, sighing. “Look, let’s just get you a school lunch today and —”
“Mum doesn’t like me to —”
“Does Mum have to know everything?”
I smiled. “Maybe not.” That was cool with me. Sometimes they had fries in the cafeteria, and that was way more exciting than a Mum lunch.
On the drive to the rink, it started to freak me out a bit that Dad hadn’t even known where his skates were.
How long had it been since he’d played, or even been on the ice?
I was feeling a little nervous, for both of us.
But when he started talking about strategy and how he had some ideas he thought would really help the team, I knew it didn’t matter if he hadn’t skated for a while.
He might not have mastered the morning routine at home, but it was stupid of me to worry about the rink.
When it came to hockey, my dad knew exactly what he was doing.
Chapter Three
When we got to the rink, I hustled to the locker room to get into my gear while Dad headed for the ice.
On
Bosko and me had been splitting right wing down the middle, and we had a tight partnership, but an extra minute or two on the ice wouldn’t hurt my stats a bit. Dad calling the shots would be a good opportunity for me to take over the lead.
I was already looking forward to leaving Bosko in the dust.
I towelled off, threw on my sweats and grabbed my school books before heading downstairs.
When I walked into the kitchen, Dad was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, reading yesterday’s paper.
I checked the counter for a toasted bagel or English muffin, but all I saw was a bowl of —
“Oatmeal,” Dad said, grinning like it was a good thing.
“Oh,” I said, carrying it over to the table and sitting down across from him.
“It sticks to the stomach,” he said, flipping a page.
From what I could tell when I tried to lift my spoon, it stuck to everything, including itself. “Thanks, Dad.”
“No problem.”
I shoved the first mouthful in and realized I was going to need something to wash it down. When I got up to get some milk from the fridge, I saw the time on the microwave.
“Dad, it’s quarter past.”
“Mmm,” he said, continuing to read.
“If you’re going to have a shower …”
“Right,” he said, folding the paper and drinking the last of his coffee in one gulp. “Be back in a flash.”
He was pretty quick in the shower and I had just finished loading the dishwasher when he came downstairs.
“Awesome look,” I said, happy to see him wearing his classic Nordiques jersey for practice. “Are you ready?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I just have to grab my skates.”
He opened the door to the garage, which was a very bad sign. It was so jam-packed with stuff, I couldn’t have found a
car
in there, if there’d actually been room for one.
I’d never even seen skates in there.
Ever.
“Do you know where they are?” I asked, glancing at the microwave.
Nuts.
We couldn’t be late for his very first practice!
“Yeah, I think they’re hanging by my workbench.”
There was a workbench? Hidden under what?
While Dad tried to track down the skates, I grabbed my hockey bag from the mudroom. It was so heavy I could barely lift it. As I leaned against the kitchen counter and waited for him, I wondered why Mum hadn’t made Dad get his stuff ready the night before.
I always had to.
Luckily, by the time Dad found his skates, we were only two minutes late leaving. He grabbed his keys and started for the door.
“Uh, Dad?” I asked. “Where’s my lunch?”
“Your what?” he asked, turning the knob.
“My lunch. For school.”
“I thought you were making it while I was in the shower.”
“I thought you were making it while breakfast was cooking. That’s what Mum does.”
“She does?” he asked, sighing. “Look, let’s just get you a school lunch today and —”
“Mum doesn’t like me to —”
“Does Mum have to know everything?”
I smiled. “Maybe not.” That was cool with me. Sometimes they had fries in the cafeteria, and that was way more exciting than a Mum lunch.
On the drive to the rink, it started to freak me out a bit that Dad hadn’t even known where his skates were.
How long had it been since he’d played, or even been on the ice?
I was feeling a little nervous, for both of us.
But when he started talking about strategy and how he had some ideas he thought would really help the team, I knew it didn’t matter if he hadn’t skated for a while.
He might not have mastered the morning routine at home, but it was stupid of me to worry about the rink.
When it came to hockey, my dad knew exactly what he was doing.
Chapter Three
When we got to the rink, I hustled to the locker room to get into my gear while Dad headed for the ice.
On
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