Last Chance Christmas by Joanne Rock Page A

miniature. Shea suspected he could have been done in half the time, but he’d seemed glad to be on the ice even if he didn’t have skates on. By today, the surface was great. Not as perfect as in indoor rink for sure, but with the quality control of the refrigeration coils hooked up to the chiller, the ice was the best she’d ever seen for an outdoor venue. Far better than it had been in her teen years when the weather and usage all took a big toll.
    The upgrades J.C. had made were first class. And very, very generous. Because while NHL players, especially the elite ones, commanded big salaries, they didn’t make as much as many other professional athletes. J.C.’s home, while beautiful, wasn’t flashy. And she’d bet what he invested in this rink rivaled what he’d spent on the Jeep he drove. Or close to it, anyhow.
    “You realize you’re going to have an advantage over your friends,” J.C. warned Riley as he checked the tightness of the belt on his one leg.
    Seven of Riley’s friends and a handful of their parents were there for an informal sled hockey game. The parents seemed as excited as the kids, chattering and sharing breakfast sandwiches from an insulated bag someone had brought. The temperature hovered around twenty degrees Fahrenheit, but the late morning sky was bright blue.
    “For once.” Riley—a blonde-haired, freckle faced kid with an easy demeanor—grinned and gave his dad a fist bump. “They’re all used to relying on their legs.”
    “Right.” J.C. opened the board to let him out on the ice. “So the game might not be as fast as you’d like while they try to get coordinated. But if you still have juice in your arms later, I’ll get on one of them and see if I can keep up.”
    “Cool!” Riley already had his modified sticks in his hands. They worked like ski poles with metal picks at the end to propel the player around the ice, but they were also used for shooting and handling the puck. “Shea, you can play too.”
    “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on the ice.” She had reached her surgeon’s quota for time on crutches, so she’d moved into the walking boot the day before. But she definitely didn’t want to push her progress.
    Her father had never acknowledged injuries back when she’d played, insisting “mental toughness” was part of the game. She wondered what Dad would think of J.C.’s enforced time off for the concussion.
    “Coach Walker says you were a legend,” one of the other boys chimed in, the smirk on his mug suggesting he wasn’t quite sure how a girl could have earned the distinction.
    Then again, maybe she was still defensive all these years later.
    “Think about how good you’d be at hockey if Coach Walker was your dad and you practically lived at the rink since you were old enough to walk.” That had been her life until she was old enough to make her big break to New York. “By the time I was seven, I had a better shot than all the peewee boys. Except for J.C.”
    She winked at him over the kids’ heads as the boys shoved their way through the one open board to try out their sleds and poles. Parents began filling in the small metal bleachers behind her to watch the players.
    “She’s being modest,” J.C. called over the ice before the kids could disperse. “I might have had a harder slap shot, but her wrist shot was deadly. You guys are going to see how much you rely on your natural athleticism out there today with not having the use of your legs. And it will make you appreciate how far some skill will take you. There aren’t any shortcuts to practice.”
    Shea didn’t know if the ten-year-old set heard him, but she sure did. Now, as she hung back to let J.C. speak with a few of the parents who had questions or comments about the sled hockey rules, she recalled how supportive he’d always been of her as a player. She didn’t think much about that time in her life when she’d done everything in her power to earn her dad’s