Jake shoved me toward the tunnel. "Go hit something. You've got hours to kill. Might as well burn some energy."
The cold bit my face as I stepped onto fresh ice, white and perfect except for the scratches from the Zamboni's last pass. The overhead lights buzzed and flickered. Two were out completely, leaving dark patches near the away team bench.
Home. This place was home, even when the heating was busted, the showers barely worked, and half the ceiling tiles were loose.
Coach stood at center ice, arms crossed, whistle hanging from his neck. "Pair up. Passing drills. And if anyone's skating lazy because they spent New Year's drinking instead of sleeping, you'll be running suicides until February."
Someone snickered.
Jake skated over. "Four hours and forty-five minutes. Clock's ticking, Cinderella."
He fired a pass that I barely caught. "You gonna make it through practice without keeling over from anxiety?"
"I'm fine."
"Your stick's shaking."
I looked down. He was right. My hands were trembling just enough to make the tape shimmer under the fluorescent lights.
"That's from the cold."
"Sure it is."
We ran through basic patterns—nothing complicated, finding rhythm after the break. My body moved on autopilot: receive, control, pass. The puck felt right on my tape, solid and predictable.
I kept checking the clock.
"You looked at the scoreboard four times in the last drill," Evan observed, gliding past. "That's twice your normal rate."
"I'm aware of the time."
"You're hyperaware. There's a difference." He stopped, studying me. "Are you going to make it to 2 PM, or should I tell Coach you have food poisoning?"
"I'm not faking food poisoning."
"It's an option."
We moved into contact drills, and I threw myself into every board battle. MacLaren bounced off the glass with a glare. Desrosiers ate a hard shoulder—sticky, not stupid.
"Fuck, Hog!" MacLaren picked himself up. "It's just practice!"
Coach yelled, "Hawkins! Dial it back or sit!"
I raised a glove in acknowledgment, skating back to the line. My shoulder ached. Good. Physical pain was simple. Manageable. Didn't require figuring out what to say when Rhett asked why I was nervous or what I did besides hockey.
10:38. Practice was barely half over.
"Corners drill!" Coach barked. "Hawkins, Desrosiers—you're up first!"
We lined up across from each other, both of us bent low, sticks ready. Coach held the puck like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
He dropped it.
We crashed together—shoulders, sticks, the crunch of skates fighting for position. Desrosiers got an elbow into my ribs. Idrove my shoulder under his and shoved him into the boards hard enough that the impact echoed through the Barn.
I swept the puck free.
"Good! Again!" We reset. Crashed again.
