Hockey was always part of the plan. His plan. Elite prep school, Crestwood, then the Capitals. Not sure if it was ever my dream.
Viktor glides up beside me. “Weird, it’s just the three of us left.”
Our circle is smaller.
Incomplete.
Zach grunts from my other side. “Can't believe Reed. Fucking traitor.”
“What happened?”
Viktor smirks. “Nope. You didn’t come to Austria, so you have to wait to find out.”
Coach Nieminen's whistle blares. We gather at center ice, the entire team forming a loose circle around our coaches.
Nieminen surveys us all. “Welcome back. It might be a new season but expectations are the same. We are here to win. Not to participate, not to try our best. To fucking win. That means every practice, every drill, every moment on this ice matters. No excuses, no exceptions.”
“Walsh will be running captain practices during preseason. Miss one, and you'll wish you hadn't.” Nieminen turns to me. “Keep the antics to a minimum this year.”
I nod.
The coaches run through the schedule for the next few weeks, then practice begins. Viktor, Rinne, and our backup goalie head to the net. The rest of us run through skating and stickhandling warm-ups.
I push into a series of tight c-cuts, working the inside edges, feeling the burn in my hip flexors. The physical demand grounds me, everything else fading to background noise.
Across the ice, Henneman’s struggling. His movements are stilted, hands too tight.
Pathetic.
Most of this stuff is routine. Should be second nature.
If he keeps this up, he’s done. Then I’ll have no scholarship to hold over his head. No leverage to keep him in line.
The whistle blows and the team skates to center ice.
“Line it up for Minnesota one-on-one.” Coach Harper looks at the freshman. “Forwards are going to come up with a puck, circle back at the red line, and then attack the defenseman. The defenseman is going to come up, close the gap on him, then come back. As he’s coming back he’sgoing to stay tight with the forward, keeping the gap and playing the one-on-one fold down the end.”
“Game speed. Make it count,” Nieminen adds.
I grab a puck, not bothering to look at the freshman lined up on defense. The whistle blows, and I push hard and circle back at the red line.
The kid scrambles to close the gap. He stays too high, giving me the inside. I drop my shoulder, fake wide, then cut in hard.
He tries to keep up, but I’ve got a step and drive the net.
One move, then I roof the puck, bar down behind our backup goalie. I don’t even glance back at the kid as I skate off. Let him figure out what just happened.
I glide up to Zach, and we watch the next pair set up—Henneman’s on defense.
The forward takes off. Henneman moves to close the gap but catches an edge and nearly trips. By the time he recovers, the forward is already past him. Viktor blocks the shot.
Zach shakes his head. “Fuck’s sake. He’s a disaster.”
Henneman glides to line up again, cheeks red, not meeting anyone’s eyes. My grip tightens on my stick. Whatever the fuck he did last night instead of sleeping, it's showing.
We run through drills for another thirty minutes, then head to the bench for a water break. Viktor skates over,helmet tipped back, grin already in place. “Your husband’s struggling.”
My grip tightens around the water bottle.
