"Goddamn it, Slater!" Coach Hopper's roar drowns out the boards banging. "Square the hell up! That's Westbrook—he's gonna pull that cute shit in games!"
Slater slams his stick against the post, frustrated. Yates, the goalie coach, is already waving him over. "You're dropping too early! Eyes on his blade, not his body. He sells you every time—quit biting!"
I circle back to the line, grinning under my mouthguard. Coach's still seething at the second line. "Pressure the puck! Don't stand there admiring his goddamn stickhandling—close the gap, hit him, make him earn the ice!"
We keep grinding another half hour. Coach's whistle shrieking, his voice booming, every shift like he's squeezing the last ounce of air out of us. By the time he finally blows it long and sharp, the whole squad looks like we've been through a war zone.
Guys are bent over their sticks, gasping. Several of them are wobbling like baby deer, barely keeping upright. Jerseysare glued to our pads with sweat, helmets tipped back, mouths hanging open like we're fish suffocating on land.
Nobody says it, but we all know the truth: tonight's gonna be one giant team field trip to the ice bath, or half of us won't walk tomorrow.
We drag ourselves off the ice, through the tunnel, blades clacking on concrete. The locker room door swings open, and it's like the collective weight hits all at once. Guys collapse onto benches, dropping gloves, sticks clattering to the floor.
A chorus of groans fills the room—low, guttural, like an orchestra of misery. A couple rookies are flat-out sprawled on the floor, chest heaving like they just got bag-skated into the afterlife.
"That was murder," Cody mutters, peeling his jersey off like it's fused to his body.
"Brutal," Liam agrees, slumping forward with his head in his hands.
Even us seniors look wrecked—guys slumped over, grunting, peeling at their gear like it weighs fifty pounds. We're supposed to be used to this crap by now, but coach pushed us past whatever our limit was an hour ago.
The rookies? Forget it. They're toast. It's like coach decided freshman year hazing was his personal side hustle this season.
Pete slumps onto the bench, ripping at his helmet. "Christ... I can't feel my legs."
Gage drops onto the floor, sprawled out. "Pretty sure mine quit on me twenty minutes ago."
A couple guys laugh through their own gasps.
"Is it always like this?" Pete asks.
Cody leans against his locker, nodding, grin plastered on his sweaty face. "Welcome to Ridgewater hockey, rookies. You survive Hopper, you survive anything."
"Not sure I wanna survive," Pete mutters. "Might be easier if he just killed us."
Even I can't help but laugh, pulling off my gloves and flexing my cramping fingers. My lungs still burn, sweat dripping down my back. Coach Hopper doesn't dotune-ups. He does full-on exorcisms.
Elijah moves through the room, still looking like he could go another period if asked, clapping shoulders as he passes. He stops by Pete and Gage, both of them half-dead, and gives them each a thump hard enough to nearly knock them sideways.
"You boys did damn good today," he says, grinning wide. "Yeah, Coach went full psycho mode out there — looked like a rabid gorilla with a whistle — but that's the point."
A couple guys snort through their exhaustion.
Elijah sweeps his gaze around the room, voice climbing. "You think Lakeview State's gonna tiptoe around us Friday? Hell no. They're coming out swinging, and Hopper just made sure we're ready to swing harder."
He points toward the rookies on the floor, then sweeps the whole room.
"Your legs are on fire? Good. Your lungs feel like they're bleeding? Even better. That means you've already gone where they haven't. And when we hit the ice Friday night, we're not just playing them — we're gonna beat the piss out of them."
The room stirs, tired laughter mixing with a few stick taps.
Elijah's grin widens, voice booming now. "They won't know what hit 'em. We're not stepping into a game, boys. We're stepping in to take the whole damn thing."
The place pops off — sticks banging, guys hollering through raw throats, even the rookies dragging themselves upright to fist-pump.
I can't help but grin too. That's why he's captain. Elijah doesn't just play like a beast — he makes you believe you're one too.
From the corner, Reese mutters under his breath, still peeling tape off his shin pads. "What'd do us some real good right now is a cold beer. Or three."
