Beau rolls it once, slow and deliberate.
“Sore. But manageable.”
Coach still doesn't look particularly impressed with any of this.
“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement,” he comments.
“No,” Beau agrees. “But standing still won’t help it either.”
There’s a long beat where I can see Coach weighing it: the season, the body, the man.
Finally, he exhales through his nose.
“Fine,” he says. “Light skate only. You feel a twinge, you’re off. No heroics.”
Beau nods once. “Understood.”
Coach points a finger at him anyway.
“And if I find out you ignored what she told you—”
“I won’t,” Beau says.
Coach studies him another second, then skates away. He turns to face all of us, his eyes narrowing as annoyance dances over his features.
“That's enough flirting with the atmosphere,” he barks. “Line drills. Now.”
“We weren’tflirting,” Dylan protests.
“Watch it, Madsen 2.0.”
“Hey! I’m Madsen 1.0!” I yell.
“Yeah, well: makes no difference, really. Not when you’re all disappointments,” he chirps back, though there's no real bite in his tone. “Come on. Get your asses in gear.”
We form up.
Skate.
Stop.
Pivot.
Sprint.
Sharp edges and powerhouse strides with lungs burning. Pain jabs through my ribs in sync with each breath, but Emery’s voice echoes in my mind, encouraging me to breathe deep.
I push harder, refusing to give anything less than one hundred percent.
Behind me, Marco groans.
“I think my spleen just detached.”
“That’s a you problem,” Dylan yells.
“You’rea you problem,” Marco fires back.
“I hate you both,” Theo mutters.
