These were the drills that demanded perfection—and I didn’t know how to give anything less.
Then came the forecheck systems—two forwards deep, pressure in waves.
I sprinted in on the puck carrier like I meant to rip the stick from his hands. Kellen laughed when I shouldered him off balance, but I didn’t let up.
Puck control was about violence and grace—hit hard, take the puck, move like a ghost. I fed it out to Asher, who whipped it to the point before taking off again. Fast, clean, ruthless. Just how I liked it.
Bennett shouted praise to the group but didn’t name names. He never did. You knew when you’d done it right. You knew by the nod he gave you, the barely-there smile, the lack of criticism. That was the goal—to fly under the radar because you didn’t need correction. I aimed for that every practice.
I couldn’t afford to be sloppy.
Not in front of the team.
Not in front of her.
Next up were neutral zone transitions. Quick regrouping, hard pivots, full-speed stretch passes. It was the kind of drill that punished you for hesitation.
One wrong read and you left your linemate stranded or opened a lane for the other team.
I stayed sharp.
Head up, stick down, always moving.
I wasn’t the fastest guy out there, but I read the ice like it was a second language burned into my bones.
By the time we hit line rushes, sweat slicked my back and my lungs burned in the best way.
We rotated through formations, attacking with speed, cutting through imaginary defense.
Each rush ended with a shot, and mine was always low-glove—accurate, fast, deliberate.
I didn’t celebrate.
I skated back to the line, caught my breath, and locked in for the next round. This was what I did. This was who I was.
And yet, as I skated back into formation, I caught myself glancing up again—just once. Just enough to see if she was still watching.
Practice wound down with a final whistle from Barrett, sharp and absolute. We circled in again, slower this time, breathing heavy, steam rising off our shoulders like smoke off a battlefield.
Coach stood at the edge of the bench, arms crossed over his chest, clipboard tucked under one arm like it had seen more war than any of us. He scanned us for a beat before speaking—never rushed, always weighing every word like it might stick in our ribs.
“You moved better today,” he said, voice gravel-low and calm. “But you’re still giving too much space in the neutral zone. Toronto’s transition game will eat you alive if you give them time to breathe.” He pointed his pen at a few of us—me, Asher, Wyatt. “Backcheck harder. Stay tight on the gap. No more drifting.”
Kakashi Harada, our assistant coach, chimed in then—quiet, but not soft. “Watch their left wing. Fast skater, likes to pull the defense out with wide curls before cutting inside. Don’t chase him. Angle him out, force the pass.” His voice had the kind of weight that came from years on the ice, subtle but exact. He didn’t talk a lot, but when he did, you listened. “And their goalie bites on fakes. One extra move can open him up.”
Barrett gave a final nod. “Stay smart. Stay disciplined. You’re the better team—if you remember to play like it.”
He didn’t wait for cheers or fist bumps. Just turned and walked off like he always did, leaving his expectations hanging in the air behind him like fog.
We knew the drill. The hard work wasn’t in the game—it was right here, in the hours no one saw.
The sound of skates clicking against concrete echoed through the tunnel as we made our way back to the locker room, jerseys clinging to sweat-slicked skin, breath still ragged from the final drills.
The boys were chirping again—Asher claiming he’d skated faster than Weston, Jared threatening to retire if he didn’t get power play time next game.
It was all noise in the background as I pulled off my gloves and unfastened my helmet, mind already shifting toward the next 48 hours.
Steam billowed around me in the showers, hot water pounding against sore muscles. I leaned into the tile wall, letting it soak into me. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion.
