And like that, I’m dismissed. I push off hard, cutting back into the rink, anger burning clean and sharp in my chest.
One time around the rink, then two, and then three, and I am not feeling any less angry, so I slide to a stop in front of her. “Don’t pretend you know a damn thing about me.”
“Back at you,” she steps away, saying, “Asshole,” and her foot catches the ice, and both go out from under her.
I want to let her bust her little ass, but right before she hits the ice, I catch her. “For someone who thinks they know everything, you clearly can’t see right in front of your too-perfect face.”
“Everything good?” Dash asks as he skates up with Noelle, who is squealing, eyes closed, right in front of him.
“I told you I don’t know how to skate!” She answers, thinking he’s asking her the question.
He pulls her closer as they come to a stop, chuckling, “You and your girl Sofie both need lessons.”
I get an elbow to the stomach, and only then do I realize I’m still holding her up.
I let go and watch as she steps off the ice.
She turns and squares her shoulders, “I broke my ankle the last time I skated. I’ll stick to boots.”
“Well, let’s hope one day you can stay upright on those,” I say before taking off.
The Puck Pad is dark except for the glow of the TV and the rink lights bleeding through the glass.
Montreal is on. We play them tomorrow.
Paul’s got the volume set just right, loud enough to catch edges on ice, the snap of a pass, the sound of a bad decision before it happens. It’s the volume men use when they’rewatching, not just filling space. He’s planted in the corner chair like it’s assigned seating, feet up.
I come in soaked. Sweat still cooling on my skin, hoodie half unzipped, hair damp, breath not fully settled yet. The smell of ice and effort follows me in like it always does.
Paul doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Montreal,” he says, like a warning.
“They look slower,” I reply automatically.
“They’re not,” he says. “They just want you to think they are.”
I drop my bag by the entry bench, toe off my boots, step on the floor, and lean against the wall, eyes on the screen now. Montreal cycles clean, patient. Too patient.
Paul points with his chin. “Watch the weak-side winger. He drifts high when the puck drops low. Leaves a lane you’ll want to take.”
“I see it.”
“You’ll want to take it too early,” Paul adds. “Don’t.”
I nod once.
“They’re baiting hits,” he continues. “Defense steps up, wants you to chase contact instead of position. Let them miss you.”
A player gets clipped awkwardly along the boards. Paul winces.
“And don’t take the first shove,” he says. “They’re chirpy when they’re tired. You hit back, they get what they want, you in the box.”
I watch the replay. Memorize the number.
“They’re good at dragging you into their pace,” Paul goes on. “Which is slower than yours. You let them do that; they control the game.”
I push off the wall, head over, and sit on the couch, elbows on my knees. “So don’t get bored.”
