“Atlas, watch your gap on entries,” West calls as we reset a drill.“You’re clean in the zone, but sometimes you’re backing in too early at the line.Trust your feet.”
“Yeah, Coach,” I say, the words a puff of white.
After drills, we scrimmage—twenty minutes of hard play designed to mimic the Detroit Cardinals’ style, who is our opponent in round two.Halfway through, West stops everything with a whistle that could slice down to the bone.We huddle at the bench where he has a large whiteboard.The marker squeaks as he roughs out the play.“They love the high tip.Don’t let them inside you.And if you get pulled wide, communicate.I need you three talking.”He stabs the board.“You have to trust each other.”
We run it again.
And again.
And again.
I feed North a clean pass that he buries in the back of the net and Coach’s voice bends around us.“There we go.”
He doesn’t hand out praise like candy.That “There we go” is a steak dinner.
Just when I don’t think I can go anymore, West calls for us to bag-skate for the last five minutes.I fucking hate ’em but there’s no better way to condition your lungs for the marathon of playoff hockey.
Down and back.Down and back.The accumulation is the point, not the single rep.My legs feel like concrete blocks by the end, my lungs like I swallowed razors.
Final whistle.“Cool down and stretch.Film review in twenty.”
As I glide to the bench, I pull off my helmet and run my fingers through my soaked hair.The sting of cold air is like needles on my scalp, but it feels good.
For ninety minutes, I didn’t think about anything except hockey.I didn’t think of Grayce’s laugh or the taste of Maddie on my tongue last night.Certainly not the space she left in my bed when she slipped out.
Ran away, really.
Now those things leak in, forcing me to shut the valve as far as it’ll go.I’ve got other things to focus on right now.
The entire team is efficient as we use the short break to stretch as Coach suggested, changing into sweats and T-shirts.I’m on my second large bottle of water by the time I hit the team meeting room where our video coaches have multiple clips of the Detroit Cardinals that we’re going to study.
Coach West manages the playback, stopping when necessary to provide color commentary.“Watch Kreshnov right here—he lives off pulling the weak-side D into puck-watching.Don’t be that guy.Scan, shoulder check, communicate.If you lose him for a second, he’ll burn you.”
It’s a lot and we all jot on our notepads and when our brains are near bursting, we’re released.Memories of last night with Maddie threaten to creep in, but I banish them once again.
I’m still in work mode and the last thing on my agenda is to get my hip worked on, the lingering effects of an old injury.I don’t bother with the hot tub but head straight to the training room, which smells like antiseptic and the underlying funk of guys who basically sweat for a living.
I lie on my side while Stoltz, our head trainer, sets sticky stim pads along the outside of my hip and flips the unit on.The muscles twitch under the current, a controlled, crawling thrum.He digs his elbow into a knot and I grunt.
“Breathe, big man,” he says without sympathy.
“Was breathing,” I lie.
On the next table, Lucky sprawls on his back, one arm flopped off the side, a trainer scraping along his shoulder with a steel tool that makes a zipper noise against skin.His head rolls on the table and he grins.“Don’t you just love spa day?”
“Your spa sounds like a war crime,” I say.“You crying or sweating?”
“Both.It’s playoff chic.”He winces as the tool hits a spot and then wags his brows.“You looked mean out there.”
“Back at you.”
Stoltz taps my arm.“We’ll let this run for fifteen minutes.I’ll be back then, so just relax.”
“Got it,” I reply and stare at the ceiling.
Squares.Vents.The little water stain shaped like Pennsylvania.Somewhere, a dryer thunks—the equipment room turning today’s sweat into tomorrow’s clean clothes.
Lucky cranes his head toward me.“So.You going to tell me why you glowered at your phone for five minutes before practice, or am I going to have to hack your cloud?”
