Beside me, Gerard’s shoulders hunch forward, his chin tucking down toward his chest protector as his entire body seems to fold in on itself.
“So today, we’re going back to basics. And by basics, I mean I’m going to work you until you either improve or collapse. Any questions?”
Nobody says a word. We might be cocky men, but we’re not stupid.
“Good.” Coach’s smile is lethal. “Let’s begin.”
He blows his whistle, and I have to fight every instinct in my body not to imagine those lips wrapped around something else.
The first drill is suicides, skating from the goal line to the blue line and back, then to center ice and back, then to the far blue line and back, then the full length of the rink and back. Over and over until my lungs feel like they’re filled with glass shards.
“Gunnarson!” Coach bellows after the third set. “My grandmother skates faster than that, and she’s been dead for fifteen years!”
Gerard pushes harder, those massive thighs pumping as he races across the ice. His face is already flushed red beneath his helmet, and I catch the telltale shine in his eyes that suggests tears are imminent.
“Again!” Coach demands when Gerard finishes. “Just you. Everyone else, watch and learn what not to do.”
Gerard takes off alone while we catch our breath. I glance over at Oliver, who shakes his head subtly.Don’t intervene. We all know the rules.
By the fifth solo suicide, Gerard’s shoulders are shaking. I frown. The golden retriever is breaking, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.
“Better,” Coach finally says, though his tone suggests it’s anything but. “Get back in line.”
Gerard skates over, and I bump my shoulder against his. He sniffs once, hard, and straightens up.That’s my boy.
“Alright, power play drills!” Coach announces. “Graham, get in the net. Everyone else, you’re going to pepper him until he learns to stop a puck or dies trying.”
Kyle skates to the crease with the resignation of a man walking to his execution. He knows what’s coming. We all do.
The first puck catches him in the shoulder. The second one deflects off his blocker. The third one—a nasty wrister from Oliver—hits him square in the mask with a sound that makes me wince.
“Keep shooting!” Coach orders. “Graham, you’ve got cement in your skates or what?”
Puck after puck rains down on Kyle. One clips his thigh. Another finds the gap between his chest protector and arm pad. I watch him absorb hit after hit, and I feel each one in my own body. His collarbone. His hip. That soft spot on the inner thigh that no amount of padding truly protects.
“Larney! Stop daydreaming and shoot!”
I fire off a wrist shot that Kyle barely gets a glove on. It ricochets off his catching mitt and into the net.
“Pathetic!” Coach roars. I’m not sure if he’s talking to Kyle or me. Probably both.
“Come on, boys!” Oliver calls out, his voice straining to maintain its usual optimism. “We’ve got this! Channel that energy!”
But even Oliver’s encouragement sounds hollow by the second hour. His cheers become less frequent, his voice more ragged. When Nathan trips over his own stick and face-plants into the boards, Oliver’s attempt at a joke falls flat.
Gerard gets singled out again during the passing drills. His passes are fine—better than fine, actually—but Coach finds fault in everything. The angle. The speed. The way Gerard holds his stick.
“You call that a pass, Gunnarson? My dead grandmother could?—”
“You already used that one,” Kyle mutters from the net, and I hold my breath.
Coach’s head swivels toward Kyle with predatory precision. “What was that, Graham?”
“Nothing, Coach.”
“That’s what I thought.” He turns back to Gerard. “Again. And this time, pretend you actually want to be here.”
The tears are back in Gerard’s eyes. He blinks rapidly, jaw clenched so tight I’m worried about his molars. But he lines up the pass and executes it perfectly.
