I walked out.
I didn’t look back to see if he was watching.I knew he was.
I kept my eyes on Javier’s blade—visual attachment locked-in.I didn’t look at his eyes or his shoulders; liars, both of them.I focused on the black edge feathering the puck at the near-side hash marks.
“Go!”Harper barked.
The drill was a modified Breakaway Relay.High speed, zero passing, pure isolation.
Morales drove inside, protecting the puck on his forehand.
I telescoped out to the top of the crease, cutting down his angle, challenging him to find net that wasn’t there.I stayed low, knees bent, chest up—”big in the net,” like my years of training taught me.
He opened the blade, faking a high blocker snapshot.
I held my ground—patience.
He dragged the puck across his body, trying to freeze me.I bit.I dropped into the butterfly a fraction of a second too early.
He pulled it to his backhand, trying to tuck it short-side.
Panic flared, but muscle memory took over.I pushed off my outside edge, sliding hard into the post.I slammed my skate blade against the iron and leaned my shoulder into the vertical bar—textbook RVH technique.
Thunk.
The rubber hit my leg pad right on the knee stack.The vibration rattled up my shin, but the seal held.
“Reset!”Harper yelled.She didn’t raise her voice; she never had to.One word landed like a bench-press bar on the sternum.“Carter, you’re swimming.Quiet that upper body.”
I scrambled up, my edges carving deep ruts in the blue paint.
“Again,” Harper ordered.“Morales, stop dusting it off.Shoot to score.”
Javier circled out, collected a new feed from the corner.This time he came in with speed, no dekes.He looked low, dropped his shoulder—a classic tell for a five-hole shot—but at the last second, he snapped his wrists.
The puck elevated.Backhand roof.
I reacted late.I threw my arm up, abandoning the compact box structure I was supposed to maintain.The puck clipped the cuff of my glove—sting—and skittered into the corner.
Not pretty.Still alive.But technically garbage.
The whistle blew long.Harper skated toward me, her edges whispering on the ice.
“You’re chasing the hands, Carter,” she said, tapping my pads with her stick.“You’re reacting to his twitch instead of reading the release.Read the hips.”
Her expression didn’t change, but the message was plain:dial in or sit.
She turned to Javier.“Make him work.If he cheats the pass, bury it.”
Great.
I reset.I tapped my posts—left, right—centering myself.The frost burned my lungs.My shoulder throbbed under the chest protector, a dull ache I pushed into the background.
Javier smirked.Nothing personal, predator-prey physics.
Next rep.He came in wide.He leaned like he was going blocker side again, hips flat, looking for the far post.
Exactly what Coach had warned.
