I tracked it—visual attachment locked—caught the rebound with the top of my blocker, and swallowed the sting that jumped down my taped shoulder.
“Reset,” Harper called from the blue line.
No praise, no critique—the next rep already waiting.That was fine.I didn’t want praise.Praise meant she’d seen the wince.
I shuffled back to the center of the crease—short, choppy strides to keep my legs loaded.Left skate, right skate, square to the puck.The ice smelled like scraped tin; my breath fogged inside the cage.
Morales cued up at the hash marks again, stick blade on its heel, reading me like a textbook he’d already highlighted.
Whistle.
He snapped high glove.
I dropped into the butterfly, flaring my knees wide to seal the ice.I threw my glove hand up.My shoulder screamed on the extension—a hot, tearing sensation under the deltoid.
Thunk.
The puck hit the pocket, popped loose, and died in the blue paint.I hadn’t absorbed it; I’d blocked it.Sloppy.
I covered, froze, waited for Harper’s second whistle before I breathed.
Four reps later, the fatigue set in.I started losing the timing—half a beat behind, chasing the release instead of reading the body.
“Go!”Harper barked.
Javier came in with speed.He opened his blade—fake shot.
My brain saidpush.I needed a hard T-push to get across to the far post.But my body hesitated, protecting the shoulder.Instead of driving with my legs, I reached with my upper body.
I broke my stance.I opened up holes.
Javier saw it; predators always do.He dragged the puck to his backhand, changing the angle in a split second.
I tried to recover, desperate, lunging.
He tucked it softly inside the far post.
The net light blinked red behind me.
Groan from the benches; freshman forwards thumped sticks on the boards.Harper’s whistle cut the noise.
“Carter,” she said, voice level.“Crease.Now.”
I pushed up from the ice, sliding to her skates.The pain in my shoulder jackhammered, but I gave it a three on the internal meter.Three was functional.
She kept her tone calm, almost quiet.“Postseason in fourteen days.Your reads are late by half a frame.You’re swimming out there.”
“Yes, Coach.”
She pointed her stick at my chest.“You’re reaching.You’re trying to make glove saves because you don’t want to move your body behind the puck.That’s lazy goaltending, Carter.”
It wasn’t lazy.It was agony.But I couldn’t say that.
She glanced at the black tape peeking out from my sleeve.“Pain score?”
“Three.”
Her eyes narrowed.“Honest three?”
