A beat.“Four when I reach.”
“Then stop reaching.”She tapped her stick on the ice once.“Economy of movement, Carter.If you’re square, the puck hits you.If you reach, you open the armpit.Smart angles cost less than hero saves.”
“Coach?”
“The net doesn’t need you to bleed for it.It needs you to be here Friday.”
She pivoted away.The conversation had lasted maybe eight seconds, but my pulse was sprinting.
Practice cycled through breakouts, two-on-zeros, and the dreaded Screen Drill.
Ryan parked his massive frame right in my vision.The point man fired.I couldn’t see the release.I had to fight through the screen, looking over Ryan’s shoulder, trying to find the puck through the forest of legs.
Down.Up.Shuffle.Down.
I ran the lane work like a robot, blocking out the feedback from my shoulder, counting pucks: 112 shots, three goals against, one bad rebound.
Numbers were a life raft.
The Zamboni horn sent us off.I coasted to the bench, legs rubber, my edges barely biting the ice.
Ryan met me at the gate.He didn’t offer a fist bump today.He looked grim.
“Good grind,” he said, but his eyes were tracking something over my shoulder in the stands.
“What?”I asked, following his gaze.The stands were empty except for the student manager collecting pucks.
“Check your phone when you get inside,” Ryan said, voice low.“And maybe skip the Buckman Grill tonight.”
“Why?”
“Trust me, Monk.”He patted the back of my helmet—right side, merciful—and skated off.
Locker room benches creaked under damp gear.I stripped slower than usual, one strap at a time.The bruise had spread ugly yellow under the tape; Dalton’s handiwork crunched when I peeled it off.
I checked my phone.
Ryan:Heads up, I think your dad’s here.Saw a red Ford F-150 with Jersey plates in the visitors lot.
My stomach dropped out.Dad.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.He’d said he was coming for the Friday game, driving up game day.It was Wednesday.
I shoved the phone deep into my bag, under the dirty laundry, as if burying it could block the signal.
Across the row, Javier snapped his tape roll shut.“Keep your head in practice tomorrow, Carter.Not in la la land.”
I met his stare.He knew.Everyone knew Rick Carter’s truck.
“Copy that,” I said.
I showered and dressed in record time—jeans, hoodie, beanie pulled low.I bolted.I needed to be somewhere he couldn’t find me.The gym was obvious.The rink was obvious.
That left the dorm.
The walk back to Stony Creek was a blur of paranoia.Every engine revving made me flinch.I kept my head down, cutting through the science quad to avoid the main road.
I hit the third floor of the dorm breathing hard, shoulder throbbing.
