Now, I’m just Garrett.
4
Sloane
The parking lot at Mammoth Center is empty except for a handful of trucks and SUVs that cost more than my annual salary. Six forty-five in the morning, and I'm clutching a travel mug of coffee that's already gone lukewarm, my tablet loaded with a half-finished content calendar that needs actual footage to mean anything.
Vivian wants "authentic behind-the-scenes material." Fine. I've spent half my life in rinks watching Easton's practices. Time to see what I'm actually marketing.
The cold hits me the second I enter—that particular arena cold that settles in your bones regardless of the season. Ice and rubber and industrial cleaner, the smell of every rink I've ever known. I climb to my usual vantage point three rows up from the glass and settle in.
The Zamboni makes its final pass, leaving the ice pristine and gleaming. Players start filtering out in twos and threes, the hierarchy obvious—veterans taking their time, younger guys with that hungry energy. Coach Kowalski is already at center ice, whistle around his neck, clipboard in hand.
The players form up without being told. Twenty men moving into position like they've done this a thousand times before.
Because they have.
"Line rushes," Coach barks. "First unit."
The drill starts simple—forwards working on breakout timing while defensemen practice gap control. Reid leads his line up ice, taking a pass at the red line and driving wide. The defenseman backs up, maintaining position, forcing Reid to the outside. Reid tries a toe-drag to cut inside. The defenseman's stick is already there, breaking up the play.
"Again," Coach calls. "Kowalski, you're cheating inside. Trust your edges."
Reid resets. This time he sells the outside harder before cutting back, and the defenseman bites just enough. Reid's shot goes high glove—would've beaten most goalies.
The puck hasn't settled before the next line is already moving.
I've watched thousands of these drills with Easton. But the speed here is different. Not just faster—more compressed. Decisions made in half the time with twice the consequence. The margins are razor-thin.
A younger forward—can't be more than twenty-two—tries the same move Reid just executed. Gets the defenseman leaning, makes the cut, but his hands aren't quite quick enough. The puck rolls off his stick.
"Keep your hands soft!" Coach yells. "You're gripping it like a baseball bat!"
The kid nods, face red, and skates back to the line.
Three more rushes. Then Coach switches to breakout patterns.
"Defensive pairs, let's go. Work against the forecheck."
This is where it gets interesting. Two forwards pressure the defense, trying to force turnovers. The defensemen have to move the puck up ice under pressure—and if they mess up, Coach will make them run the drill until they get it right.
Garrett and his partner take their positions in the defensive zone. The forwards come at them hard, sticks active, cutting off passing lanes. Garrett takes the puck behind his own net, scans the ice for maybe half a second, then makes a tape-to-tape pass to his partner at the far boards. The partner immediately wheels and hits a forward breaking up the wing.
Clean. Efficient. Done before the forecheck could establish position.
"That's how it's supposed to look," Coach calls.
The next pair isn't as smooth. The defenseman panics under pressure and throws a blind pass up the middle. It gets picked off immediately. Coach's whistle screams.
"What the hell was that? You looked at nothing and passed to no one." Coach skates over, tapping his temple with one finger. "Your eyes are your first move. See it, then make it. Again."
They run it five more times. Each rep a little cleaner, a little faster. The fourth time, the defenseman makes the right read—chip it off the glass to relieve pressure instead of forcing something that isn't there.
"Better. That's patience."
The drill evolves. Now forwards are crashing the net on odd-man rushes while defensemen try to break up plays without taking penalties. Bodies start hitting boards. The hollow boom echoes through the empty arena—a sound I've heard my entire life but never gets old. Skates carve hard, throwing ice spray. Someone takes a cross-check in the corner and responds by finishing his check twice as hard on the next rep.
This is where you see who's willing to pay the price. Board battles aren't pretty. They're won by whoever wants itmore, whoever's willing to take the punishment and come back for more.
