Welp, the good news is that I’m in excellent shape.
The bad news is that very few people can continue at full speed for that long.
And of course, when Herb Brooks did it, it was ateampunishment.
This is personal—and embarrassing.
But fuck him. I’ll be damned if I show him weakness, especially when he technically hasn’t even told me what I did wrong.
“Do I get to know why?” I ask, meeting his gaze directly.
He just smiles and it’s even more menacing than before. “Oh, I think you already know.”
So I start skating.
“Faster! Show me what you’ve got!” Coach yells.
I pick up speed and clear my head. I can do this.
Iwilldo it.
“End to end!” he yells. “Not in a circle.”
It’ll put more strain on my thighs and glutes, having to start and stop like that, but whatever.
Even as I’m skating, keeping my head down, focusing on my legs and the motion of my skates, I see the rest of the team gathering around.
After ten grueling minutes, I catch West in my peripheral vision talking to Coach.
“Faster!”
When it’s been a hundred hours—probably closer to fifteen minutes—Coach Panzetti, one of the assistant coaches, gets into an animated conversation with Coach Morrison. I can’t hear them over the roaring in my ears and the scrape of the blades of my skates on the ice, but I can tell he’s pissed.
Things start to get tough at that point.
I’m hot, sweat soaking my equipment and dripping down my face. My legs are starting to burn, and my heart rate has to be way the hell up. But as I pass Coach, he merely yells, “Again!”
The last thing I want to do is puke in front of my teammates, but there’s a good chance that’s happening.
I catch a look of concern on West’s face. His hands are on his hips and he’s scowling, which can look pretty scary too. And he’s a lot bigger than Coach. Unfortunately, I don’t think Coach gives a fuck.
About him or me or anything else.
I hear Coach yell something but can’t quite discern it so I look up just as West falls in beside me.
“If you have to skate, I skate with you,” he growls. “I know you’re tired, but don’t give him any satisfaction.”
“You don’t have to—” I rasp. “This is about?—”
“I know what it’s about. But when I say we’re a team, that’s not just talk. You get punished, then so do I.”
Fuck, my eyes feel a little scratchy. Either that or the sweat is blinding me.
“What the hell are you doing, McGregor?” Coach is yelling again.
West ignores him.
A few seconds later, fucking Vik joins us, in full goalie gear.
