Second shot. I wait a half second longer, track the puck from his stick to my pad, and make the save.
“Better. Again.”
Third shot. Fourth. Fifth. Each one testing a different part of my game. Glove side high. Five-hole. Short side where I have to be perfect with my angle.
For twenty minutes, he runs me through drill after drill. Each one faster, harder, and more demanding than the last. No “good job,” no “nice save.” He doesn’t coddle. My legs burn, sweat dripping down my back and icing under my jersey.
It’s exactly what I asked for, but fuck, it’s harder than I expected.
Not because the shots are tough. Because of the way he’s watching me.
Every movement, every save, every mistake…he sees it all. And I like being under his microscope. Hell, I’d like to be under his everything and that rogue thought has me swallowing a groan.
Minutes fly by while he studies me. And when I make a good save, there’s something in his eyes that looks like pride. Like he’s seeing something in me that I’ve forgotten was there.
“Break,” he calls out after a drill that leaves my chest heaving and my body ready to drop face-first onto the ice.
I skate over to the bench and grab my water bottle. It feels good, the way he’s coaching me right now. Like I’m back.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, skating up next to me.
“Like I got hit by a fucking truck.” I drain half the bottle, the cold water sloshing in my empty belly. “In a good way.”
“Your timing’s better. You’re reading shots instead of guessing.”
“Yeah?” I slant him a glance, wiping my mouth with the back of my glove. “What changed?”
“You stopped thinking so goddamn much and started trusting your instincts.”
He’s right. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t overthinking every save, second-guessing every movement. I was just playing hockey the way I used to. The way that made me good enough.
“My dad used to say that.” I guzzle the rest of the water. “Trust your gut, not your head.”
“Smart man.”
“Yeah, he is. Just wish he could see me play without wondering what the hell happened to his son’s career.”
Zane’s quiet for a moment, and I realize I just shared something real. Something that has nothing to do with our professional relationship and everything to do with the pressure I’ve been carrying.
“Ready for round two?” he asks, and there’s something softer in his voice now.
“Bring it.”
This time, he changes up the dynamic completely. Instead of standing still and shooting, he starts moving. Skating in, cutting across the crease, forcing me to track him and the puck at the same time. It’s the kind of drill that mimics real game situations, where forwards are bearing down on you and you have to make split-second decisions.
It’s harder. More complex. I have to trust him completely, to know he’s not going to run me over or put me in a position where I’ll get hurt.
The first few reps are rough. I’m late on my movements, fighting the urge to guess instead of read. My positioning is off, and my angles are sloppy as hell. I’m dragging ass all over the ice, breathless, beaten down, and aching. Then something starts to click. I start to anticipate his moves, reading his body language, and getting myself to where the puck’s going instead of where it is.
“Fuck yeah,” he says after I rob him on a backhand deke that would have fooled me a week ago. “That’s what I wanted to see.”
He’s breathing hard now, hair plastered to his forehead. When our eyes meet across the ice, something passes between us that has nothing to do with goaltending.
Chemistry. Connection.
“Again,” I say, because I don’t trust myself to say anything else.
The next sequence is even more intense. He comes at me from every angle, changing speeds and directions, testing how well I can stay with him. Left side, right side, between the legs, behind the net and back out front. His movements are fluid and unpredictable.
