“Cross.”His voice echoes across the rink.“What do you think you're doing?”
I skate toward him, keeping my stride, even though my thigh is screaming at me to sit down.It might have felt good when I was in the locker room, but the ice has a lot less traction.“Joining practice, Coach.”
“Like hell you are.”He jabs a finger toward the bench.“You're supposed to be resting that leg.”
I tap my thigh with my gloved hand.“I just got taped up.Fresh wrap.Feels better than it has in weeks.”
“I don't care if you got taped up by the great Scott Hendricks himself.You're benched until medical clears you for full contact.”
“Coach—”
“No.”
“Just let me—”
“Absolutely not.”
I stop in front of him, planting my stick on the ice.The rest of the team has slowed their drills, watching me.
Great.An audience.
“Look.”I keep my voice low, just between us.“We've got St.Michael's tomorrow.You know they're going to come at us hard, and you know I'm the only one who can match their center's speed.If I'm rusty because I've been sitting on my ass for two weeks—”
“Then you'll be rusty and healthy instead of sharp and sidelined for the rest of the season.”He doesn't blink.“The answer's no, Cross.”
Desperate times.
“Give me thirty seconds,” I say.“Let me show you a few moves.If anything looks off, I'll bench myself.No arguments.”
Coach's jaw flexes as he takes me in.I've been standing on the ice for the better part of five minutes now.That's surely a good sign that I have enough stability to hold myself up.
“Thirty seconds,” I press.“That's all I'm asking.”
He stares at me for a long moment.I can practically see the calculations running behind his eyes—risk versus reward, my stubbornness versus his authority, the fact that we both know I'm going to find a way onto that ice tomorrow whether he likes it or not.
Then he sighs.
“Fine.”He holds up a hand before I can celebrate.“But theminuteit starts hurting—and I mean thesecondyou feel so much as a twinge—you're off this ice and back in that training room.Got it?”
“Got it.”
“I'm serious, Cross.One wrong move and you're done.Not just for today, for the week.”
“Understood, Coach.”
He waves me off with a disgusted look, and I push off toward center ice before he can change his mind.
My first few strides are tentative as I test how much give there is in the tape, waiting for that familiar spike of pain with each move, but it doesn't come.There's pressure, sure, and a dull ache that tells me the muscle's still healing, but nothing like the sharp, stabbing sensation I've been dealing with.
Well, that confirms it.Ally Hart is definitely a miracle worker.
I ease into the drills, taking everything slower than I normally would.Crossovers at half speed.Turns with wider arcs.Quick sprints that are more like aggressive jogs.It's not my best work—not even close—but it's enough to prove I can move without falling apart.
Coach watches from the blue line, his expression unreadable.
After a few minutes, he gives me a curt nod.Not approval, exactly—more like reluctant acceptance.I'll take it.
I coast to a stop near the boards, catching my breath, when Cade and Dash glide up beside me.
