“Captain’s smiling again,” Dex announced two days ago during warmups.
“I always smile,” I’d said.
“Yeah,” Mason replied. “But now it looks voluntary.”
I ignored them.
Mostly.
Still, the team’s been lighter lately. Winning helps. Chemistry clicking helps. Everything feels… right.
Which is why practice today feels normal when it starts.
Too normal.
The rink is already awake with early-morning energy, music low, skates cutting, sticks knocking against the boards. Coach Hale stands near center ice with his whistle, his coffee in one hand, dangerously close to being dropped or knocked over.
“Alright,” he calls. “Let’s move. Passing drill first. Clean and fast.”
We line up without needing to be told twice.
That’s the thing about this group. Once we’re locked in, it’s instinct.
Pucks slide across the ice in clean sequences.
Tape to tape.
No wasted movement.
Dex chirps anyway.
“Hey, Mills, if you slow down any more, we’re gonna need a calendar reminder.”
Gregory doesn’t look at him. “Precision takes time.”
Dex scoffs. “Buddy, that sounded like a fortune cookie written by a librarian.”
Mason snorts.
I shake my head, skating past them. “Focus.”
“Yes, Dad,” Dex says immediately.
Coach points his pen at him. “One more comment and you’re running suicides.”
Dex seals his lips and salutes.
We move into defensive drills: zone coverage, quick recoveries, pressure reads. I bark instructions automatically.
“Switch.”
“Up.”
“Again.”
The muscle memory takes over.
For an hour, I’m just a hockey player again.
