He didn't move to the center of the room or raise his voice. He stood near the door with his hands in his pockets and waited.
"Tonight's about showing up," he said. "Not proving anything. Not making noise. Going out there and doing the work you already know how to do."
He paused and let the words sink in.
"You're here because you earned it. Now remind everyone else."
That was it. Ten seconds. No rah-rah speech. No appeals to pride or legacy or the roar of the crowd.
Markel's eyes swept the room once, then he turned and left.
The ice was perfect. The Zamboni had made six passes instead of two. Every inch smooth, almost like glass. The paint underneath looked sharper. Cleaner. Like the building dressed for opening night.
I stepped on during warm-ups. My first stride bit deep. Around me, the arena was half-full already. Crowd noise building.
Pucks appeared. Players converged. The first shot cracked loudly. Someone hit the post, and the metallic ring echoed.
I grabbed a puck and carried it through the neutral zone. Took a wrist shot from the slot. Our backup goalie, Holloway, barely moved.
Staying in open ice, I took passes when they came. When bodies started clustering near the crease, I drifted toward the boards. Hung back while others worked through the chaos.
Across the ice, Kieran ran his own pattern. Left circle, right circle, high slot. Three shots from each position. His release was compact. Quick. Pratt tracked each shot with minimal movement. They'd done it enough times to develop a rhythm.
I took a slap shot from the top of the circle. Wide by two feet.
"Donnelly."
I turned. Coach Markel stood at the bench. Arms crossed. He gestured me over with two fingers.
"Yeah, Coach?"
"You good?"
"Yeah."
"Stay where your skates are."
I blinked. "What?"
"You're thinking three plays ahead. Stay where your skates are." He turned. Conversation over.
I grabbed another puck. This time when traffic built near the net, I didn't drift. Skated into the cluster. Found space between two bodies. Kept my stick on the ice.
The puck squirted loose. I one-timed it.
Holloway had to move for that one.
The whistle blew. Warm-ups over.
We cleared the ice. The crowd noise had doubled.
The tunnel was concrete and shadow. Fluorescent strips overhead cast flat white light that killed depth perception. It washed the color out of everyone.
We lined up for player introductions. The PA system boomed.
Cameras lined the tunnel mouth. Three of them on tripods. Lenses aimed down the corridor.
Kieran stepped into the space beside me. Close enough that the edge of his shoulder pad touched mine.
