“Morning, sunshine,” Maris mutters as I approach, handing me a steaming cup of black coffee. “They've been here since 4:45. Thompson looked like he was about to puke in the locker room.”
“Good,” I growl, taking a sip of the scalding liquid. It burns all the way down, exactly what I need to wake up theparts of me still dreaming of Hennessy's body wrapped around mine. “He's lucky puking is all he'll be doing today.”
My eyes scan the line of players. Avila, Smith, Reid, Blackwood, and Astor—all looking various shades of hungover. Blackwood's eyes are bloodshot. Astor keeps swallowing like he's fighting to keep down whatever poison he consumed last night.
“Gentlemen,” I say, my voice echoing across the empty rink. “I hope you enjoyed your evening, because your morning is going to be absolute fucking hell.”
I drop my bag on the bench and step onto the rubber mat, my boots making heavy thuds against the surface.
“Suicides,” I announce, watching their faces fall. “Goal line to blue line and back. Blue line to center ice and back. Center ice to far blue line and back. Far blue line to far goal line and back. Twenty of them.”
“Coach—” Blackwood starts, but I cut him off with a look that could freeze hell.
“Did I fucking stutter?” I bark, my voice bouncing off the rafters. “Twenty suicides. Now. And if I see anyone slacking, we'll make it thirty.”
They scramble onto the ice, skates scraping against the freshly cleaned surface. Maris flips his stopwatch around his finger, a small smirk playing at his lips.
“You're in a mood,” he observes, keeping his voice low. “Something happen last night besides catching these idiots?”
I ignore the question, my eyes fixed on my players as they line up at the goal line. “On my whistle,” I call out, bringing the metal to my lips.
The shrill sound pierces the air, and they take off, blades carving into the ice.
They're sluggish and sloppy. Even Blackwood, my star forward, can barely keep his edges on the turns. I stand with my arms crossed, watching them suffer through the first five suicides. By number seven, Smith is bent over at the boards, dry heaving.
“Did I say stop, Smith?” I yell across the ice. “Get your ass moving!”
He straightens up, face pale as death, and pushes off again. Beside me, Maris shifts uncomfortably.
“You're going to kill them,” he mutters.
“They won't die,” I respond, eyes tracking Avila’s increasingly wobbly crossovers. “They'll wish they were dead, but they won't die.”
By the tenth suicide, they're all gasping for air, legs trembling with each push. Astor stumbles at the centerline, nearly face-planting before catching himself.
“Pathetic,” I call out. “My grandmother could skate faster, and she's been dead for fifteen years.”
The boys drag themselves through five more, their faces twisted in agony. Sweat pours down their foreheads despite the freezing temperature of the rink. Blackwood's jersey is soaked through, clinging to his heaving chest.
“This is fucking embarrassing,” I announce, dropping my clipboard on the bench. “Maris, get my skates.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn't question me, retrieving my skates from my bag. I sit down heavily on the bench, unlacing my boots.
“What are you doing?” my assistant, Johnson asks.
“Showing these lazy fucks how it's done,” I growl, yanking off my left boot. “Since they apparently forgot how to skate overnight.”
I pull on my skates with practiced efficiency,muscle memory from thousands of repetitions. The familiar bite of the laces against my fingers is almost comforting. I stand, rolling my shoulders before stepping onto the ice.
The boys are still struggling through suicide number sixteen, their movements growing more desperate as their bodies fail them. I push off hard, joining them at the goal line for number seventeen.
“Let's go, ladies,” I bark, exploding off the line with a powerful first stride. At forty-three, I'm still faster than most of them on a good day. Today, hungover and exhausted, they don't stand a chance.
I blow past Blackwood, cutting hard at the blue line and racing back to the goal line before he's even made the turn. The ice feels good beneath my blades, the familiar burn in my thighs as I push harder, faster.
“Move your ass, Avila!” I shout as I lap him on the next sprint. “You're skating like you've got cinder blocks tied to your ankles!”
Maris and Johnson have joined us on the ice now, adding their voices to the chorus of demands.
