“What the fu—?”
“Shawn! Lap! Now!” Coach’s whistle cut through the air.
By the time we hit the shooting drill, I was already soaked through my jersey, gloves tight against blistered fingers. He had us taking slap shots from the circles, then immediately racing back to the boards to touch them, then sprinting to the blue line for a wrist-shot round, one after the other until my legs quivered like cooked spaghetti.
Grayson tried keeping spirits up. “Come on, boys. You’ve got this. Last time we hit this hard, it clicked against San Jose.”
He could usually get everyone riled up enough to finish. Today? It wasn’t enough. Everyone was dragging. Every step felt heavier. Every pass felt like it had sand in it.
I leaned on the boards for a second, stick down, chest heaving for a breath. “Coach, can we ease up a sec? The guys are beat and we’re gonna need our legs for the game tonight.”
Coach whirled around, eyes like daggers. “Ease up?” He shoved his whistle into his mouth, the leather straps tight across his fingers. Everyone came to a halt on the ice, their eyes moving between the stand-off he’d created. “You think the Ducks care if you’re tired? You think they give a shit if you can’t breathe for two minutes? You want to dig yourselves out of a hole? This is how it starts. This is how you claw your way back!”
I let my hands drop to my hips, fuming despite the lack of breath in my lungs. “Coach, seriously. We’re running ourselves into the ground. Some rest and focus will do more than this yelling.”
“Cross—” Grayson tried to pull me back, but it was too late.
I saw the thing snap behind Coach’s eyes as his face went totally red.
“If your attitude won games, we’d be number one.” He seethed, his face shaking with how hard he worked to keep his shit from spilling out right there on the ice. “Talking back fixes squat, you hear me? You want to be a hero, then shut the hell up and do as you’re told.”
Heat crept up my neck. I’d had about enough of this attitude talk. It was coming at me from all directions, and it was bullshit. I was the one scoring goals and winning games. We would’ve been way lower in the league standings if it weren’t for me.
“You’re losing perspective,” I said, keeping my voice even.
Wrong move. His eyebrows shot up. “I’m what?”
“Coach, we’re all spent. Pushing us harder won’t make us win.”
His face tightened, fingers curling over his whistle like he could crush it. “You. Me. Now.” His tone had no room for debate. “Don’t make me remind you why management’s breathing down my neck about your little stunt last game. You think being the rookie star gives you free reign? It doesn’t. You better learn to shut up and play my game, my way. Or your ass is warming the bench.”
I squared my shoulders, fire mixing with fatigue. “I’m trying to keep the team from falling apart, Coach. You could stand to take a breath yourself.”
“Enough,” he snapped. “Surge, let’s go! Thanks to Landon Cross, you each get suicides until you puke. Slow down, that’s ten pushups. Mouth off about it, that’s ten more. Move!”
The guys shot me scathing looks as they fell into the laps. I did too, but that feeling never left me. I wanted to scream at Coach. To tell him that he was getting this all wrong. That maybe a team might actually respond better to someone who had their backs.
Instead, I took a deep breath and dug my skate into the ice, following them back into laps. But I didn’t shut off my brain. I watched the guys around me, watched Grayson keeping the line moving, Mason huffing at turns he would normally make without breaking a sweat, Shawn gritting teeth with every switch.
We cut lines across the ice until Coach had enough, then he pushed us back into more drills: stickhandling through cones while yelling about speed, precision, and not letting the Ducks smell fear.
My legs were burning, lungs on fire, and I was half-lost in the rhythm of it when I noticed Mason line up beside me. He didn’t rush the drill, didn’t cut in front of me. Just slid in, stick on the ice, eyes locking with mine.
“You’ve got to stop acting like the world owes you the ice, Landon,” he said, voice low but firm, leaning into the movement without breaking stride.
I smirked, not missing a beat. “Oh? Enlighten me, old man. I’m all ears.”
“Don’t give me that,” he shot back. “I was a rookie once. You think I didn’t want to blow past everyone, show the world I belonged? I get the fire, I get the ego, but there’s a line. You cross it too many times, you burn bridges you can’t rebuild.”
I glanced at him, annoyed, half-laughing under my helmet. “Bridges? Mason, if the Surge don’t like me, I’ll find a team that does. A team like the Florida Panthers would know how to handle someone like me.”
He blinked at me, clearly thrown, maybe even a little confused. “What— what are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” I muttered, gripping my stick tighter, letting the frustration pulse down my arms and into my legs. “I’m not here to babysit feelings, Mason. I’m here to play, to win.”
He shook his head, disappointment lined across his face, the kind that actually hit harder than a check. “Winning’s one thing. Acting like a kid with a stick is another. You don’t get both without respect for the team. And respect comes from knowing when to shut up, when to listen, when to grow the hell up.”
I wanted to argue, to fire back, to tell him he didn’t get it, but Mason wasn’t the problem. I was. Frustration had built in my chest, curling in tight coils, and it wasn’t even about him. It was about Coach, management, expectations. The stupid press who couldn’t quit salivating over the next headline.
