McAvoy stood at center ice, whistle already in his mouth, eyes tracking us as we took our spots.
“First set,” he called. “Blue line to red, full speed. Pucks on the move. No coasting.”
I pushed off hard, legs burning right away, passing Shawn before we hit center, hearing his breath hitch as I opened the gap. The puck slid clean from my stick, tape to tape, back again, faster each stride. McAvoy’s whistle cut once, approving enough to keep me pushing.
We reset. Grayson skated past, captain’s C stitched heavy on his chest. “You hear the rumor? Granger’s supposed to be at the gala.”
Hunter whistled low. “His record is untouchable. Eight straight shut-outs.”
“History doesn’t play the game, boys,” I said, shimmying back and forth with the puck. “All it does is watch.”
“This one swallowed a philosophy pill for breakfast,” Shawn said, hiking a thumb in my direction. “You should’ve heard him outside.”
“What’s the tea party about? Did I call a break?” McAvoy blew the whistle, and I drove forward, already ahead of the thought, already chasing what came next.
“Just for that, you give me sprints, full ice. Go.” He circled on the spot, watching our form. “Then transition into breakaways. One-on-one, two-on-two, whatever it takes to get your heads out of your asses.”
I took off, my skates carving the ice. Mason, Shawn, and Grayson lagged, panting through the first set, while I was already halfway through the second sprint.
“Careful, Grandpa,” I called to Grayson. “You’ll pull a muscle if you try to keep up.”
He flipped me the bird and finished up without looking my way again.
Next drill, Coach had us weaving through cones with pucks, tight control, hard stops, slap passes on the move. I dipped low, dragging the puck between my legs, quick pull-backs, spin moves that had the defense almost colliding with each other just to catch me.
“Try not to embarrass yourselves,” I cackled, tapping the puck up and down on my stick as I skated backward. They exchanged looks, but Coach didn’t so much as bat an eye.
Drill three, he called for rapid-fire shooting. Hunter in the net, passes coming from all angles. I was stickhandling between two defensemen, one-timed a snap shot that hit the crossbar, then spun and sent a quick backhand to the other side. Goal.
“I’ll call Granger and tell him his record’s safe.”
Mason grabbed me just before I cut past the blue line to take my place in line and do it all again. “Take it down a notch. This is a team effort.”
“A team that’s nothing without me in it.” I pushed ahead in line, took another shot. Scored another goal.
They hated it, but if Coach didn’t care then neither did I. This game wasn’t about feelings. It was about winning, and doing what needed to be done to get that win.
I broke free again on a solo, eyes up, puck sliding perfectly off my stick as I flipped it into a high arc. Left-hand snap, toe-drag fake, deked past Tucker in the corner, then spun and sent a cross-ice pass that Mason barely reached in time. The flash of the net in my periphery? Delicious. The others were catching up, gasping, sweating, and I was still skating like the whole rink was mine.
Then Tucker and I had the same idea about a loose puck in the neutral zone. He went shoulder-in, but I went heavier. The poor guy went sailing across the ice on his ass, and the puck was mine. He looked to Coach, arms up, waiting for the lecture on the unnecessary hit. But Coach moved to the next drill call without saying a word.
“Better luck next time, Tuck.” I extended a hand with my smirk fully engaged, but he swatted me away as he got to his feet unassisted. “So sensitive today. That time of the month?”
“Suck it, Cross,” he snapped, then skated off.
Final drill, and Coach had us running a two-on-two, keep-away with rapid-fire passing, then finish with shots from the slot. I carried the puck like it was glued to my stick, spun through two defensemen, one quick snap to Hunter’s blocker side, then a fake and backhand flick to the other side. Mason and Grayson followed the flow, trying to keep up, but I had the timing down to the millisecond. Coach barked a few corrections, but I’d already reset for the next round, grin intact, adrenaline high.
At the end of it all, my lungs were on fire, legs zinging, the puck obeyed my every command, and I never felt better. “You look like you’re about to throw up. Should I grab a bedpan from medical?”
Donny, our new defender taking up Theo’s spot, grinned at me. His cheeks were flushed, and it looked like he was about two seconds away from passing out. “Why don’t you come over here and bend over? I’ll show you where I want to throw up.”
The others laughed, and Shawn even went so far as to cross the ice and high-five him.
“Touché, Donny, touché.”
We were all still shooting the shit when we stomped off the ice, and Coach rapped my helmet once, hard. He gestured aside when I looked at him, and I gave one last look at the guys disappearing down the tunnel before going over.
“I know things got a little sloppy on that last exchange, but the ice—”
