Blue jerseys versus white, first line against second line, with Coach Brennan and Coach O’Brien calling plays from the sidelines while Coach Anders stood quietly near the boards, watching everything with those sharp eyes of his. This was my favorite kind of practice: competitive, fast-paced, where everyone was trying to prove something.
The first goal had come early, a quick wrist shot from the slot after Tank made a perfect pass from the point. Nothing fancy, just good positioning and a clean release. But the second goal, that had been a thing of beauty.
I’d read the play perfectly, anticipating the pass before the defenseman even made his decision. Picked it off at the blue line while skating at full speed, suddenly alone with the goalie and two defensemen scrambling to catch up.
The first guy came at me hard, trying to force me wide, but I cut inside and deked around him so smoothly, it felt like he was standing still. The second guy was smarter, staying between me and the net, but I had momentum and options.
Fake shot to get him to drop down, pull the puck to my backhand, then bring it back to my forehand as I drove to the net. The goalie bit on the fake, sliding across the crease, leaving the top shelf wide open.
Bar down. Perfect shot.
Tank had given me shit about celebrating too much—I might’ve raised my arms and done a little fist pump—but whatever. Goals like that deserved celebrating.
“Nice one, Rivera!” Martinez called out as we lined up for the next face-off. “Save some for the rest of us!”
“Get better and maybe I will,” I shot back, earning laughs from my line mates.
The energy in the arena was palpable. Even though this was practice, scrimmages brought out everyone’s competitive side. Guys were throwing hits, goalies were talking trash, and the coaches were keeping score on their clipboards like it actually mattered.
Evans, our goalie, was chirping from the net about my celebration being “a little much for practice,” while Webb kept insisting his assist on the first goal was more impressive than the goal itself. The blue team was down by two and getting frustrated, which meant they were starting to play more aggressively.
“Watch the cross-check, asshole!” Martinez yelled after getting shoved into the boards during a battle for the puck.
“Learn to skate!” came the response from the other team.
This was hockey at its best, with everyone pushing each other to be better. I lived for moments like this, when the game felt pure and everything else disappeared.
Webb won the face-off and sent the puck back to our defenseman. I broke toward the corner, calling for a pass as I saw an opening develop. The puck came my way, bouncing off the boards perfectly into my path.
This kind of corner work, where speed and strength mattered more than finesse, was one hundred percent my thing. I grabbed the puck and drove hard toward the net, lowering my shoulder as the d-man closed in. He was bigger than me, but I had momentum and the angle.
We collided hard against the boards, both of us fighting for possession. I tried to muscle the puck free, pushing with everything I had, but somehow, he managed to tie up my stick and strip the puck away. It slid harmlessly toward the corner where his teammate picked it up and cleared it out of the zone.
“Damn.” I slammed my stick against the boards in frustration.
“Unlucky break!” Tank called out. “You had him beat!”
I skated back toward center ice, annoyed. Sometimes, the bounces didn’t go your way. Sometimes, the other guy made a good play. It happened, but it didn’t mean I had to like it. I hated losing.
“Adan.”
Coach Anders’ voice cut through the noise of the scrimmage. I looked over to see him skating toward center ice, stick in hand.
“Can we look at that sequence for a moment?”
The scrimmage came to a halt, everyone gliding to a stop and turning to watch. My stomach tightened. Being singled out during practice was never fun, especially in front of the whole team.
“What about it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual. “Guy got lucky with the stick check.”
Coach Anders stopped a few feet away, his expression thoughtful but not critical. “I don’t think it was luck. May I show you something?”
“Show me what? I had good position, but he made a better defensive play.”
“Your position created the problem.” Coach Anders’ voice was gentle but determined. “You drove straight into his strength instead of using the angle to create options for yourself.”
Heat flashed through my chest. “I had the angle. I was beating him to the net.”
“But you only had one option and that was to power through him. What if he was stronger than you expected?”
