“Then I power through harder.”
A few guys chuckled, but there was an edge to it now. I didn’t like being questioned in front of everyone, especially about something as basic as corner work.
“Adan.” Coach Brennan’s voice carried that warning tone I’d heard before. “Listen to your coach.”
That made it worse. Like I was some rookie who didn’t know how to take feedback. I’d been dominating in corners since junior hockey, and now this guy wanted to tell me I was doing it wrong? The two training sessions we’d had so far had been fine, but I hadn’t learned much new stuff. So why was he getting on my ass about this?
“Look,” I said, my voice getting sharper, “I’ve been playing this way my whole life. It works.”
“Sometimes, but at the professional level, you need more than one option.”
“Are you saying I don’t have options?”
“I’m saying the position you took limited your options unnecessarily.”
The rest of the team was watching now, sensing the tension. Tank had that look on his face like he wanted to step in but didn’t know how. Martinez and Webb were exchanging glances. Even the goalies had stopped their usual chatter.
“Fine.” My jaw tightened. “Then fucking show me if you think you know better.”
Coach Anders nodded and skated toward the corner where the play had happened. “Connor, can you play defense?”
Connor, our backup goalie who’d been watching from the side, grabbed a stick and took position. Coach Anders set up exactly where I’d been when I’d received the pass.
“Same scenario,” Coach Anders called out. “Puck comes off the boards, defense closing in.”
Someone flipped him a puck, and Coach Anders gathered it smoothly. But instead of driving straight toward the net like I had, he angled differently, keeping his body between Connor and the puck while maintaining distance from the boards.
“From this position,” Coach Anders explained as he moved, “I have three options instead of one.”
He demonstrated each one: a quick pass back to the point, a wraparound attempt behind the net, and a cut toward the slot that left Connor scrambling to keep up.
“The key is making him choose.” Coach Anders skated back to where the play had started. “If I drive straight at him like this”—he replicated my approach—“he knows exactly what I’m going to do. He can set himself up and wait for contact.”
He was right, and I hated it.
The position he’d shown created so many more possibilities. Instead of trying to overpower the defense, he’d forced the guy to react to him. It was smarter, more strategic, and would work better against stronger opponents.
But admitting that meant admitting I’d been wrong. In front of the entire team.
“See the difference?”
“Yeah,” I said through gritted teeth, “I see it.”
“Good. That was all I wanted to show you.”
The scrimmage resumed, but concentration was nearly impossible. Every shift, I was thinking about what Coach Anders had shown me, about how obvious the improvement had been. My next corner battle went better—I used a different angle, created space for a pass instead of trying to muscle through—but I was still pissed about the whole thing.
When practice finally ended and we headed to the locker room, the usual post-practice banter started up.
“So who’s hitting up Delta Phi’s party tomorrow?” Martinez asked, pulling off his helmet. “Heard they’re bringing in some band.”
“Can’t,” Webb said. “Got a date with that redhead from my psychology class.”
“The one with the—” Tank made exaggerated hand gestures.
“That’s the one.”
“Nice, bro. Where you taking her?”
