“Thinking dinner at that Italian place on Elmwood, then maybe catch a movie.”
“Dude, skip the movie. Movies are for when you run out of things to talk about.”
“What would you suggest, dating expert?” Webb asked sarcastically.
Tank shrugged. “Take her to that new bowling alley. You can talk, there’s beer, and if she sucks at bowling, you get to help her with her form.”
“Bowling? Really?”
“Trust me. Chicks dig guys who are good at bowling.”
“Since when are you good at bowling?” Connor asked, walking past our area with his gear bag.
“Since I started practicing with your mom last weekend,” Tank shot back, earning a round of laughter.
“Real mature, Tank.”
“I try.”
I half-listened to their conversation while yanking off my gear, still replaying the demonstration in my head. The usual post-practice energy was there—guys talking shit, making plans, complaining about professors and assignments—but I wasn’t engaged.
My mind kept drifting back to the corner positioning drill. The worst part was that Coach Anders had been completely professional about it. He hadn’t embarrassed me on purpose or tried to show me up. He’d pointed out a better way to do something, demonstrated it clearly, and moved on. Yet somehow, that had only made it worse.
If he’d been an ass about it, I could’ve been angry with him, could’ve blamed him for embarrassing me, but he hadn’t. Nope, I’d done that all by myself with my response. Hell, for Coach Brennan to call me out in front of the whole team…
My cheeks heated, not with anger, but with shame… because he’d been right. They both had been. I shouldn’t have been so defensive, especially not with everyone watching. If I’d been calmer, if I had simply allowed Nils to explain, I wouldn’t have come across as such a dick. What did Coach Anders think of me now? I’d given him every reason to resent me.
The stupid thing was that initially, I’d kind of wanted him to dislike me. Hell, I’d wanted him to quit so everything could go back to how it had been before. Before he’d shown up. Before I’d felt like I was under a microscope. Before he’d made me doubt myself.
But now? Now I wasn’t sure that I wanted him to leave. My dad always said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. To achieve a different outcome, you had to try something new, he often told me.
Coach Anders was something new. The old approach might have been comfortable, but it hadn’t created the outcome I’d wanted. I hadn’t been drafted. If I wanted to get signed, something needed to change. Maybe Coach Anders was that something. Maybe he really could teach me a thing or two, stuff that I needed to become the player clubs wanted to work with.
I rose from the bench, grabbing my bag.
“You heading out?” Tank asked.
“Yeah, I’ve got that economics paper to work on.”
“Want company? I’ve got accounting homework.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
But as I walked out of the locker room, Monday’s 7a.m. session was already on my mind. I was going to have to face Coach Anders after demonstrating exactly why I needed individual coaching. Not because I lacked skill, but because I was too stubborn to admit when someone else knew better.
That realization sat heavy on my stomach, where it churned with the shame of today. Monday morning, I had another private session with Coach Anders, and I had no idea how to face him after today. How could I move past today’s embarrassment? I had a whole weekend to try and figure that out.
Fun times.
5
ADAN
The visiting locker room at Rochester smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, but the energy was electric. Twenty guys suiting up for our first game of the season, and everyone could feel it. This was the kind of game that mattered—first game, conference rival, packed arena, scouts in the stands.
I laced my skates with extra care, running through the mental checklist Coach had drilled into us. But underneath the standard pre-game routine, I was thinking about the techniques Coach Anders had been teaching me. The corner positioning, the core stability work, the shot selection strategies. Tonight felt like a test of everything we’d been working on.
The puck felt different on my stick now. Not physically—same weight, same texture—but the control I’d gained over the past two weeks was obvious in every movement. Every play was more deliberate, more strategic. Instead of powering through the defense, I was thinking about angles, about creating space, about making them commit before I revealed my hand.
