“Alright,” he said, skating to center ice. “You attack, I defend. Let’s see what you can do. But Adan?”
“What?”
“I charge extra for skating lessons.”
That son of a…
I grabbed a puck and took off, confidence surging through me. This would be easy. I had speed, size, and the element of surprise. Some European coach who probably hadn’t played competitive hockey in years? Puh-lease.
I came at him full speed, planning to use my acceleration to blow past him. Instead, he read my approach perfectly, angled me off, and stripped the puck so smoothly, I barely realized what had happened until it was sliding away from my stick.
“Huh,” I said, skating back to retrieve it. “Lucky.”
“Try again.”
This time, I came in more carefully, using my body to protect the puck. Coach Anders stayed patient, matching my movements, forcing me to make the first move. When I tried to cut inside, he was already there. When I went outside, he had the angle covered. After thirty seconds of battling, he poke-checked the puck away again.
I cursed. “What the fuck?”
“One more?” Coach Anders asked, suppressing a smile. He had every right too, dammit.
The third attempt, I tried everything: speed, power, deception. I faked left, went right, used my shoulder to try to create space. Coach Anders absorbed the contact, stayed with me step for step, and when I overcommitted trying to get around him, he stepped up and cleanly separated me from the puck.
Then, before I could react, he was heading the other way with possession. I turned to chase him, but he was already at the other end, calmly placing a wrist shot in the upper corner of the net. Textbook accuracy, no wasted effort.
“Son of a bitch,” Tank called out from across the ice. “Coach schooled Rivera!”
I skated back toward center ice, my face burning with embarrassment. Three attempts, three clean defensive plays, followed by a goal that looked effortless. “Again,” I snapped.
Finally, I managed to outsmart him and get past him to score—though the latter didn’t mean much when there was no goalie. But it had been far from easy and had taken me a good twenty seconds. In a real game, I wouldn’t have that kind of time.
“Again.”
Coach Anders didn’t say anything, just positioned himself again. I scored again, but on the next two attempts, he got past me, and so we ended up with a final score that was still heavily in his favor. Dammit.
“You done?” Coach Brennan called out, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice, the asshole. Must’ve been the first time he’d seen me get beat on the ice.
“Yes. Whatever.”
Coach Anders skated back toward me. I stayed quiet. What was I supposed to say? That I’d been completely outplayed by a guy I’d assumed would be easy to beat?
“That went different from what you expected?” Coach Anders asked, and to his credit, he didn’t sound gleeful.
“Yeah. Different.” I looked at him more carefully now, seeing things I’d missed before. The way he held his stick, the positioning of his feet, the calm confidence that came from someone who’d played at levels I was still trying to reach. “You actually know what you’re doing.”
“I hope so. It would be rather embarrassing if I didn’t, given my job.”
I snorted. “Not every coach can play.”
“I’m well aware. But I can.”
I crossed my arms. “What are you planning to teach me?”
“How to do what you do, but better and smarter. Your skills are impressive, Adan. But skills alone won’t get you to the next level. You need to understand when and how to use them.”
From across the ice, Tank laughed. “Dude’s got you thinking, Rivera!”
“Shut up!” I called back, but there was no heat in it. I turned back to Coach Anders, who’d taken his helmet off. His hair was messed up now, and he looked more human, less pristine. “You’re not what I expected.”
