“That was garbage,” he said, not angry, just factual. “Half of you are thinking two steps behind the play. The other half are trying to do everyone else's job. Callahan.”
Finn straightened like he'd been electrocuted. “Yeah, Coach?”
“What's your assignment on the breakout?”
“Uh... support the D?”
“Wrong. You're the middle layer. You read the opposition's pressure and adjust. If they collapse low, you go high. If they pinch, you hold the middle. You don't 'support.' You execute your role so the system works.” Coach's eyes swept over the rest of us. “Everyone here is a piece of the machine. You don't get to freelance. You don't get to be creative until the structure is automatic. Run it again.”
We ran it again. And again. And again.
By the tenth rep, my lungs were screaming and my edges were starting to slip from fatigue, but the breakout was clean. Crisp passes. Perfect spacing. No one was thinking, just reacting.
Coach blew the whistle. “Better. That's what I want. Now let's see if you can do it under pressure.”
He split us into groups and ran a three-on-two drill that forced quick decisions and fast transitions. When Tate tried to pinch from the blue line for a highlight-reel play, Coach stopped everything.
“Hallowell. What was that?”
Tate skated over, cocky grin already in place. “Saw an opening, Coach.”
“You saw an opening and abandoned your assignment. Now we're outnumbered in our own zone and their winger has a breakaway.” Coach's voice stayed flat, matter-of-fact. “You want to be a hero, do it on your own time. Here, you play your position.”
Tate's grin faltered. “Got it.”
“Run it again.”
The drill continued. Coach corrected Mercer's gap control, Benny's stick positioning, Volkov's outlet timing. No one escaped scrutiny. No one got special treatment.
When Rook took a bad angle on a backcheck, Coach called him out same as anyone else. “Rook. You're cheating because your hip's compromised. Adjust your gap to compensate. Don't give them the middle.”
Rook nodded and adjusted.
Even I wasn't immune. During a power play drill, I hesitated on a one-timer, second-guessing the angle, and the puck died on my stick.
Coach's whistle cut through the air. “Hartley. You're thinking. Stop thinking. Your hands know what to do. Trust them.”
My face burned. “Yes, Coach.”
“Run it again.”
This time I didn't think. Just reacted. The puck came cross-ice, I loaded up, and fired. Top corner. Clean.
Coach didn't acknowledge it. Just moved on to the next drill.
By the end of practice, we were all skating hard, working hard, and nobody was freelancing because the system didn't allow for it. Every player had a role. Every drill had a purpose.
I hated how good it felt to just execute. To not have to carry the whole team on my shoulders. To trust that if I did my job, the system would work.
We finished with conditioning. Suicides. Coach stood at the goal line with a stopwatch and ran us until Finn looked like he might puke and even Volkov was breathing hard.
“That's it,” Coach said finally. “Good work. Stretch, then get out of here.”
We limped backto the locker room like we'd survived a zombie apocalypse. The room smelled like sweat and effort and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from being pushed past your comfort zone.
Finn collapsed on the bench, not even bothering to unlace his skates. “I can't feel my legs.”
“That's because you have child legs,” Volkov said, already half-undressed. “Weak baby legs.”
