Rook skated over, nodded at Hartley. “Good to have you back, Hart. Let's take it easy.”
Hartley stepped onto the ice, and I watched him take that first stride.
The team was still watching, waiting to see if this was real or if I'd pull the plug after two minutes.
“Everyone else,” I called. “Back to work. Neutral zone transitions. Let's go.”
The ice came back to life. Skates cutting, pucks snapping against sticks, voices calling for passes. But I kept my eyes on Hartley.
Tess moved to stand beside me, arms crossed, tablet in hand. “He's been asking for this all week. Begging, actually. Said he couldn't stand watching anymore.”
“Is he ready?”
“Physically? For this level? Yes. Mentally?” She paused. “He needs this, Grant. He needs to prove to himself that he's still a hockey player.”
I didn't answer. Just watched Hartley join Rook's line, watched him fall into the drill pattern. The muscle memory was there—the way he read the play, the way he positioned himself, the way his stick found the puck. But his skating was careful. Controlled. Nothing like the explosive speed he usually had.
“He's slow,” I said quietly.
“He's cautious.” Tess made a note on her tablet. “Give him time to find his rhythm again. It's been weeks since he skated with the team.”
Rook made a pass to Hartley, and I watched him receive it. The puck handling was clean—no hesitation there. He carried it through the neutral zone, made a simple pass to Cho, and continued through. No fancy moves. No trying to show off. Just clean, fundamental hockey.
When the whistle blew for the drill change, Hartley skated back to the line breathing hard but grinning. Rook said something to him and he laughed, the sound carrying across the ice.
“Next drill,” I called. “Breakout patterns. Defense and forwards. Let's see if anyone remembers how to make a clean outlet pass.”
Volkov and Hallowell paired up on defense. Hartley lined up with Rook and Cho on the forward line. I watched Tess watching him, saw her eyes tracking his movement, looking for tells.
The drill started. Volkov carried the puck behind the net, faked to his left, then sent a clean pass to Hartley on the boards. Hartley received it, turned, and fired it up to Rook breaking through center. The timing was off by half a second—Hartley's turn had been slower than it should have been—but the read was perfect.
“Again,” I called. “Faster transition.”
They ran it again. This time Hartley's turn was smoother, and the pass hit Rook in stride. Better. Not perfect, but better.
I pushed them through variations. Quick outlet passes. Delayed breakouts. Stretch passes. Every time, I watched Hartley. Watched how he protected his shoulder when he received contact from Cho during a board drill. Watched how he adjusted his stride to take pressure off the bad leg during longer rushes.
Twenty minutes in, Tess called a stop. “Hartley. Water break.”
He looked like he wanted to argue but skated to the bench instead. I saw him favor the leg during the last few strides, saw the slight hitch in his gait.
“How's he doing?” I asked Tess quietly.
“Better than expected, actually. He's listening to his body. Adjusting when he needs to.” She made another note. “But we're at his limit for today. Maybe ten more minutes, then I'm pulling him.”
I nodded and turned back to the ice. “Callahan, Mercer, O'Rourke—let's see your line run the same drill. And try not to embarrass yourselves.”
Callahan chirped something back, but I ignored him. Kept my focus on the drill, on the patterns, on anything that wasn't Hartley sitting on the bench drinking water and looking like he wanted to get back out there immediately.
When the next whistle blew, I called the team in. “Power play work. First unit—Rook, Cho, Volkov, Hallowell, and...” I paused, making the decision. “Hartley. Let's see if you remember how to run a one-timer.”
Hartley's head snapped up, eyes finding mine.
They set up in formation—Rook at the half-wall, Volkov at the point, Hartley in the bumper position where he'd always been deadly. The other team's penalty kill unit lined up against them.
“Run it,” I called.
Volkov cycled the puck to Rook. Rook held it, waited for Hartley to slide into position, then sent a perfect pass. Hartley one-timed it on net—not full power, not the rocket he usually fired, but clean and accurate. The goalie made the save, but it was a good attempt.
