The team filteredonto the ice slowly, still loose from last night's win, chirping each other and laughing. Callahan was doing something stupid near center ice. Mercer was half-asleep. Hallowell was checking his hair in the glass reflection like we were at a photo shoot instead of practice.
I blew the whistle hard. Once. The sound cut through the noise like a blade.
“Line up. Now.”
The laughter died immediately. They looked at each other, confused, then skated into formation.
I stood behind the bench with my arms crossed and let the silence stretch out until it got uncomfortable. Until they started shifting on their skates, uncertain.
“That was the ugliest win I've seen in fifteen years of coaching,” I said finally, voice flat and cold. “You got lucky. Seattle should've buried you in the third. They outshot us, outplayed us, and the only reason we won is because their goalie let in a soft one and Sato stood on his head. That's not a system. That's luck.”
I saw several guys exchange glances. Rook's jaw tightened.
“So today, we're going to fix every mistake you made last night. And we're going to keep doing it until you get it right. Breakout drills. Full speed. No half-assing, no coasting, no excuses. If I see lazy positioning, you're doing sprints. If I see a missed assignment, you're doing sprints. If I see anything that looks like you're not taking this seriously, you're doing sprints until you puke.”
The ice was dead silent.
“First unit—Hartley, Rook, Cho. Let's go.”
They skated into position, and I started the drill.
For the first ten minutes, I was relentless. Every pass that was a fraction slow got called out. Every positioning error got corrected with my voice cutting across the ice. Every smallmistake was amplified until the tension in the rink was thick enough to choke on.
“Hartley—your feet are too slow. You're three steps behind the play.”
“Cho—that pass was garbage. Do it again.”
“Rook—if you're going to be captain, act like it. Your line's a mess.”
I rotated units and kept the pressure on. Volkov took a hit in the corner and I called him out for not protecting the puck better. Callahan made a joke and I benched him for two rotations. Hallowell tried to argue about a positioning call and I shut him down so fast his mouth snapped closed.
By the thirty-minute mark, the entire team was skating like they were being chased.
Good.
Halfway through the skate, Hartley got tangled up with one of the D-men coming around the net. He went down hard, and I saw the flash of frustration cross his face when he got up.
“Hartley. Bench.”
His head snapped toward me. “What?”
“You heard me. Bench. Now.”
“Coach, I just?—”
“Bench, or you're sitting the next game. Your choice.”
The entire team went quiet. Benching someone during practice was one thing. Threatening to bench them for a game was another.
He skated over slowly, and I could see the anger building in every line of his body.
“What the fuck, Coach?”
“Your attitude is shit. Your focus is shit. Sit down and figure it out.”
“I didn't do anything?—”
“You're arguing with me. That's enough. Sit.”
