We lose our skate guards and step through the gap in the boards. It’s always like coming home whenever I feel the crisp chill nipping at my skin and the first glide of ice beneath my blades.
“Nah, I wasn’t in the mood.” I follow the flow of everyone else with our usual free warm-up of skating a few loops around the rink to get our blood pumping.
“You? Not in the mood?” Noah smirks and bumps his shoulder against mine before he skates around me in a tight circle. He might play defense because of his muscle mass and broad frame, but he’s got damn good footwork.
He points his stick at me when he overtakes me, flipping around to skate backwards. “You’re still hung up on your mystery girl.”
“Maya,” Cameron sing-songs beside me. “I’m telling you, man, you should’ve seen him when we ran into her at the grocery store. E was struggling like I’ve never seen before.”
“Wow, I never pictured our boy with performance issues.”
“Keep it up. I’m not going easy on either of you today.” I grin, shaking my head. Finishing another lap, I scoop one of the pucks up, popping it onto the edge of my stick. “I’m making defensework. You’re both going to feel this one through both games this weekend and every practice until we play UConn.”
Noah and Cameron bump fists, then take positions with grins. I flip the puck off my stick and toy with them, zipping back and forth without going in for the attack.
Elijah skates over and links up with me when I evade Noah. I see the drive I had to prove myself in him. I catch his eye and give a small nod to signal it’s go time. Madden appears out of nowhere to pick up a three-man attack.
They whip the puck between them with wicked speed to keep Noah on his toes before sending it to me when I’m in the perfect position. My slapshot flies towards the net.
Cameron dives into a slide, arm outstretched for a glove save. The puck misses his glove by a scant inch and glides through the crease.
“Oh!” I hold my arms up. “That’s how it’s done, boys.”
“That was fucking beautiful, East.” Noah’s glove rubs my helmet.
Coach blows his whistle to signal warm-ups are over. The team circles up near the bench where he leans against the boards. We’re ready to work.
Practice goes well. The wingers on the first line with me connect all our passes and our defense tightens up. Coach even smiles, which is a rarity.
As long as we keep this up, we’ll make Ryan Donnelly eat Elmwood’s lucky win against us.
After we finish, the locker room is almost empty when I’m out of the showers except for Cameron and Elijah.
“Ready to go?” Cameron shoulders his duffel bag.
“I’ll meet you outside. I’m going to talk to coach for a minute.”
He throws up a peace sign on his way out and the rookie follows him. I get dressed and go to the office.
“Coach?” I hover in his doorway.
He’s seated at his desk reviewing game tape with Kincaid.
“Come in, Blake.”
“I just wanted to talk to you about this thing I saw. I thought the team could do it.” I lay my phone on his desk. “You’re always saying we need to train all sorts of ways.”
“Right.” He holds the phone away, squinting to read. “Yoga, huh?”
Coach Kincaid peers over his shoulder. “It’s great for improving stability and range of motion. Especially for goalies.”
Surprise hits me. There are plenty of ways to train for hockey outside of practice. Some guys take figure skating and ballet classes. It didn’t occur to me that yoga would fall under that, too.
Coach Lombard hums thoughtfully. “Let’s do it. I’ll sign off on a special class. Keep up this initiative, Blake. Kincaid?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
A few days later after our evening workout, I hang back while the guys go inside the house. I take a seat on the porch steps, allowing my bag to slump beside me. I taped my stick before practice this morning, but I redo it anyway to keep my hands busy.
