“You look young as hell, my guy,” forty-seven observes. “Like you could be out here with us.”
My lips twitch. He’s got mouthy d-man written all over him.
“That’s not really a question.”
He shrugs. “All I’ve got.”
“I’m not that young.”
“Kowalski, our other defensive coach, was basically ancient. Dude was probably around when they were still attaching blades to the bottoms of their boots instead of actual skates,” he says. “Neil Cannon even coached here after his NHL glory days.”
Numbers twenty-two and fourteen stand side by side with their hands folded over their sticks. Fourteen looks familiar, but I can’t place him right away. I glance at the roster to find theirnames, sophomores Alex Keller and Theo Boucher. Left and right wing, both starters on the first line.
Boucher—Mr. B’s kid, right. It clicks when I survey him again, recognizing him as one of the twins that are always around The Landmark. Last I saw him, he was playing with the U13s. Kid’s all grown up now.
“You’re definitely not that old, bro,” Alex says. “I’d say even Stevie has you beat by a solid decade at least.”
I huff in amusement because I still feel like I have no idea how to be an adult. “I’m twenty-seven. And I bring fresh perspective because it wasn’t that long ago I was where you all are.”
Easton, the rookie wearing number twenty-four, perks up with interest. “You played? Sweet.”
“Since I was old enough to join a team, all the way through college.”
“So you’re more qualified to coach than you look,” one of the other guys says.
I hold out a hand with a silent question to the nearest player. Forty-seven—Jake Brody, another sophomore—offers me his stick. I nab a puck from the pile by the net and show off a little, skating quick and fluid. Rather than take a shot, I whip it back to them.
Coming to a stop with a scrape of my blades, I spread my arms. “Well? I’m not out here to practice my edge work. Are any of you going to try me, or what?”
Keller and Boucher exchange a look, grinning to each other before they’re coming at me.
I can’t pull off the full drill for defensive zone coverage without another defender to rotate with, but I incorporate some of the intended maneuvers while Keller and Boucher seek their opening. The guys watching sound intrigued by my ability to cutoff the wingers from every move they try to make. A few of them pop off with chirps.
“Get him, Bouch. Show him how hard your slap shot goes.”
“Come on, Keller. My grandma skates better than this guy. Get around him.”
Theyohhhin unison when I swipe the puck with a little extra flourish of stick handling, followed by a quick wrister to rip it into the net. Defense has always been my preferred position, but it’s fun to show off a variety of skills in the arsenal I’ve spent years building.
I give the forwards a salute, then skate back to the side of the rink.
“Wicked,” someone murmurs.
I tamp down on a laugh, feeling like I have their attention now as I return Brody’s stick.
“So that’s the general idea in this drill. Are you the kind of guys who need me to demonstrate it again, or do you have it?”
Easton eyes me up and down with a puzzled expression. “No prospect picks?”
I shake my head. “Not for me. But for some of you?”
When I leave the question hanging, there’s a gleam in their eyes. A hunger that I understand well. If advancing to the next level is their goal, I want to help them achieve it.
I nod slowly, gaze flicking from player to player. “I live and breathe this game. I played hard, and now I get to have your backs.”
They get fired up, a few of them releasing hoots and enthusiastic cheers. That’s more like it.
“Now, who’s ready for the drill?”
