I absorb the hit, keeping my feet, fighting for the puck even as pain radiates through my entire right side.
Theo leans in close, his helmet touching mine, and whispers, "Stay sharp."
Not threatening. Just controlled. Matter-of-fact.
Then he's gone, skating away with the puck while I push off the boards and try to breathe through the pain. I wish I had reached his broken arm before he got to me.
Coach blows the whistle again. "Good hit, Rhodes. Beck, keep your feet moving."
I nod, skating back to the line.
Theo doesn't look at me.
But he knows exactly what he did.
Twenty minutes into practice, we're running three-on-two breakout drills. I'm positioned at the point, Silas and another forward cutting through the neutral zone, Theo trailing on the weak side.
The puck comes to me clean. I have the lane. Should take the shot.
But I hesitate.
Just a fraction of a second — thinking about my ribs, about whether the follow-through will make them scream, about whether I can generate enough power to make it count.
That fraction of a second is enough.
The defenseman reads my hesitation, steps up, and I'm forced to dump it along the boards instead of shooting.
"Beck!" Coach's voice cuts across the ice. "What the fuck was that? You had the shot!"
"Sorry, Coach."
"Sorry doesn't win games!"
I skate back into position, jaw tight.
Theo circles past me, close enough that I hear him say quietly, "Hesitation kills."
The next play develops fast. Same setup, different angle. This time, the puck goes to Theo on the wing. He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't think. Just shoots — top shelf, bar down, the sound of the puck hitting the net echoing through the empty rink.
Coach blows the whistle, nodding approval. "That's what I want to see. Rhodes knows how to finish."
Theo skates past me again, and this time he doesn't say anything.
The message is clear: Hesitation equals weakness. And Theo capitalizes on weakness.
Practice runs long. Two hours of skating drills, contact work, power play setups, penalty kill scenarios. By the time Coachfinally blows the final whistle, my ribs feel like they're on fire, and I can taste blood in the back of my throat.
I've been hit before. Been checked harder than what Theo gave me today. But there's a difference between a hockey hit and a message.
Today was a message.
The assistant coach catches us before we head off the ice. "We play against UCLA again," he reminds us, like we could forget. "They're going to try to run you. Especially you, Rhodes. They want revenge for the tie."
Theo stops, turning back. "Let them."
The words are casual, but there's something hungry underneath them.
I recognize it. Theo doesn't just want to win this weekend. He wants to dominate. Wants to prove something.
