My touch dies.
The puck slides off my stick like it’s embarrassed for me.
Coach’s whistle shrieks again. “BENNETT.”
I bite down on my jaw and circle back.
“Hands,” Coach snaps. “You’re late.”
“I’ve got it,” I say.
“You don’t,” he says flatly. “That’s why I’m talking.”
He blows the whistle. “Next rep.”
We go again.
This time, I make myself stay inside my body.
I take the pass. I settle it. I drive wide. I cut back toward the dots and fire a shot.
Asher—our goalie, annoyingly calm even when rubber is coming at his face—tracks it clean, swallows it without a rebound like it insulted him.
He pops up, resets, and gives me a look that says,are you done being weird?
I am not.
But I pretend.
Coach switches us into small-area work—3-on-3 below the tops of the circles, low-to-high, quick decisions, constant pressure. It’s chaos with rules. The kind of drill that forces you to think fast or get embarrassed.
Weston chirps the entire time like his vocal cords are being held hostage.
“Bennett, pass the puck like you like us!”
“Shut up,” I snap, stealing the puck off his stick and bumping it behind the net.
Kai is in the middle like he belongs there—centers always do. He’s the hinge. The connect point. The guy who makes everyone else look like they have more time than they do.
He takes a hit, spins off it, and dishes a no-look pass into space.
I’m there because that’s my job.
I one-time it.
Asher snaps his glove up and snags it like it’s personal.
Weston throws his hands up. “RUDE.”
Asher doesn’t blink. “Shoot better.”
Weston points at him. “I hate when you talk.”
Asher’s mask hides most of his face, but you can still feel he’s unimpressed.
Coach loves it. He loves competition. He loves watching us get mean and then seeing who breaks first.
He blows the whistle and changes it up again.
