3
Aiden
“Again.”
Coach McAvoy’s voice carried across the ice without help from a whistle. He stood at the blue line with his arms folded, tracking the breakout as Mason looped low behind the net to pick up the puck.
I pushed off from the boards and joined the rotation, stick down, knees bent. Hunter rapped his posts with the heel of his stick, resetting in the crease.
“Faster through the neutral zone,” Coach called. “You win one Cup and forget how to skate?”
Landon barked with laughter as he took Mason’s pass in stride and cut wide along the boards. “I’ve never forgotten anything in my life, Coach.”
“Except backchecking,” Tucker called from the far side, and angled his body to close the lane.
Landon shifted the puck between his skates and slid it cross-ice to Grayson nice and easy, who snapped it on net without breaking rhythm. Hunter dropped and sealed the ice with his pads. The puck kicked out to the corner.
“Again,” Coach said.
We reset.
The arena felt different. No crowd pressing against the glass. No music shaking the rafters. Just the scrape of steel and the puck clattering off sticks. Banners hung from the rafters, last season’s run stitched in gold above center ice. They caught the overhead lights every time I circled under them.
Grayson tapped his stick against mine as we lined up. “You’re late on the weak side, Santos. Trust the pass.”
“I was there.”
“You were drifting.”
Mason grinned as he skated past us. “He’s pacing himself, can’t you tell? Long season ahead.”
I didn’t answer. Coach blew the whistle and sent us through it again.
Breakout. Quick up. Cross. Shot.
I drove the net on instinct, hunting for a rebound, but Landon was already there, jamming his stick between Tucker’s skates.
“Move your feet, old man,” Landon tossed over his shoulder at me.
“I’ll file your notes under Rookie Smack-Talk, TBI. Thanks.”
He looked to the others for help. “What’s TBI?”
“To be ignored,” Shawn chuckled as he peeled off toward the bench.
Landon’s grin flashed through his cage. He circled back to center ice, twirling his stick once in his glove. “Ignore all you want. That Rookie of the Year title is carved into history.”
Coach skated into the slot and collected the loose pucks with the blade of his stick, corralling them into a pile. “Line rushes. First line up.”
Grayson, Mason, Landon.
They took their positions without looking at each other. Mason at center now, Landon on the wing. Shawn had dropped back to second line center after the offseason shuffle. Which meant I’d slid down another notch without anyone making a speech about it.
“On my whistle,” Coach said.
They exploded off the line, Mason winning the draw clean and feeding Landon in stride. Landon cut inside, pulled the puck across his body, and fired high glove. Hunter snagged it and tossed it back out.
“Again.”
