Coach kicked a puck into the circle.
“Win it clean,” he called. “I want possession inside two seconds.”
Grayson crouched across from me, glove twitching against his stick. He gave me a sideways look. “Don’t overthink it.”
Easy for him to say.
Coach blew the whistle and we both snapped forward.
My blade caught the puck first and shoved it back between my skates. The motion carried through my shoulders and into my arms before I even registered the contact.
Grayson tapped his stick against mine once. “Nice reflexes, old man.”
“Again,” Coach called out.
Another puck skidded into the circle. This time Landon slid in as my opponent, grin already spreading under the cage of his helmet.
“Big promotion today,” he said, settling his stick across the dot. “Better not embarrass us against Dallas.”
I dug my skates into the ice. “That hairdo of yours has that part covered.”
Coach’s whistle cut through Landon’s laughter, which distracted him just enough to make him lag in going for the puck.
It rattled against our sticks before I hooked it back to the boards, where Tucker scooped it and fired a quick pass toward the slot.
Coach waved an arm. “Breakout drill. First line stay.”
Everyone else peeled away while our unit reset near the goal line. A fresh puck slid along the boards toward me.
“You do the honors,” Grayson said.
I collected it near the hash marks and pivoted toward the neutral zone. The Dallas forecheck simulation hit immediately, with two of our defensemen crashing toward me, sticks extended. They forced the puck wide along the boards, and it was Grayson who cut through the middle lane.
“Mine,” he called out.
I pushed the puck forward and shot a pass through the gap between their sticks. Grayson caught it in stride and sent it ahead to Landon crossing the blue line.
Coach blew the whistle before the play finished. “Again. But I want it faster. If it’s a nap you want, then get off my ice.”
We reset. The puck came back to me and this time, the pressure arrived sooner. Defenders stepped in with their bodies angled to shut off the boards.
“What about it, Hotshot?” Tucker grinned. “What’re you gonna do?”
I dropped my shoulder and cut inside with a grunt, shifting the puck to my backhand just long enough to slip between them. Cash Money cursed out loud as I sent a short pass into the neutral zone where Grayson caught it, and turned up ice.
“What did I tell you about backing up your shit-talk?” Cash Money slapped the back of Tucker’s helmet. It quickly devolved into a playful shoving battle that only stopped once Coach blew his whistle.
“That was better,” he said. “Now do it ten more times.”
The guys groaned, but we weren’t expecting anything less with Dallas Stars next in line on the fixture. But ten turned into fifteen, and our movements grew heavy and tired fast.
My legs burned by the eighth rep. By the twelfth, my lungs dragged in cold air that scraped on the way down. Every pass had to arrive clean. Every pivot needed to hit the right edge of the blade or the drill reset.
Across the rink the other guys ran a shooting rotation near the far net, taking turns blasting pucks while chirping at each other.
Tucker sent one high over the glass that got some of the guys laughing.
“Going for a souvenir?”
