Coach’s whistle cut through the rink again, and we pushed off toward center ice.
The drill started again. Rush. Pass. Shot. Guys joked between reps, tossing comments across the ice whenever someone flubbed a pass or whiffed on a shot.
“Stars are going to send you back to beer league with that form,” Landon yelled at Tucker after a particularly weak attempt.
“Keep talking,” Tucker shot back. “I’ll screen your next shot.”
The chatter rolled around me while I lined up for the next rush, and every now and again they’d try to pull me into it. A playful shove here, a comment there. The kind of stuff teams did when everyone knew where they stood. I tried taking Grayson’s advice, giving as good as I got and laughing when it was called for. But it all felt forced in a way. It felt as though I were pretending I wasn’t firmly entrenched on the outskirts of whatever camaraderie they’d established.
Grayson tossed me a puck during a break. “Your turn to start the rush.”
I caught it clean and circled back toward our zone. The rest of the line fanned out ahead of me.
From the outside it probably looked normal. Just another practice.
But I knew better.
Coach kept us moving until the clock on the far wall crept past the hour mark and nobody had enough breath left to argue about it. The drills changed, though the pressure didn’t. One rotation turned into another. Shooting lanes. Defensive coverage. Net-front battles that forced us to fight for position while the defense tried to shove us out of the crease. Pucks kept coming from every direction, fired low, high, or straight into traffic, forcing quick reactions while Coach stalked the boards and shouted corrections.
“Keep your stick on the ice, Aiden.”
I adjusted the angle of my blade before the next shot arrived.
“Grayson, cycle faster.”
Grayson snapped a pass behind the net and circled back through the slot.
We worked until sweat soaked through the padding under my jersey and my legs carried that heavy pull that always showed up near the end of a hard practice. Nobody drifted through it. Coach wouldn’t allow that, especially with Dallas coming in.
When he finally blew the whistle to end it, guys glided toward the bench with the loose relief that followed a grind like this. A few pucks still rattled across the ice where someone had fired a final shot after the whistle.
“Same intensity tomorrow,” Coach called, and groans carried across the rink.
The locker room turned loud the minute the doors swung open. Gear thudded into stalls, someone blasted music from a speaker across the room, Tucker complained about a bruise blooming on his hip from the crease drill.
“That was your fault,” Landon told him while tugging off his shoulder pads. “You tried to screen Grayson and forgot he hits people.”
Grayson pulled his jersey over his head. “Move your feet next time.”
The showers filled fast. Steam rolled along the ceiling while the conversation jumped from the Dallas game to somebody’s helpless golf swing last weekend. Towels snapped. A roll of tape flew across the room after someone stole it from another stall.
I kept my head down while I packed my gear, though the noise around me kept dragging my attention back. Tucker triedconvincing Cash Money that he could beat him in a sprint down the ice. Cash answered by tossing a dirty sock at him.
“You can’t even skate backward without tripping over your own stick.”
“I had bad legs that day,” Tucker said defensively.
“You have bad legs every day,” Cash replied with a smirk. “That’s your problem.”
Laughter bounced off the lockers as the guys carried on, and Grayson caught my eye while pulling on a hoodie.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” The lie came easy.
He nodded once and turned back to whatever Tucker had just said.
Outside the arena, a few headlights cut across the parking lot as guys loaded bags into their cars. The air carried that cool bite that settled in after the sun dropped.
