Chapter three
Pratt
Our drill ran on a forty-five-second cycle.
Two attackers came in from the left, one defender between them, and the same play repeated through different pairs until the pattern held. It was simple by design. That meant if it broke, the design wasn’t the problem.
Rook held his angle on every rep. He didn't chase the shooters. He played defense by holding the line and letting the play come to him, arriving early and staying there so nothing pulled him out of position. Rook was one of the best at it, and it was part of what kept him in the league into his mid-thirties.
On the next rotation, Poole took his spot.
Cross, our veteran center, drove down the middle on the attack. Kieran came down the left side, a few feet off the post, pulling into range as he lined up the pass.
Poole was good. No one thought of him as a liability. He played at a level that let his mistakes stay hidden until something structural broke.
The first nine reps ran clean. Poole stepped up early and pushed the attackers wide. Kieran delivered the pass, and I picked the shot up clean before it left Cross's stick.
On the tenth, the forwards came in a fraction faster. Poole arrived late, leaving six feet of uncovered ice between the dot and the left circle. It was a gap that shouldn’t exist in our structure.
The shot came from there, aimed at the corner. I got my blocker on it and deflected the puck wide, ending the play. The next pair set up at the blue line.
I turned to Poole and set my stick blade flat on the ice.
"Left edge. You're rotating to the post. The lane opened before you got there."
He was already nodding. "I was reading the entry —"
"Read faster."
Varga's voice drifted across the ice: "Poole. That face means he's invested in you."
"It doesn't," I said.
"He made that face at me all of October, and I scored eleven points."
The new forward pair was ready. I turned back to the crease.
On the next rep, Poole moved early and took away the pass. The play got pushed wide and ran out of space. No shot. The one after that, the same.
Filed.
The gap Poole left wasn’t random. It showed up when the forwards came in faster, which meant he had to get there on time every time until it became automatic, and I had to keep watching for it until it stopped appearing. Both were manageable.
I did a final loop of the crease, tapping both posts—left first and then right, with the heel of my stick—and skated to the bench.
The problem existed, but we had it contained.
During the film review, Coach Markel pointed it out. He stood at the front of the room with his coffee and let the room fill and settle around him. Some were missing, but it wasn't a mandatory session. By the time the last chair scraped back, he'd already picked up the remote.
He started with the Detroit footage. He ran it once and said nothing. Ten of us watched six feet of open ice appear. Detroit took advantage of it, and the shot landed in the net. Nobody spoke. Markel let it run for four seconds past the whistle before he backed up and ran it again.
"Coverage lane," he said. "Left side. Forty-three seconds into the period. A gap I could drive a Zamboni through."
He clicked forward.
"We completed a trade this afternoon." He delivered the news in a level voice. "Defenseman. Coming in from Tampa. He'll be on the ice two days from now."
Varga was already speaking up. "Holt. It's Holt, right?" Coach didn't answer. Varga took that as confirmation. "Okay. Tampa, three seasons. Mostly second unit, then they moved him up in the second half. Someone pull his entry numbers. Rook, do you have a phone on you?"
