“Why?”
“Because you’ll either get it perfect or you’ll get benched. Your call.”
My hands trembled from exertion, but I went again. Faster. Harder. Puck sailed clean across the line, crisp.
He met my eyes. “That good enough for you, Donovan?”
I caught my breath, wiped frost from my visor. “Wasn’t for you, Coach.”
He didn’t smile. Just blew the whistle. And for the first time all morning, the sting in my legs felt like pride instead of punishment.
The locker roomdoor slammed behind the last straggler, echoing across the empty rink. I stayed by the boards, sweat drying cold under my gear, watching Calder scribble lines on his clipboard. He didn’t look up once. The scrape of his pen felt deliberate—like a wall built one furious mark at a time.
When he finally started toward the hall, I fell into step behind him. My skates clacked over the rubber mats, heavy and sharp. He must’ve heard me but didn’t turn. His office door swung open; I followed before he could close it.
He tossed the clipboard on his desk, reached for a towel, wiped his jaw. Still not a glance.
“Are you going to coach me,” I asked, “or are you just going to punish me?”
His shoulders stiffened. “You want to play soft, go join a beer league.”
“I want to play smart.” I moved closer, close enough to smell ice melt and chalk on his sleeves. “But I can’t tell if I’m screwing up or if you’re still pissed I left your bed first.”
His head lifted. Eyes like flint. For a second, neither of us breathed.
He set the towel down slowly. “Watch yourself, Donovan.”
“Already do.”
He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, the faintest curl at one corner of his mouth. Not amusement—control, stretched tight.
“You think I’m going easy on you?”
“No. I think you’re going harder.” I matched his stare. “And I want to know why.”
The silence hit harder than a slapshot. His jaw flexed; he looked past me at the wall, at nothing.
“You don’t get special treatment here. Not good, not bad.”
“Then what was that out there? You ran me into the ground.”
“Because you can take it.”
“That’s not coaching, that’s targeting.”
He pushed off the desk. The space between us shrank, the air thick with stale coffee and something that shouldn’t still be there.
“You have a problem with my drills, file a complaint with administration.”
“I’m not filing anything. I’m asking you to be honest.”
His eyes narrowed. “You think I’m not?”
“I think you’re pretending the ice erases everything.”
For half a breath, I thought he might laugh—then I saw it. The flicker that slipped through before he locked it down again. Regret, want, maybe both.
“You don’t understand the line we’re standing on.”
