The players cycled through, sweat building, voices thinning to heavy breaths. Not one complaint. Not yet. Good.
By the third rotation, passes started snapping tighter. Boots dug harder into the turns. I caught Reese—fast, cocky—throwing a grin at me after she threaded one past the cone goal. Confidence, not attitude. A difference worth keeping alive.
Billie was out near the far circle, wrist shot cracking off the post like thunder. Controlled. Angry. I pretended not to notice how precise she’d become.
“This isn’t babysitting,” I called out, pacing the boards. “This is hockey. You want to play in a league? Earn the right.”
Heads lifted. Shoulders squared. The tempo jumped another notch.
Sam leaned over beside me, voice barely above the scrape of skates. “They’re actually listening to you.”
“About time someone did.”
The whistle hung between my teeth. I blew again, sharp, and the drill reset like a well-tuned machine. For the first time since taking the job, it sounded like a team and not a punishment.
Maybe even something worth staying sober for.
The whistle split through the cold again, echoing off the empty upper seats. They moved as one—mostly. But one skater kept cutting cleaner than the rest, her posture sharp enough to slice air. Billie Donovan.
The girl wason. Every stride rang with intent, shoulders square, stick low, eyes scanning ahead before anyone else caught up. She threaded a pass between two defenders, clean as a scalpel. Reese nearly missed it, surprise flashing across her face before catching the puck on reflex. That alone made me smirk.
“Run it again,” I called.
No groans this time. They’d learned better. The puck dropped, and Billie drove the pace before the others even hit stride. She didn’t wait for permission. Probably never had, not really.
I followed the movement up and down the sheet—hips pivoting, blades digging. Pure mechanics. She had that rhythm every elite player got once in a while when body and instinct lined up and the ice stopped fighting back.
Sam drifted over beside me, hands stuffed in his jacket. “You see this? Girl’s got a motor.”
“Motor, brain, and guts,” I muttered. “Keep watching.”
Billie gathered in another pass and spun through traffic, heel cutting snow. Her backhand lift found the top corner, just under the net padding. Post clanged. She didn’t celebrate. Just reset for the next rep.
Discipline. Focus. Fire. Made my skin crawl in the best way.
When she slowed on the backcheck drill, even for a blink, I pounced before the others did.
“Don’t coast, Donovan. Again.”
Her head snapped around, eyes narrowed under the cage. No flare of defiance, no groan. Just a brief set of her jaw before she spun back. She hit the line again, faster, drive low and relentless.
The puck hit her blade mid-stride. She didn’t stumble. She muscled it forward, chased her own play down the length of the rink, and forced a shot that smacked the goalie’s pads dead center. Perfect recovery. She coasted to a stop in front of me, breathing hard, sweat frosting the edge of her hair.
Good. That was the fight I wanted.
Most players gave up by the third lap. She pushed until her chest heaved like she’d swallowed fire. Still, she waited for the next cue.
“You want me to run it again?” she asked, voice rough.
“No need. You got the point.”
She nodded once and skated back to the line with nothing but the hiss of blades to mark her passing. No chatter. No flex. Just focus.
Sam whistled low beside me. “You ride her harder than the others.”
“She can take it.”
He gave me a side-eye, half-meaning something else. I ignored it.
