“The Lions play high-speed transitional hockey,” Zed begins. “They rely on speed off the rush, quick neutral-zone regrouping, stretch passes to their wings, and collapsing defense to trap you on the boards.”
He doesn’t play with his hands while he speaks, unlike most guys. Every movement is intentional and controlled.
“Their weak point is their second line. You apply sustained pressure and force them to dump and chase, and they lose structure.”
He grabs a dry-erase marker and starts sketching a triangle breakout.
“Their left winger, Holloway, is still favoring his right knee. Took a brutal fall into the boards last February. He won’t engage physically if you press him at the hash marks. Force him wide, and his follow-through drops off.”
That’s true. I rewatched one of their games last night and caught it too.
“Mendez, their top D-man, bites early on fake slappers. Wait half a second longer, and you can walk him right into the crease.”
He didn’t just play with them—he memorized them. Every reaction, weak spot, and habit. He filed them away and now he’s using it to scalp them.
“Their third line bleeds penalties when you chirp their captain,” he adds.
“McCabe’s still got the rage problem?” I ask.
“Worse,” Zed says.
“That’s your job now. Make him see red.” I look at Matt and Tanner.
“Oh, I can make anyone cry if I try.” Matt grins.
“Get him off the ice and the third line collapses,” Zed tells them, then turns back to the room.
“Jesus, Z. That’s brutal.” Addams chuckles.
“It’s accurate.” No malice, no pride—just fact.
He clicks the marker shut and sets it down. “If we pressure their second line and bait the third, we’ll force the top unit to overextend. That’s when you strike. Quick cycling, low-high play. Exploit the rotation gap behind their net. They always leave space at the back door.”
He looks at me last. “They’ll target you, Dom. Let them.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. I gathered most of that from the few games I’ve watched, but he’s got the insight.
“And their new goalie?” I ask.
“Carter’s good. Not great. Leaves the right post on lateral slides. Five-hole opens when he pushes hard on the blocker side. Put it there.”
“Right,” I say, nodding.
“Okay, but, hypothetically,” Tanner says, raising his arm, “if you left the Blazers… would you do this to us?”
Zed’s pale greenish-blue eyes slide to him slowly. “I intend on staying, Tanner.”
Someone chuckles. “Thank fuck.”
Zed turns back to the board, the marker clicking open again. “We’ll anchor pressure with Addams. He’s the best gap closer we’ve got. Matt’s unpredictable. That’s good. They won’t know how to shadow him. I say we use him on the second shift and draw their top line into overcommitting.”
Matt blinks like he’s unsure if that was a compliment.
“Jace’s slapshot off the left point is our trigger. But he needs time. One second more than he thinks he has. Tanner, you’re fast and ambitious, but you’re sloppy on the puck when cornered. Don’t get pinned on the boards.”
Tanner opens his mouth to protest.
“Don’t argue,” I tell him. “It’s true.”
