We lost last night and she left with the assistant coach of the team that beat us and now she’s out here on our ice making us-
“Again,” she says, moving through the group. “Tighter on the rotation. You’re dropping your shoulder, Mercer - keep it level. Ward, that’s good. Again.”
I run it again.
And again.
On the fourth repetition something gives.
“This is a pirouette,” I say.
My voice comes out flat and carrying, and the drill comes to a stop around me as heads turn.
She stops as well.
She looks at me with that expression - measured but patient - which makes me feel like I’m being handled.
“It’s a turning drill,” she says.
“It’s a pirouette,” I say again. “We’re hockey players. I’m here to score goals, not pirouette around the rink like we’re auditioning for the ballet.”
Silence. The silence of twenty people deciding very carefully not to avoid each other’s eyes.
“That’s interesting.” Her voice is very calm and very cold. “Perhaps you’d have liked to try scoring some last night?”
I go still.
For a second there’s nothing in my head except the buzzer and the humiliation of standing there while Northern State celebrated.
Something rips loose.
“If you’re so good,” I say, “if you’re so talented and so much better than all of this-” I gesture around the rink, at the boards, at the college banners, at all of it. “Why are you here? Why are you coaching a college team that can’t even win a home game instead of competing? It’s not exactly an upgrade, is it?”
The words are out before I’ve finished thinking them.
I know immediately. I know from the way Chen glances at me and the other guys look down at the ice. The temperature of the whole rink seems to drop by several degrees.
And I know from her face.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her composure actually fracture. It’s small - she goes still and there’s a strange expression on her face - and it’s gone almost before it’s there.
But I see it.
She looks at me for a long moment.
“Get off my ice,” she says with a finality that leaves no room for negotiation.
I open my mouth.
“Now, Russo.”
Calloway’s expression is closed and professional. He gives me the smallest nod that meansyou did this, deal with the consequences.
I skate to the gate without another word.
I don’t slam it. I’m not going to give anyone the satisfaction. I step off and walk the corridor to the locker room and sit down on the bench and put my head in my hands and sit with what I just did.
The rink is quiet through the walls. Then, after a moment, I hear the drill start up exactly where it stopped, like I was a brief interruption in an otherwise normal morning.
