Within thirty seconds it’s obvious.
The first guy skates like he’s wearing bricks on his feet. Every stride is heavy and awkward, blades scraping loudly across the ice. The second guy has decent speed but handles the puck like it’s actively trying to escape him.
Russo and I exchange a look.
“Promising,” he murmurs.
It gets worse.
The next pair somehow manages to collide with each other during a simple passing drill.
One guy skates surprisingly well until he tries to shoot and completely whiffs the puck.
Another is clearly strong but has absolutely no sense of positioning within a team, drifting around the ice like he’s lost.
Coach keeps his expression neutral through all of it, but I can see the slight tightening in his jaw.
Desperate plan or not, he was still hoping someone useful might appear.
So far?
Not even close.
An hour passes like this.
Players come out.
Players leave.
Nothing changes.
Chen leans on the top of his stick near the crease.
“If one more guy shoots directly at my chest,” he says, “I’m retiring.”
Coach calls for the next pair.
Two more skaters hop over the boards.
The first one looks decent enough - quick feet, decent skating control - but nothing special.
Then the second guy steps onto the ice.
At first glance there’s nothing remarkable about him.
He’s smaller than the average hockey player. He has a lean build, and his practice jersey hangs loose around his shoulders. His helmet is already on so I can’t see much of his face.
He taps his stick once against the ice.
Then the drill starts.
And immediately something feels different.
His first stride is clean.
Efficient rather than flashy. His speed is controlled.
The puck comes to him during the passing drill, and he receives it like it belongs there, stick soft enough to absorb the impact before sending it smoothly back across the ice.
