Underwater hockey might be dangerous.
But it has nothing on what I’m actually doing. And if Chen is serious about helping me survive out there - I’m going to need every scrap of that help.
Saturday games start later in the evening, which means thebuilding still feels half asleep when I make my way through the side corridor that afternoon.
By the time I arrive on the ice, Chen is already there.
“You made it,” he calls.
I skate toward him, still a little stiff from yesterday’s game. My shoulder protests when I push too hard on the first stride, but I ignore it.
Chen studies me for a moment.
“You look sore.”
“I am sore.”
“It means you’re actually playing the game.”
I glide to a stop near the crease.
“Yesterday didn’t exactly go how I hoped.”
“No,” he agrees mildly. “It didn’t.”
We stand there on the ice together, the empty arena stretching around us in silent rows of seats.
Then Chen taps his stick against the ice.
“Alright,” he says. “All you need to know is how to take or evade a body check - preferably the second option. The thing is, you’re letting them hit you.”
“That’s… sort of unavoidable.”
“Not like that.”
He skates toward me and gestures for me to start near the boards.
“Act like you have the puck.”
I start skating forward with the imaginary play in mind, and Chen steps forward, pressing his shoulder lightly into mine.
“Stop.”
I freeze.
“You’re skating straight into contact,” he says. “Which means the defender gets all the leverage.”
“So, what am I supposed to do?”
Chen demonstrates. He takes my position along the boards, pretending to carry the puck.
Just before the imaginary hit, he shifts his weight slightly and pivots his hips.
The motion is small.
Almost invisible.
But suddenly his body is angled differently - less square to the boards, more balanced.
