I track it automatically. Always have. Something I discovered at an early age, that my therapist later informed me could be considered part of my years of masking, was that tracking things made it easier than trying to follow the noise. Didn’t matter where I was. On the ice, at the grocery store, in class. If I can track, I can stay focused.
“Alright, one more!” Emma calls, already skating backward into position. “Let’s run it again—same drill, but I want faster decisions this time. No overthinking!”
A couple of girls groan, and I almost laugh. Good luck with that. If they figure out how tonotoverthink, I hope they tell me.
They line up, tapping sticks, shifting weight from foot to foot.One girl bounces slightly where she stands—energy with nowhere to go yet. Another adjusts her gloves three times in a row, precise, exact.
The whistle blows and everything snaps into motion.
Edges dig in. Ice sprays. Sticks clash in quick, controlled bursts. The puck moves faster this time—cleaner. Less hesitation. Better.
I push up to standing and watch the play develop.
There’s a moment, half a second, maybe less, where it all clicks into place. The lanes open, the options narrow, the right play becomes obvious.
I see it before it happens.
“Left—” I start, then stop myself.
One of the girls makes the pass anyway.
Exactly where it needed to go. I exhale, something tight in my chest easing just a fraction.
A player cuts across the slot, receives the puck, releases a shot. It’s just wide.
“Oh, hello!” Emma calls immediately. “That’s what I’m talking about—reset and get back to it, Clara!”
The girl who missed the shot doesn’t deflate. She nods once, sharp, already resetting. No wasted energy. I like that.
The drill resets and runs again. And again. Each time a little faster, a little cleaner. Mistakes happen, but they’re corrected quickly and then filed away. It all makes sense, at least to me. More sense than the overlapping chatter, the way conversations stack on top of each other near the boards, words tangling until they lose shape.
Out here, there’s a system. Cause and effect. Action and response. My grip tightens slightly on my stick, grounding as the whistle cuts through everything. It’s sharp and final, and I swear Emma blows on it two seconds longer than she needs to.
“Alright, bring it in!” Emma calls.
The girls slow, coasting toward her, forming that same loose semicircle that somehow always tightens without instruction.
I step back a fraction as they gather, giving myself enough space, while Emma plants her skates, scanning the group.
“That was a big improvement from the start of practice,” she says. “You felt that, right?”
Nods. A few quick yeahs.
“Good. Because that’s what happens when you trust your instincts and each other. Hockey’s fast. You don’t get time to second-guess everything.”
My jaw ticks slightly at that.
Emma continues, unfazed. “We’re building something here. Structure, communication, all of it. And you showed me today you can do it.”
A couple of girls straighten a little taller at that.
“Next time, we push it even further,” she says. “But for today—” She claps once, decisive. “We’re done. Great work. Sticks in!”
They lean forward, tapping their sticks together again, louder this time, a little more chaotic at the edges.
“One, two, three?—”
“CARDINALS!”
