I snort under my breath.
Won’t dream of letting him work us into the ground. Nice one with Herb Brooks. Someone watching old US Olympic hockey footage from the 80s?!?
Sawyer:
I’m at a clinic. They’re making us watch old footage.
Across the locker room, Campbell stands at the whiteboard in his best pair of flip-flops and a Dominion practice tee, drawing arrows like we’re in Game Seven instead of a voluntary offseason skate in July.
“First of all,” Owen says beside me, leaning against his stall, “the fact he brought a whiteboard should be a red flag.”
“He laminated the practice plan,” Liam adds from the other side of the room.
Campbell doesn’t even look up. “Conditioning starts in six weeks. Some of you look like you’ve been in committed relationships with DoorDash.”
“That feels targeted,” Owen mutters, tracking Campbell as we watch him unpack a stacked set of small orange cones from a box, and toss them to the floor.
He has cones. Actual cones. Pray for us.
Three dots appear immediately.
Sawyer:
I leave town for ONE week.
I shove my phone into my bag before Campbell can start confiscating electronics like a disappointed gym teacher. It won’t matter if I’m texting with his cousin, who is also our star winger. What will matter is if he thinks I’m not paying attention.
“Buckets on,” he calls. “Let’s move.”
A chorus of complaints follows him out of the room. Typical captain’s skate. Fun and lighthearted, this is meant to keep us in check, not cause a check mate. No coaches. No systems meetings. No media. Just vets trying to knock the rust off beforetraining camp and pretending the compete level isn’t already creeping back in.
The first few laps are easy. Loose. Everybody pretends they’re not sucking wind yet. Campbell blows the whistle anyway.
“Edges,” he calls from center ice.
We break into lines, running tight turns around the circles before transitioning backward through the neutral zone. Nothing flashy. Just enough to wake your legs up and remind you hockey shape and gym shape are two completely different things.
Liam falls into stride beside me during the next drill, both of us gliding back toward the line after a regroup through center.
“You look like the cat who ate the canary today,” he says casually.
“Or the cardinal,” Owen laughs, zipping past and spraying snow in our direction.
I shrug, trying to keep my face neutral. “I’m a man with…secrets.”
“That’s a casual segue," Liam says, coming to a full stop. “Secrets like what?”
A throw away comment, that’s all it was meant to be. Not a confession.
“Secrets like…I saw how you were checking out your sister’s friend the other night at The Oarhouse.” Yes. Good job me. Deflect.
Liam rolls his eyes. “I’ve known Eva for a long time, I was probably telling her she had something in her teeth.”
“Not like we didn’t see you make a beeline for a certain jewelry designer when she showed up,” Owen tosses out as he whizzes past again, tapping my butt with his stick. “Come on, Ty, keep it moving. Let’s keep your peach tight.”
Spinning on my skates, I reach out to tap Owen, who ducks just beyond my reach, as Liam laughs.
“Guys,” Campbell calls out, “Come on. Stay somewhat serious, okay? I know we’re informal, but I’m trying to put togethera pick up game for us in a week or so with some of the elite players.”
