Coach blew the whistle again, his face turning a mottled shade of red. "Enough of this disorganized horseshit! Split into groups. Group A, far blue line. Defensive zone exits. Group B, center ice. Transition puck protection. Group C, goal line—cycling. Move!"
I ended up in Group B with Tucker, Cash, and two rookies. It was a puck-protection drill: one man in the circle trying to keep the puck away from two defenders for thirty seconds.
The rookies were hesitant, looking at Tucker for direction. Tucker, however, was busy adjusting his glove, pointedly ignoring the drill setup. The momentum was dying.
"Okay, let's go," I said, stepping into the center of the circle. I pointed my stick at the two rookies. "You two, on the hunt. Cash, you’re on the perimeter for the outlet. Keep your feet moving. If you stand still, you’re a target."
The rookies jumped, instinctively reacting to the tone of command I'd used for a decade in the league. We started the drill, and for three reps, it was the best hockey we’d played all morning. The pace was electric.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Tucker skated into the center of the circle, his stick held horizontally like a barrier. "What are we doing here, Seattle? I didn't realize Coach had promoted you to Assistant Captain overnight."
"I'm just starting the drill, Tucker. We were standing around doing nothing."
"We have a captain," Tucker stepped closer, his chest heaving. "And we have a leadership group. You aren't in it. You’re a third-line winger on a one-year deal. So why don't you sit back, shut up, and wait for someone with a letter on their jersey to tell you when to breathe?"
The rookies looked at the ice. Cash looked up at the rafters.
I felt the familiar heat rising in my chest, the urge to drop the gloves and remind Tucker exactly why I’d lasted all these years in a league that chewed up guys like him and spat them out. I could have pushed back. I could have reminded him that I had more playoff goals than he had career points.
But I thought of the advice I’d given Kayla.Don't let people push you around.
Then I thought of the precariousness of my own position. One wrong move, one locker room blow-up, and I’d be on waivers by noon.
I took a breath, the cold air stinging my throat. I didn't need to win a locker room war today.
"Fine," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "It's your circle."
I skated to the back of the line. For the rest of the group session, I did exactly what Tucker wanted. I stayed silent. I didn't coach the rookies. I didn't suggest a different angle on the breakout. I played like a ghost—efficient, but entirely detached. I did my reps, I hit my marks, and I offered absolutely nothing of myself to the unit.
The results were predictable. The transition drill fell apart. The rookies became timid, Tucker started over-handling the puck, and the flow we’d established vanished into a series of fumbled passes and offside whistles. And still, I did nothing but exactly what was asked of me. Not a single thing more.
When Grayson looked at me for a cue on the next entry, I stared into space. When Tucker fumbled a pass and left the middle wide open, I didn't call it out. I became invisible. Efficient, but totally useless to the team’s momentum.
The quality of our group's work tanked. Passes were intercepted, the cycle broke down, and the intensity evaporated into a series of lazy glides.
Coach watched from the bench, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on our group. He didn't say a word until the drill finished. Then the sound of his whistle cut through my bones.
"Landry! Get over here.”
His voice boomed through the quiet arena, bouncing off the seats. I felt the collective smirk from Tucker and Cash as I unbuckled my helmet. Hunter caught my eye again, his head shaking slowly in disappointment.
Coach didn't even wait for me to get all the way to the bench. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
"Staying in my lane, Coach. Like the guys wanted."
"The guys? You answering to the guys now? What about what I want from you? Do I tell you to stay in your lane or to own your fucking number out there?" He stepped into my space, his eyes blazing. "I saw you taking charge in that cycle drill. I saw the rookies actually playing hockey for thirty seconds. And then Tucker barks at you, and you... what? You just quit? You spent the last forty minutes of my practice gliding like a retiree at a public skate."
"I was trying to avoid a locker room fracture—"
"You were being a coward!" Coach shouted. "You’ve got over a decade in this league, and you let a guy like Tucker punk you out of doing your job? You took a back seat today, Landry, and you let this team get worse because your feelings were hurt. If you’re going to be a passenger, stay in the stands. I need players, not tourists."
“I’m trying—”
He pointed a gloved finger at my chest. "You’re slacking. You’re hiding. And if I see it again, you won't just be on the third line. You'll be on a fast ticket out of my team. Get out of my sight."
Blood rushed in my ears as I made my way back onto the ice. I’d tried to be the nice guy. I’d tried to keep the peace. And all it had done was cost me the respect of the one man whose opinion actually kept me employed.
My blood was a pumping current of ice and adrenaline.Slacking. Hiding.The words felt like a physical weight, a brand on a lifelong career I’d bled for.
