Coach Reid waited until the room settled again. He didn’t rush. He didn’t fill the silence because he was uncomfortable with it. He let us sit in it until every guy in the room had no choice but to look at him.
I hated that I noticed.
“I’m not here to reinvent hockey,” he said. His voice was deep, even, controlled. “I’m not interested in speeches about culture or sacrifice or any other word that gets printed on training camp T-shirts. You’re professionals. You know what’s expected.”
Beside me, Roman whispered, “I like him.”
“Traitor,” I whispered back.
Coach Reid’s eyes flicked to us.
Roman stared forward like an altar boy. I grinned before I could stop myself.
Wrong move.
Reid kept talking, but now I felt watched in a way that got under my skin. Not the usual kind of watched. I was used to cameras, fans, reporters, coaches, opponents, Vanessa filming me while pretending not to film me. Attention didn’t bother me.
This did.
Because Declan Reid didn’t look at me like I was a star center, a walking contract, a highlight reel, or a problem the organization had decided to tolerate because I could score.
He looked at me like he was collecting information.
That made me want to give him bad information just to see what he’d do with it.
“We’ll keep today simple,” Reid said. “Video, practice, individual check-ins. I expect you on time. I expect you prepared. If there’s an issue, communicate it before it becomes someone else’s problem.”
My knee bounced harder.
Prepared. On time. Communicate.
Sure. Great. Easy. Maybe he could also expect the moon to answer emails.
The meeting rolled into video. I tried. I actually did. I watched the first clip, made a note about our weak-side entry, then noticed a smudge on the table shaped like Florida, then remembered I hadn’t answered Vanessa’s text about whether I preferred the navy dress or the white one for dinner, which was a trap because there was no correct answer unless I knew what she wanted me to say. My phone was face down, but I could feel it buzzing in my pocket like a living thing.
Don’t check it.
Don’t.
Don’t be that guy on day one.
My fingers twitched.
Roman slid his own notebook halfway over the edge of mine. On it he’d written, Pay attention or the new guy will eat you.
I wrote back, He looks like he meal preps human bones.
Roman’s shoulders shook once.
“Something to add?” Coach Reid asked.
The room went still again.
I looked up. He stood with the remote in one hand, gaze fixed on me. Not angry. Not amused.
“Yeah,” I said, because apparently I had chosen death. “On that entry, if Lowell cuts inside instead of delaying at the wall, their D has to turn his feet. Opens the seam.”
A few guys shifted. Lowell, sitting two rows ahead, glanced back.
