He nodded, breathing hard. “Got it.”
The next rep, he did it correctly.
The one after that, he left early again.
I skated along the boards, hands in my pockets, keeping my voice even. “Again.”
His head snapped toward me. “The lane was open.”
“Again.”
“If he moves it when he’s supposed to, I’m gone.”
“He didn’t have it.”
“He would have if he looked.”
Lowell, pale and unfortunate in the middle of this, said, “I did look.”
Milo muttered, “Oh, this is premium.”
Roman’s mask turned slowly toward him. Milo shut up.
I held Jace’s gaze. “Run it as drawn.”
His face flashed with frustration. Not for show. Not arrogance. The real thing, bright and difficult, because in his head the play had already worked and reality was the insulting part.
He went back.
He ran it right.
Then he ran it wrong.
Not accidentally. I saw the decision happen. He saw pressure cheat high, read the weak side, and chose his version over the structure. For half a second, he looked brilliant.
Then the pass died in traffic, Lowell got caught flat, and the whole drill collapsed into three players circling uselessly while the puck slid to the corner.
I blew the whistle.
The rink quieted by degrees.
Jace coasted back, jaw set, already prepared to argue the merits of the read. I could see the words lining up behind his teeth.
I did not give him space for them.
“Off.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Off the ice.”
No one moved.
His blue eyes cut to the bench, then back to me. “For making a read?”
“For ignoring an instruction.”
“It was the better play.”
