He stood, picked up his mask, and gave me a look that was all flat goalie patience. “Handle your shit before it handles you.”
Then he walked away.
Milo’s gaze bounced between us. He wasn’t subtle on his best day, and this was not his best day. “Everything good?”
“Great,” I said.
He wisely looked down at his skate. “Cool. Love that for us.”
Practice should have helped.
Usually the ice stripped everything down. Skate. Puck. Breath. Angles. Timing. I could pour all the noise into movement and let the boards hold the rest.
Today the ice made it worse.
Because Declan was everywhere.
Not physically. He wasn’t crowding me, wasn’t singling me out every second. He stood behind the whistle and the boardwith that same controlled presence, black tracksuit, beard dark against his jaw, eyes tracking the drill like nothing escaped him.
Nothing did.
Especially me.
“Holloway, tighter on the turn.”
I corrected.
“Again.”
I went again.
“Your stick’s late.”
I fixed it.
“Don’t drift. Drive through.”
I drove through.
Every instruction hit with too much force. A normal correction felt like a hand at the back of my neck. A glance felt like pressure. When he nodded once after I threaded a pass through traffic, the approval lit up in my chest so fast I almost missed my next route.
It pissed me off.
It made me want more.
Declan noticed, because of course he did. His coaching changed. Less explanation. No long breakdowns. No softening around the edges.
“Reset.”
“Faster.”
“No. Do it properly.”
“Hold your lane.”
“Again.”
The more direct he got, the quicker I responded. No argument. No wasted motion. My body obeyed before my mouth had time to ruin anything.
