But something has caught his attention, and I see a wrinkle form on his forehead as he rewinds the film again, then pauses it.
“Here,” he says, pointing at Maguire. “Why's he passing like that?”
I look away from Tremblay's face to the iPad, rewinding to watch again.
“Like what?” It looks like a standard pass as far as I can tell.
Tremblay replays the clip again, stopping at the point where Maguire brings his body around the puck to aim it toward his partner.
“If I were in that position, looking to get the puck to Mac, I'd use a backhand pass, wouldn't I?”
I play the clip again, and sure enough, he's right. For whatever reason, Maguire seems to be avoiding the backhand. One clip might be a mistake, but the next three clips show the same thing. In positions where the backhand is the right call, he just isn't making it, adding unnecessary time to the pass – and, in at least one case, sending the pass off target.
“Why wouldn't he use the backhand? He has before, yeah?”
Maguire's been in the league almost as long as Tremblay, and is usually one of the better defensemen.
“Who knows? MaybeThe Neutral Zonewrote something about a weak backhand and he's in his head about it. Maybe it's an injury he's trying to nurse. But what matters to us is that heisn't.”
Tremblay and I spend the rest of the flight discussing how to use this to our advantage, from him forcing turnovers by limiting forehand options to me using the extra seconds Maguire is giving us to steal the puck.
Sure enough, Maguire does exactly what Tremblay predicted, and we end up with a 2-0 shutout for our first game of the regular season.
On our way to the hotel, I slip into a seat about halfway back on the bus. I expect the seat next to me to stay empty, so I’m surprised when Tremblay sits there instead. At my raised eyebrow, he blushes.
“Isn’t this a bit far back for you?”
“We won. Can’t change our seats now.”
I snort at that and lean against the window, watching the lights go by.
“You had the read on that team, Tremblay. Thanks for helping me.”
He smiles gently and catches my eye.
“No problem. We, uh, could do that for Detroit, too. If you want.”
I’m surprised to hear him volunteering to spend time with me, but the value of his advice can’t be overstated.
“Um, yeah. That would be great.”
“Good.”
Our flightto Detroit isn’t much longer than the one the day before, but Tremblay is ready for me with an iPad full of film.
“Alright, Detroit's defensive corps is probably the strongest we've seen so far. That being said, the bottom four guys are slow as shit; as long as the guys and I can keep you from getting hit, you'll out-maneuver them every time.”
I blush a bit at his praise.
“So we need to focus on the top two – Fournier and Volkov. Iftheir coach knows anything about hockey – and he does, unfortunately – he'll put them out as often as possible against you.”
Tremblay cues up a video of the two against Chicago. Chicago's center tries to split the difference between the two, but manages to get stripped of the puck anyway. He rewinds the tape and plays it again in slo-mo.
“Alright, Carter, what do you see?”
As useful as he has been, these conversations make me feel like a bit of an idiot. When we're on the ice, I feel like my reactions are solid. But when we look at the tape like this, I seeso manydifferent things – Volkov's body, the angle of Fournier's skates, the path the Chicago player is trying to wind through the two.
“Can you give me a hint?" I ask, not wanting him to give it all away.
