Page 152 of Pucking Daddy

They’re locked in.

Disciplined.

A pass cuts clean across the ice, intercepted mid-stride and turned into a quick shot on goal. Misha blocks it with a sharp snap of his glove, and the guys groan in unison.

“Again!” Nate calls. “Faster this time—don’t think, move!”

I almost smile.

I push off from the boards and step fully into the rink space, the shift in energy immediate.

They see me. One by one.

There’s a ripple that runs through the team. Coach is back.

Nate skates toward me, pulling off his helmet. “You’re early.”

“Or you’re late,” I reply.

His mouth twitches. “We’ve been out here twenty minutes.”

“Then you’re on time.”

That earns a quiet chuckle from a few of the guys nearby.

I glance past him, taking in the group again.

“Bring it in,” I call.

No hesitation.

They skate over, forming a loose circle around me, sticks resting against their legs, breath still visible in the cold air.

I take a second before I speak.

“I watched the Chicago game,” I say finally.

I look at Nate, then around the group. At Declan, Rhys, Jake, Marcus, Connor, and the others.

“You played like a team that knows exactly who they are,” I say.

I see spines straighten. A flicker of pride.

“Your transitions were clean. You trusted each other.” My gaze sharpens slightly. “That’s not luck. That’s work.”

“Nate,” I add, my focus locking on him. “Thank you for stepping in. You did amazing.”

He shrugs, deflecting the compliment.

I shift my attention back to the group.

“Misha,” I call. “That second-period save—left side.”

He grins. “You saw that?”

“I saw everything.”

A few laughs ripple through the team.