Page 10 of Grief & Glitter

“No, thank you.”

He hesitated by the fitting room door as if he wanted to say more, then just nodded and headed for the exit, the small striped bag still looped over his wrist. I handed the sales assistant my card and let her ring up the jacket, the shirt, the tie, the shoes, the whole thing Ryan had built from a rack I would’ve walked straight past.

Running into him today had turned into the best part of my week so far.

Coach Harris blew his whistle hard enough to echo around the empty arena. “Again.” Nobody argued. A few games into the season, it hadn’t been disastrous, but it hadn't been good either. The problem wasn’t creating chances—we were outshooting most teams—the problem was finishing them, or, as Walker had put it in the locker room before practice, our net-front game was absolute dogshit. Coach preferred “we’re not capitalizing on second opportunities.” Same problem, different vocabulary.

I skated back to the blue line with the second unit while Bob settled in front of the crease, cross-checking Walker in the kidneys before the drill even started.

“Love you too,” Walker grunted.

Bob shoved him again. “You won’t after this rep.”

Coach pointed his whistle at us. “Traffic, rebounds, ugly goals. I don’t care if they’re highlight-reel worthy. Stop trying to pick corners.” He looked straight at me. “Taft. You’re a winger. What are you paid to do?”

“Score.”

“No.” He grinned at my frown. “Retrieve pucks. Win battles. Then score.”

A few of the guys laughed, and Walker pointed at me. “Told you.”

Coach blew the whistle. “Go.”

The puck came high from the point. Walker got a stick on it, and Bob kicked the rebound straight into the slot, crowing about the save before it had even cleared his pads. Mine. I snapped it off the crossbar.

“Again!”

Another puck, another shot, another rebound, and this time I jammed it under the pad before the imaginary whistle would’ve gone.

“That’s one,” Coach called.

“Ugly as sin,” Walker shouted.

“It still counts.”

“It always counts,” Coach said.

We ran it until my thighs burned, point shot after battle after rebound after recovery after shot, over and over, and after fifteen straight minutes every jersey on the ice was soaked through. Arnaud leaned against his stick while Coach explained the next variation.

“If I see one more pretty shot from the top of the circles, I’m making everyone bag skate.”

Walker raised a hand. “What if it’s really pretty?”

“Especially if it’s really pretty.”

The guys laughed, and Walker sighed. “I’m just too good to make ugly plays.”

“Get your ass to the crease.” The whistle shrieked again. “Let’s go.” We reset, Bob planting himself in front of the net like an oak tree while Walker immediately tried to move him.

“You’re cheating.”

“I’m bigger.”

“That’s not a rule.”

“It’s always been a rule.”

I circled high and cut hard toward the crease just as the puck arrived. Walker tied up one defenseman, Chip occupied the other, and daylight opened up in front of the net. The rebound popped loose, and I buried it. The sound of the puck smacking the back mesh never gets old.