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“I know. I told you.”

“You told me late.”

He’s right, and I hate that he’s right, so I fix it. Next rep, I’m moving before the puck crosses center, and I get to open ice a full stride before the D reads it. Rafe finds me. It’s closer to a flip than a pass, but it lands on my tape, and I move it to Koda at the back door before the goalie’s done sliding, and Koda buries it.

Rafe skates by and knocks his shoulder into mine hard enough to push me half a step. “See? Passing.”

“That was me.”

“That was me letting you.”

By the third drill, I know where everybody on the ice is, including Greeley.

Dannebrog puts us across from each other in the battle drill, which is either a coincidence or a senior captain who wants to find something out. Two guys go into the corner after a dump-in, first one to win the puck moves it to the point, repeat until somebody’s legs quit.

The first time, Greeley gets there half a step late and finishes his hit anyway, low, stick up across my lower back. It’s a battle drill. I win the puck and move it.

“Easy,” Dannebrog says.

The second time, Greeley gets his stick between my legs and lifts after I’ve already chipped it out, and I go down to one knee. When I get up, he’s standing over me.

“Must be nice,” he says. “Walk in off a plane. Coach watches your film at night. Get told you’re the center. Get your name on the board.”

“I know you’re third line.”

His jaw works, and I skate back to the line.

On the bench side, Koda’s on his feet with his face gone tight. Maybe he’s standing up for me, or maybe he likes the idea of hitting Greeley. With Koda, the second one might be closer to the truth. I shake my head at him once. He flips me off and sits back down.

The third time, the whistle has already gone, and the puck is already at the point. I’m turning out of the corner when Greeley’s glove comes up into my cage. It isn’t a punch. It’s a flat, slow palm on the bars across my face, pushing my head back toward the glass.

“Stay down this time, rookie.”

Wrong guy.

I have his jersey in both fists before he finishes the sentence. He’s going backward, because I’m stronger than he thought and closer than he wanted. His shoulders hit the boards so hard the glass shakes. His stick goes somewhere. Mine is on the ice behind me. My face is an inch from his cage, and I’m smiling at him. I watch him notice it.

“Do it again,” I say.

He shoves at my chest. I don’t move, and I don’t let go. I lean in instead, all my weight, and watch him feel the difference.

“Go on. Do it again.”

“Kennebeck!”

Arms come around me from behind: Pennock, a defenseman built like a vending machine, and Koda, who is laughing. They peel me off an inch at a time because my hands don’t want to open. Greeley comes off the boards swearing, Dannebrog throws himself between us with both arms out, and the whole rink stops. Somewhere a puck is still sliding, and I can hear it the whole way to the boards.

“Do it,” Koda says in my ear, still hauling on me, delighted. “Kick his fucking ass.”

“Shut up, Barnes,” Pennock says.

Dannebrog rips his helmet off. He’s red all the way down his neck. “You want Berwyn to find out about this from somebody in the stands?” He points at the empty bleachers, the half-lit far end, the office window upstairs with its blinds down. “He’s in the building. You think he’s deaf?”

Nobody says anything.

“This is my skate. You two want to kill each other, do it on your own time and your own ice, and don’t wear the logo when you do it.” He turns to me. “You done?”

I nod at Greeley. “Ask him.”