Page 70 of Gap Control

One of the rookies muttered, "Do we bite now?"

Coach snapped toward him. "Only metaphorically. Unless someone asks nicely and you've both signed a waiver. Do not have sex with your teammates unless it's post-season and consensual. And no choking unless it's—actually, never mind, we're not doing this right now."

Mercier raised his hand. "Coach, are we talking about actual dental hygiene here, or—"

"Mercier, you're married. Has your wife ever told you that you bite your tongue when you concentrate?"

"...No?"

"That's because you don't concentrate hard enough. Find your goddamn bite, gentlemen."

There was a beat of stunned silence followed by laughter. The whole room cracked open like a shaken soda can.

Coach Mac raised a hand, settling us down. "Bottom line: You want it? Take it. No one's gonna hand us a damn thing. We're not the pretty team. We're the problem team, and that's good. Problems are remembered."

He dropped the marker dramatically into the tray and walked out like he'd delivered the Gettysburg Address on Red Bull.

No one moved for a second. Then Monroe leaned forward. "What the hell does a team with teeth mean?"

I didn't know, but my chest was tight, and my palms were buzzing. Whatever it meant, I wanted it. Bad.

I looked across the room. Mason was watching me.

And for once, I didn't crack a joke. I just looked back.

Coach had clearly mainlined espresso, and we hit the ice like we were on a mission from the hockey gods.

First drill—three-on-two breakouts—I drove the zone entry so hard my shoulder pads scraped paint off the boards. I kept my head up, spotted Lambert breaking late, and threaded a pass between two defenders' skates. Clean tape-to-tape.

Lambert didn't chirp me about showboating—just tapped his stick twice on the ice. In Lambert-speak, that was practically a standing ovation.

We weren't perfect, but we were relentless. We chased every loose puck and followed up every missed shot like we had something to prove.

I started calling out shifts. Encouraging rookies. Baiting veterans just enough to keep things sharp. Somewhere between Coach Mac's unhinged locker room monologue and the playoff bracket seared into my brain, I'd found a gear I didn't know I had.

Monroe pulled up next to me during the water break, steam rising off his shoulders. "Fuck, TJ. You out-hustled our entire fourth line on a conditioning drill. What'd you eat for breakfast? Rocket fuel?"

"Nothing wild. Just a full sleeve of Fig Newtons."

He shook his head, but I caught him watching when I skated back to the drill. Not mocking. Measuring. Like maybe he was seeing something new in me.

Coach blew the whistle again, called out a defensive adjustment, then gave me a nod. Barely a chin-tilt. It was practically a LinkedIn endorsement.

And then there was Mason.

He wasn't just going through the motions. He was dialed in—crisp footwork, sharp passes, laser-focused. Every so often, Icaught him looking at me. Not like I was being weird. More like he was committing my performance to memory.

During the final water break, Mason drifted close, towel around his neck, sweat darkening the collar of his jersey. Up close, I saw a faint red mark on his jaw where someone's stick had caught him during board battle drills.

"Strong shift," he said, voice low enough that only I could hear.

"You sound surprised."

"I'm not." He paused, watching Coach diagram something on his tablet. "I'm just not used to seeing you yell things that aren't trash talk. Or physics-defying promises about what you're going to do to someone's mother."

"Growth." I took a swig from my water bottle. The cold hit the back of my throat, sharp and clean. "I'm in my leadership era."

Mason's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough. "Suits you."

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