Page 94 of The Final Faceoff
Leif
No Overtime Required
The ice grips under my skates as I push off, testing the give beneath me. It’s crisp, untouched, waiting to be carved up. The boards around the rink gleam under the bright overhead lights—a familiar arena but not yet mine.
Two weeks in, and I should feel settled. The Vipers are a good team. The system is structured. The coaching staff knows what they’re doing. But that new guy feeling sticks to me like a poorly fitted jersey, and I hate it. There’s no routine yet, no muscle memory of where everyone will be at any given second. No instinct, just thinking. And thinking? It gets in the way.
Jason glides up beside me, knocking his stick against my pads in greeting. “You’re up early.”
I adjust my gloves, flexing my fingers inside the material. “So are you.”
He grins, all easy confidence. “Unlike you, I need warm-ups. Can’t coast on raw talent alone.”
I snort. “I’ll let you know how that works out for me.”
He tosses a puck onto the ice, watching it skid toward the boards. “One-on-one?”
It’s not a question, not really. We’ve been doing this since we were kids, since he used to show up at my house after school, dropping his bag in the mudroom like he lived there. Papa’s rink was always open to us. A place where we didn’t have to think about scouts or rankings or any of the big stuff. Just two kids, a puck, and hours to kill.
We even fought over who got to drive the Zamboni after.
Jason lines up at center ice, tossing the puck between his hands, rolling his shoulders like we’re about to square off in some epic battle.
I tap my stick against the crease. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”
“Oh, buddy.” He laughs, skating toward me. “That’s my line.”
He makes the first move, cutting in fast, but I read it before he even sets his blade. He always likes to fake left and then slip right—except he forgets I’ve had his plays memorized since we were fifteen. I track him, shift, block the shot with my glove. The puck smacks against the leather, a solid, satisfying stop.
Jason groans. “That was textbook.”
“For you, maybe,” I say, flicking the puck away.
He circles back, tapping his stick against the ice. “I’m starting to remember why I hated practicing with you.”
“Because I never let you score?”
“Because you’re a freak.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve been told that enough times by teammates, coaches, analysts. Even for a goalie, my skills are next level. I like the cold, the solitude of the crease, the impossible angles and split-second decisions. The whole world shrinks down to instincts and reactions, and nothing else matters.
Jason tries again, this time coming in with more speed, attempting to slip the puck into the five-hole. I close the gap at the last second, my pads sealing off the opening. The puck deflects, sliding harmlessly toward the boards.
Jason groans. “God, you suck.”
I smirk. “That was a warm-up, right?”
“Remind me why we’re friends?”
“Because you have terrible judgment.”
He grins, skating back to center ice. “One more round?”
I nod. We could go all morning, just like we used to, trading shots and chirps, skating until the world outside the rink felt far away. It’s different now—contracts, expectations, the weight of being someone’s trade acquisition—but on this ice, with Jason grumbling about my inhuman reflexes, it almost feels like home.
A couple of hours later, the real training starts.
I move into position, knees bending, stick tapping against the goalposts. Left. Right. Left again. A habit that’s as much a part of me as breathing.
