Page 22 of Changing the Playbook
Easy.
seven
MIKE
Ice showersoff my skate blades like crushed diamonds, catching the arena lights before vanishing into the white as I try to get on the defensive side of the ice. As I move as fast as I can, I watch Maine wind up for a slap shot from the blue line, all six-foot-five of him coiling like a spring-loaded sledgehammer.
The puck screams toward the net—a comet of rubber that I track without conscious thought—and my stick flicks up, intercepting the missile with a satisfyingcrackthat reverberates through my gloves and up my forearms, the puck dropping to my blade, ready for me to set up the next attack.
God, I’ve missed this.
This perfect marriage of instinct and execution that makes everything else in life feel clumsy and overthought.
As I skate forward, two defenders converge like predators closing on wounded prey. My thighs burn as I deke left and Kellerman bites hard, his momentum carrying him into next week. Still puppyish in his defensive reads, he reaches with his stick instead of moving his feet.
Rookie mistake, kid.
My eyes log Cooper moving into position by the far post, and the passing lane exists for maybe half a heartbeat, a sliverof geometry that my lizard brain calculates faster than any conscious thought. I thread the needle, the puck sliding flat and true across the ice, right onto Cooper’s stick.
Cooper doesn’t move or wind up a big shot. He doesn’t have to. He just elevates the puck to the roof of the net with surgical precision while Rook flops across the crease a heartbeat too late. The goal siren blares, the guys on my side of the drill scream with elation, and Rook hangs his head and growls in frustration.
“Now THAT’S what I’m talking about!” Coach Pearson’s whistle shrills, his voice carrying that particular brand of coach enthusiasm that’s equal parts genuine and performative. He glides over, applauding with his gloves. “Textbook transition, Altman. That’s championship hockey right there.”
I nod, but the trust in his voice sits heavy in my gut, curdling with the knowledge of what I’ve done and what he doesn’t know. His daughter’s skin under my hands, her taste on my tongue, the way she looked at me in that parking lot like I was simultaneously the best and worst thing ever.
Yeah, Coach. I’m a real stand-up guy.
“Just reading the ice,” I say, then circle back to center, skating away from my guilt.
Maine cruises past, jersey dark with sweat. “Christ, Mike, leave some glory for the peasants.”
“Pretty sure you peaked in peewee,” I chirp back. “I was pulling those dekes when you were still figuring out which end of the stick to hold.”
“Bullshit.” Maine’s grin could power a small city. “I came out of the womb with sick hands. Ask Rook’s mom…”
As I laugh, Cooper glides over and bumps my glove with his. “Beautiful feed, Cap. Barely had to work for that one.”
“Beautiful finish,” I return. “Maine would’ve tried to go five-hole and hit Rook in the cup.”
“One time!” Maine protests, tossing his stick with disgust. “Onefuckingtime and you?—”
Coach Pearson’s whistle cuts through Maine’s inevitable defense of his shot selection. The coach drifts to center ice with that effortless authority that makes you want to shut up and listen without him having to raise his voice. Our last coach thought volume meant respect, but Coach Pearson seems to know better.
“Red line, gentlemen,” he calls. “Five-on-zero rush, then back check. Crisp passes, smart decisions.” His gaze lands on Maine. “No showboating, Hamilton.”
Maine’s eyes go cartoon-wide, all wounded innocence. “I’m offended by the very suggestion that I’m anything but the model of a team player…”
Coach’s mouth twitches. He’s learning Maine’s particular frequency of chaos, how to tune it without trying to silence it completely. “Altman, take your line.”
We execute the rush with mechanical precision—pass, pass, shot—and Schmidt buries it. Clean. Efficient. Boring as hell, but that’s what coaches want to see. As we loop back for the back check, something loosens in my chest. The anxiety knot that’s been my constant companion since the ankle went sideways.
Because this?
This feels like flying again.
“Looking sharp, Altman.” Coach skates close as we finish, voice pitched for my ears only. “The scouts will be eating you with their eyes.”
The words land like a slap shot to the sternum.
