Page 16 of Stick It
A dark figure moves in and out of the crease with almost mechanical precision. With broad shoulders, black jersey, and a presence that commands the space between the pipes, there’s a cold, controlled intensity in every movement that’s unmistakable.
I’m watching Griffin Price in action.
I’m rooted to the spot, captivated as he drops into a butterfly.His knees hit the ice with a dull thud before he slides effortlessly to his left, pads skimming the surface. He snaps upright, his stick tapping the ice in a rhythm that seems to echo in the silence.
His movements are sharp, purposeful. No wasted effort. Every shift of his body is calculated, every slide and push deliberate.
My eyes trace the muscles of his legs, visible even beneath his goalie gear, the strength in his shoulders as he snaps his stick up to deflect an invisible puck. His agility is unreal, like he’s more animal than man in how he moves—quick, predatory, unrelenting.
And his skin—God, his skin practically glows under the dim lights, slick with sweat despite the cold. The memory of seeing him in the gym earlier, his muscles taut and his focus absolute, lingers in the back of my mind. Seeing it in action now, how every ounce of power is being put to use, is…hot.
Heady in a way it has no business being.
I force myself to blink, tearing my gaze away.Focus, Dylan. You didn’t come here to gawk.
Moving to sit on the edge of the nearest bench, I lace up my skates before stepping onto the ice. The familiar bite of the blades against the frozen surface grounds me. I glide slowly at first, letting my legs find their rhythm as I move to the opposite end of the rink.
Griffin doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge me, but somehow—don’t ask me how—I know he’s aware I’m here. Turning my back to him, I block him out as effectively as he is blocking me.
Starting with puck control drills, I position the net close to the boards and line up at an angle. Firing the puck against the boards behind the net, I practice catching the rebound and snapping it into the net. The slap of the puck ricocheting off theboards echoes across the rink, loud and sharp. With eachbangof the rebound, the tension in my shoulders loosens. The world around me fades until it’s just me, the ice, and the puck in front of me.
After a while, I shift to sprints. I’d typically do goal line to goal line, but I don’t want to encroach on Griffin’s space. The shorter distance across the rink makes for a fun challenge as I’m forced to pick up speed faster before slamming to a stop at the other side. Ice kicks up in sprays around me, and my lungs burn, my legs aching as I push myself harder.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Griffin still performing his own drills. He drops low, his stick flashing as he imagines blocking a breakaway shot.
As time ticks on and I move to practice puck handling, a strange kind of camaraderie forms between us. Neither of us speaks. We don’t even glance at each other, but there’s an energy between us. An understanding. A common goal.
Two players, both driven by the same relentless need to improve. To be better than yesterday. To be better than anyone else.
An hour later, the soft scrape of my skates against the ice is the only noise besides the thrum of my pulse, still buzzing in my ears from the drills I was doing as I gather the cones I scattered around my half of the rink.
Spotting movement in my periphery, I glance in Griffin’s direction as he skates toward the gate. He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all, much like when we’re in the gym.
The absence of any snide comment or challenge is strange, but it feels…good. Better than it has any right to feel.
I nod to myself, barely holding back a grin. The silence between us, the lack of a demand for me to leave, or an attemptto make me feel out of place—it feels like a small victory. A win. For just a moment, there’s peace.
Perhaps we truly do have an unspoken truce.
I can’t imagine any of the other guys on the team would have let me be like this. Regardless of Ethan’signore herrule, I doubt anyone else would have let the opportunity pass without making it clear what they really think of my presence on their team.
I guess Griffin doesn’t care enough to make a fuss. Goalies are a breed of their own. While they play on a team, they aren’t apartof it the way the other players are. Their job is individual. It’s entirely up to them if they save or let in a goal. There’s no group effort. It’s one hundred percent solely on them to stop the puck from entering that net. Team dynamics mean fuck all so long as he’s performing his job to the best of his capabilities.
Whatever his reason, I don’t care. I can live very comfortably in this amnesty we seem to have silently agreed on.
Once off the ice, Griffin quickly removes his skates and grabs his duffel before he’s out the door. He doesn’t glance back, but I don’t expect him to. He’s just…gone.
Alone, I dump my cones at the edge before doing an aimless skate around the rink. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid, but something about Griffin not giving me trouble feels like a win.
Breathing the cold air deeply into my lungs, I relish having the rink to myself. No pressure. No one telling me where I belong. I’m good here—on my own.
Eventually, I force myself off the ice.
After all, I have roommates to avoid, game tape to review, and reading to do before tomorrow.
6
DYLAN
