Page 65 of The Longest Shot
I skate directly to Kellerman as the team holds its collective breath, probably expecting me to make a gag. Instead, I pull Kellerman aside, close enough that our conversation won't become locker room entertainment. The kid's face cycles through emotions faster than his ex used to change her relationship status.
"What did you see there?" My voice stays calm, channeling every patient correction Morgan has given me during our study sessions.
Kellerman's jaw works, clearly still surprised I didn't make a gag or call him out. "Martinez was breaking, and I thought I had him."
"You thought you could win the whole session on one pass." I tap my stick on the ice, a quiet rhythm. "That's on me, not you."
His head snaps up so fast I worry about whiplash.
"I let you think that way," I continue. "I made you believe that the flashy play was more valuable than the smart one. I've been teaching you to be YouTube highlights instead ofchampionship players, but we're not playing that sort of hockey anymore, OK?"
God, admitting failure out loud feels about as comfortable as a prostate exam from someone with cold hands and a grudge. But Morgan does it all the time in our sessions—acknowledges when her teaching method isn't working, adjusts without an ego-driven meltdown—and she clearly does the same with her team.
And, damn it, I've seen how effective it is on meandher team.
They do say imitation is the best form of flattery, right?
"Look," I say, dropping my voice. "You're trying to be the hero because that's what I've modeled… jokes… trick saves… but you know what I learned?"
He shakes his head.
"Heroes make the news," I finally say. "Systems win championships, like it did for Mike and the rest of us last year, and like it will this year for Morgan's team…"
"OK," Kellerman says and nods slowly, something shifting in his expression.
"Just get the puck out clean," I tell him. "Trust that Cooper or Schmidt will make the next play. The system will work if you trust it."
We reset, and I see the same face-off, the same initial movements. The puck flows backward, around the boards, textbook perfect. But when it reaches Kellerman this time, I see his body coil for that stretch pass. Martinez is there again, that same tantalizing window opening up.
For a heart-stopping second, Kellerman's stick angles toward center ice.
Then his weight shifts. He makes the simple, smart play, a chip pass along the boards to Nash, who's in perfect support position. Nash carries it over the blueline with speed, noresistance, and we're out of our zone two full seconds faster than the previous attempt.
It's not sexy.
It won't make anyone's highlight reel.
But it's clean, efficient, and exactly what wins hockey games.
"There it is!" The approval explodes out of me. "That's hockey, boys!"
We run the drill six more times, each rep getting cleaner, faster, and more automatic. The guys stop hunting for glory and scratch-under-the-chin praise and start trusting the machine. Schmidt and Cooper work the defensive pairs in perfect synchronization. Even Nash is fully engaged.
The strange, focused quiet persists, but it's different now.
Not confused or uncomfortable, but purposeful.
"That's enough," I call out after the last rep. "Stretch, then hit the showers."
As the team starts their cooldown, movement in my peripheral catches my attention. Coach Pearson pushes off from where he's been leaning against the boards, his expression unreadable. He's been watching the entire session from the bench, silent as my parents during their worst fights.
Normally, he's the one trying to bring order to my chaos, but this season, the guys have struggled to buy in. But this session, he's let me take the rope, and when he stops beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder pad, it feels meaningful.
"That's the best we've looked this season, Captain," he says.
Not "good job, Rook" or "nice practice, kid."
He called me Captain like it actually means something.
