Page 23 of Puck Your Feelings
Kane attacks the stairs like they offended him. I watch his powerful legs drive up each step, the way his whole body engages in the movement. His form is textbook perfect, and I'm definitely only noticing from a professional standpoint.
Definitely.
By the time we finish conditioning, I'm ready to curl up on the ground and become one with the earth. My legs are jelly. My lungs are on fire. I'm pretty sure I can taste my own mortality.
Kane's barely winded.
"Good work," he says as we head toward the rink for the next phase of practice.
"I despise you," I reply, but there's no heat in it. I'm too tired for heat.
"That's the spirit."
***
ICE TIME IS supposed to be the fun part. Skating, puck work, actual hockey instead of just suffering on dry land.
Except Coach Martin has other plans.
"Defensive drills!" he announces with the enthusiasm of someone who’s about to torture us for another ninety minutes. "We're going to work on two-on-two situations. Defense versus offense. Communication is key."
He starts reading off pairings, and I already know what's coming before he says it.
"Kane and Becker on defense. Groover and Ace on offense."
Of course.
Kane skates over to me, and we take our positions at the blue line. Groover and Ace are at center ice, both grinning like they know something we don't.
"Ready to get embarrassed?" Groover calls.
"Ready to play actual defense instead of whatever you call what you're doing?" Ace adds.
"Just come at us," Kane says, his voice flat and focused.
The whistle blows.
Groover and Ace attack with the kind of coordination that comes from playing together for years. They're passing, moving,creating space. I'm trying to read the play, trying to anticipate, but Kane's positioning isn't where I expect it to be.
I commit to covering Groover's pass. Kane doesn't cover Ace. Ace receives the puck with all the time in the world and snipes it past the practice goalie.
"Again," Coach barks.
Second attempt is somehow worse. We're both trying to cover the same player, leaving the other one wide open. Kane and I literally collide, our shoulders crashing together hard enough to knock us both off balance. Groover walks in and scores like we're not even there.
"You're thinking too much!" Coach yells. "Again. And this time, communicate like you're actually on the same team."
Kane skates back to position, his jaw tight. "You pinched too early."
"You didn't cover the trailer," I shoot back.
"Because you were already committed—"
"Gentlemen," Coach interrupts. "Less talking, more playing. Show me something."
The whistle blows for the third attempt.
This time, I see Groover setting up for his usual move—he likes to drive wide and cut back to the middle. Without thinking, I pinch down, cutting off his angle. It's risky as hell because if I'm wrong, Ace has a clear path to the net.
