Page 63 of Puck Your Feelings
Kane gives me one of those looks—the ones where his mouth stays perfectly still but his eyes do that crinkly thing that means he's laughing internally.
"Today," Coach announces with the enthusiasm of someone who's enjoys other people's suffering, "we're doing something a little different for team building."
Wall groans preemptively. "If it's karaoke again, I quit. My dignity was already low, but okay."
"Not karaoke." Coach grins. "Figure skating."
The collective groan that rises from twenty professional hockey players could power a small city with pure dismay.
"Figure skating?" Petrov repeats, his accent thickening with distress. "Like with the spinning and the sequins?"
"The triple axels and the jazz hands?" Groover adds, demonstrating with a halfhearted shimmy that makes Mateo, who's watching from the stands, snort-laugh into his coffee.
"The tight pants and the—" Wall starts.
"Yes, yes, all of it," Coach interrupts. "Except the sequins. Those are optional."
Kane shifts beside me, and I glance over to find him studying the ice with unusual interest. Almost like he's... excited? No, that can't be right. Kane doesn't get excited. He gets "cautiously optimistic" at best, and that's usually reserved for perfectly executed defensive plays and protein shakes.
"Why?" I ask, because someone has to. "Why are we doing this?"
Coach's grin widens. "Because, Becker, hockey is about power and speed, but it's also about balance and control. Figure skating will help with your edge work and your core stability. Plus," he adds, "management thinks it'll make for good social media content."
Of course they do. Ever since the podcast incident, the PR team has been milking our unexpected viral fame for all it's worth.
"And to help us," Coach continues, "I've brought in an expert."
He gestures toward the rink entrance, where a petit woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun is watching.
"This is Svetlana Fedorova," Coach says. "Former Olympic coach, three-time gold medalist, and—"
"And you are all too stiff," Svetlana interrupts, her accent thick as she glides onto the ice with more grace than our entire team combined. "Hockey players think only of power. I teach you grace."
She can't be more than five feet tall and probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, but there's something in her eyes that makes me want to apologize for things I haven't even done yet.
"Oh good," Wall mutters. "A tiny Russian woman is about to destroy what's left of my self-esteem."
Svetlana circles us like a shark assessing which seal looks tastiest, her critical gaze moving from player to player.
"You," she points at Groover. "With him." She jabs a finger at Ace.
"You." Petrov jumps when she stops in front of him. "With the tall one." She indicates Wall, who looks like he's contemplating retirement.
"This is a safety hazard," Wall protests as Petrov reluctantly skates to his side. "I'm at least a foot taller than him."
Svetlana ignores him. "You two." She points at Washington and Coach Martin, both of whom immediately start making excuses.
"I should really only observe—" Coach begins, while Cap tries, "I have a knee thing—“
"Partners," she cuts both off, in a tone that suggests they can either comply or die.
They comply.
She continues around the circle, pairing players off with ruthless efficiency until she reaches Kane and me.
"You," she says, eyeing Kane with sudden interest. "You have done this before."
Kane's cheeks flush slightly. "A little. When I was younger."
