Page 118 of Thrown for a Loop
“Of course.” I reach toward the door and swing it open.
He catches my hand before I can exit the car. “Where’s my goodbye kiss?”
“Here?” I gasp. “Nobody can see us together, Chase. Not until they offer me a contract for next year.”
He frowns, and I expect him to argue. To tell me it shouldn’t matter. “Okay. I get it. Close the door again. Just for a second.”
I do it.
He kisses me quickly, but my heart practically detonates anyway. Because the smile I get is warm enough to heat the tristate area. “Now knock ’em dead,” he says. “And call me after.”
“I plan on it.”
Three minutes later I trot into the equipment room. “Hey, Bernie! Were you able to fix my skates?”
“You bet,” he says, looking up from the grinder. “And I haven’t let them out of my sight ever since. I even took them to breakfast with me. Here.” He leans down and picks up a skate bag from the floor, which he unzips to reveal my skates. “I’msosorry about yesterday.”
“Not your fault,” I insist.
When I reach the practice rink, Moreau is already there. He’s doing laps and scowling. He doesn’t even glance my way, which might annoy me if I didn’t see his attitude for what it really is—fear.
I plaster on a bright smile. “Morning, Jean-Luc,” I call.
He slows down and skates toward me, his expression already sour. “You are late,” he says in his French Canadian accent, his tone dripping with disdain.
“I’m actually three minutes early,” I reply lightly, crouching to pull a cone from my bag. “But I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
His scowl deepens. “What is it you want to fix about me today, Coach?”
That’s the thing about players like Moreau—they assume every coaching session is an insult, as if admitting they have flaws might turn them mortal. I don’t take the bait.
“Well, first of all, what’s already working is impressive. Your stamina? Exceptional. Your power? One of the best on the team.”
His expression doesn’t soften. “But?”
“But your transitions need work,” I say. “It’s not that you can’t move fast—you do. But you could be more efficient. Let’s start with your crossovers.”
Moreau sighs as if I’ve just asked him to handwrite the Declaration of Independence. But then he pushes off and skates a lazy figure eight around me. His power is undeniable, but his edges are sloppy for a player of his caliber, skidding slightly in every turn.
When he’s done, I skate over to meet him. “Okay, here’s the deal. You’re rushing through your transitions, and I think it’s a trust issue.”
His eyebrows lift. “Trust?”
“Yep. Let me guess—coaches have been harping on you about clean edges forever, right? And also your knee bend. Dig in here, shift your weight there, think about every little thing your blades are doing. It’s exhausting.”
He crosses his arms. “It is… not my favorite thing.”
I smirk. “Exactly. So let’s try something simpler.” I grab a hockey stick from the bench area and set up a simple three-cone drill. Then I position myself at center ice and hold my stick out horizontally—like a limbo bar.
“Here’s the deal. Forget about your edges. Think about carrying the puck through this course, skating crossovers. But you need to bend your knees and ankles deeply enough to skate below this stick the whole time.”
He frowns at me like I’ve just proposed juggling flaming swords. “But that is not a skating drill. That’s a stick-handling drill.”
“I don’t care what you call it. Just keep your chest up,” I say with a shrug. “Make yourself short enough using only your lower body. Five times, okay? Down and back.”
He sighs. But then he bends his knees and starts the drill.
“There we go.” I have to skate backward with my limbo bar as he moves. “Stay low! But no dropping your shoulders. Tits up!”
