He hit the ice with Jett and Bracken, taking up the left side of the rink while the rest of the team ran drills on the right. Powers waved at them from the net, and Harrison felt obligated to return the gesture.
He ignored Jett’s laughter and turned to Bracken and Cote. “I’m not going to waste time here. Your coach is fucking crazy for trying to pull this off right before a game. The three of you have to practice your passes and get a feel for each other in the limited hours we have. You’ll be playing at a higher speed than with Hellström, so this is your chance to get comfortable.”
“We’re going for speed against Park?” Bracken asked, looking hesitant. “Not defence?”
“Coach decided that offence would be a better defence against Park this time,” said Harrison. “When you guys played defensively against the Conclaves last time, Wolf spent more minutes in the sin bin than on the ice. Coach also threw a bunch of math at me, but his statistics showed that most teams try for a defensive game nine times out of ten against the Conclaves, and Park fucks with them all.”
“Speed it is then,” Jett muttered. “We can’t lose any worse than we did last time.”
“You should have been here the year before you got drafted,” said Bracken. “Fifteen pucks went into our net thanks to Park. Our previous goalie, who was with us for eight years, retired, and Rose had to step up until we got Jace.”
Cote sucked in a breath. “I remember that game. You guys got slaughtered online by your fans, and riots broke out. I still have no idea how the Sunburst team managed to afford to draft Jett after that.”
“Worst team gets the best shot at first pick,” said Bracken, holding a fist up for Jett to bump. “Huzzah.”
Jett accepted the fist bump. “Good thing you guys were shit. This is the team I wanted to play for the most anyway.”
“Can’t imagine why,” said Bracken, shooting Harrison a look.
“Are you guys going to talk all day?” Powers shouted from the net. “I want to hear what you’re saying. Come closer!”
“Enough chatter,” said Harrison. “Let’s shoot some pucks at Powers to shut him up.”
“Hey!”
Harrison blew his whistle just to fuck with him and moved to the side so he could observe. Bracken started at center ice with Jett on his right and Cote on his left, saying a few words to them before the whistle was blown, and an assistant coach dropped the puck.
The three of them ate up the ice, passing as fast as they could until they were in front of the goalie. Cote took the first shot and missed, sending the puck ringing off the bar and out of reach, where Jett picked it up.
They repeated this several times while Harrison watched, creating a mental list to review once he was ready. Cote struggled to keep up, which was expected when he was paired up with two guys who made it to the playoffs together.
When Cote’s shot missed for the fifth time, he cursed loudly and slapped his stick on the ice. He skated back to center, but Harrison stopped him.
“Cote.”
The rookie changed direction and came toward him, frowning with disappointment.
“Coach?”
“Not a coach,” said Harrison. “Why are you struggling to catch Bracken’s passes?”
“Because I fucking suck, obviously,” said Cote.
“You’re getting this pissed after playing for less than thirty minutes?” Harrison crossed his arms over his chest, giving the kid a look he normally reserved for Arlo. “Kinda sad.”
Cote’s dark skin flushed with shame and embarrassment. “Bracken gives misdirected passes that are hard to follow. I’m used to making eye contact, or a cue that the puck is coming my way. I need time to catch on.”
“Bracken has won games with those passes,” said Harrison. “If you think it’s hard to guess where the puck is coming from, try being on the other team.”
Cote said nothing.
Harrison sighed. “Cote, when you helped win that game against Calgary, did you struggle to find the puck when Bracken passed it to you?”
A head shake.
“Why is that? Do you remember?”
The kid made a face, like he had swallowed something sour. Fuck, he was barely out of high school.
