“I’m not just blocking, I’m steering. When you can control your rebound direction, you control the next play. Try it.”
Hall nods and resets. I slide a puck over, and he drops to butterfly, blocker angled—but the puck pops right back into the slot.
“Try turning your wrist slightly. Keep your elbow tight. Let it ride off the face, not the edge.”
Hall adjusts, nodding again. He goes through the rep a few more times, getting better each time.
“Do you ever think about coaching?” Hall asks, setting up again but letting the puck hit too far up his blocker and bounce high.
“No. Maybe some day.”
“You should think about it. My college coach has been talking about puck placement off the blocker for four years, and I’ve learned it better from you in three weeks.”
I swallow and shoot again. I know he means it as a compliment—and he’s probably right that coaching would be a good fit for me one day—but I’m not ready for that yet. I don’t want that. I don’t want my only influence to be on the bench.
I want to be on the ice.
Hall tries the deflection angle again, and this time, he gets it cleanly—low and wide, directly to the half-wall.
“That was a beaut,” I say.
“Great rebound control,” Trevor says from the bench at center ice. “Nicely done, Hall. Good discipline on the angle.”
I could almost hang my head and sigh.
Of course they come in after I’ve finished working with him and not when I was the one in the crease.
Here I am, holding the door open for him …
I drop my shoulders and lift my head.
And I’m not going to stop.
I think about the windmill save yesterday. The cheers. The way I’ve smiled behind my mask more in the last few days than I have in years.
Mentally, I leave the door propped open for Hall, for Griggs, for anyone who wants in.
But I don’t care how tired and worn out I am.
That door is open for me, too.
I came to play.
Hard.
And hard, it is.
Otto and Trevor split the group into two scrimmage squads and push us through a relentless circuit. They have us run puck transition drills with live pressure and alternating 3-on-2 breakouts, followed by goalie rotation every ten minutes with rapid-fire shots from both wings.
And by mid-morning, I’m exhausted.
“There’s a reason veterans don’t go to training camps,” I mutter to myself at the water cooler.
But Otto chuckles right behind me. “Correct. Seasoned players do better to conserve their strength at the beginning of the season.”
This is the first time Otto has said more than a couple of words to me since camp started. My throat constricts, but I refuse to let my nerves choke the words out of me.
“How do you feel about Hall?” he asks.
