Page 79 of Hockey Nanny

“Neutral zone transitions,” I said. “Full speed. No coasting.”

Boone clicked his tongue. “We just finished bag skates.”

“Again,” I said, already lining myself up. “Gage, you’re driving wide. Boone, middle lane. I want quick support, tight gaps.”

Gage rolled his shoulders, visor flashing. “You’re in a mood.”

“Go.”

I took the puck, exploded forward, forced the play through center with my head up and my stick tight to my body. Boone cut across the blue line, Gage flared wide. I snapped a pass to Boone, accelerated past him, called for it back.

Boone hesitated half a beat.

The puck skipped. The timing was off.

“Reset,” I barked. “Again.”

We ran it again. And again.

Each rep I pushed harder. Longer strides. Sharper cuts. I leaned into my edges until my thighs burned and my lungs started to rasp. When Boone lagged, I surged ahead anyway. When Gage peeled off early, I finished the pattern alone, hammering a shot into the boards hard enough that it rattled.

“You’re cheating the drill,” Boone called after the third reset.

“You’re cheating the work,” I shot back.

I scooped up another puck, skated backward this time, forcing them to adjust. Defensive footwork into an immediate breakout. I pivoted at the hash marks, snapped a pass blind to Gage, then cut hard toward the net.

Gage fumbled it.

“Focus,” I said, skating past him. “Colorado doesn’t give you second chances.”

Boone coasted to a stop near the circle. “We’re not playing Colorado right now.”

“That’s the problem.”

I lined us up again without waiting for an answer. Continuous cycle drill this time. Corner battles into net-front rotation. I dumped the puck deep, chased it myself, took the hit I imagined would be there, then spun out with the puck and fed Boone low.

Boone made the shot.

I was already backchecking, forcing him to chase me, cutting off his angle, lifting his stick. I took the puck back and drove the net again.

“Jesus,” Gage muttered. “You’re gonna tear something.”

“Then move,” I said. “We’re tied with Colorado and it all comes down to the next game.”

Sweat ran down my spine. My chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. The image of Carissa flashed uninvited. Her face in my doorway. The way her voice had sounded when she said she couldn’t do this anymore. The way Henry’s cry had cut through the hall after.

I dug in harder.

We shifted to faceoff drills. I took every draw. Boone protested after the fifth straight loss.

“You’re not even letting us switch,” he said.

“Win one,” I replied.

I slammed my stick down, crouched low, focused on the puck like it was the only thing left in the world. The official wasn’t there, but I dropped it myself anyway, snapping my wrist, driving through Boone’s stick with brute force.

The puck popped loose.