“Not at all.”
He nodded, setting his tablet down on the bench. “Good. Today I want to work on something more advanced. There’s a move I’ve seen you do in past games a few times—a quick release off the backhand while you’re cutting across the slot. You almost had it before, but you’re telegraphing the setup. If we can clean that up, it’ll be lethal.”
I tried not to think he’d been watching me that closely that he remembered specific plays from weeks ago. “Okay. Yeah, I’d like to work on that.”
“It’s going to take some repetition. The timing has to be perfect, and you need to trust your edges.”
Trust. Right. That thing I’d been struggling with for months.
We made our way to the ice, and I spent the first fifteen minutes warming up while Kincaid set up cones and watched me skate. The arena was still empty except for us, the overhead lights harsh against the white ice, our voices echoing in the vast space.
“All right,” he called finally. “Come here. I’m going to show you the footwork first.”
I skated over, and he demonstrated the move in slow motion—the way you had to open your hips as you cut across the slot, how your weight needed to transfer to the outside edge at exactly the right moment to give you the angle for the backhand release. His movements were controlled, precise, and I found myself watching the line of his body more than the actual technique.
Focus, Russo.
“You try,” he said, moving out of the way.
I attempted the move, felt my edge catch wrong, nearly lost my balance. Tried again, got the footwork right but my stick positioning was off. Again. Again. Each time getting closer but not quite there.
“Stop,” Kincaid said after my sixth attempt. He skated over, and suddenly he was right beside me, close enough that I could smell whatever soap he used. “Your hips are opening too early. Feel this—”
His hand landed on my hip, adjusting my position, and every rational thought I’d been having evaporated. I could feel the warmth of his palm through my practice jersey, could feel his breath on the back of my neck as he leaned in to demonstrate the angle. If he didn’t take his hands off me I was going to be embarrassed any moment.
“You need to stay closed until the last possible second,” he said, his voice lower than usual, rough in a way that made my pulse race. “Then snap open right as you release. It creates deception that the goalie can’t read.”
His hand was still on my hip. I was acutely aware of how close we were standing, of the fact that if I turned my head even slightly, we’d be inches apart.
“Try it again,” he said, and stepped back, taking his warmth with him.
I tried again, and this time something clicked. My hips stayed closed, my weight transferred at exactly the right moment, and the puck came off my stick with a snap that surprised even me. It went bar-down, top corner, exactly where I’d been aiming.
“There,” Kincaid said, and I heard satisfaction in his voice. “That’s it. Do it again.”
I did it again. And again. And again, until the move felt natural, until I could execute it without thinking, until my body knew what to do without my brain getting in the way.
By the time we finished, I was exhausted and exhilarated and more confident than I’d felt in months. Kincaid had been relentless but patient, correcting small things, pushing me harder when he saw I could handle it, backing off before my ribs started to bother me.
We made our way off the ice together, and I was acutely aware of the fact that we were alone, that the rest of the staff wouldn’t arrive for another hour, that this felt like something more than just a training session even though I knew it wasn’t.
“Good work today,” Kincaid said as we reached the gate. “That move’s going to serve you well.”
“Thanks for taking the time to work on it with me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Right. His job. Professional responsibility. Nothing more.
I was halfway through the gate when he spoke again.
“I was surprised to see Odin Clark in Denver last night.”
I froze, my hand on the boards. Turned to look at him.
His expression was carefully neutral, but something in his eyes wasn’t. “I didn’t realize he’d moved here. That’s quite a coincidence, given that he was at the Chicago game with your family.”
“Yeah,” I said, because what else could I say? “He’s opening a Denver branch of his company. Bought three apartments in my building for his managers. We ran into each other the other night when he was moving in.”
