“I don’t care what happens in here,” he jabbed a finger down towards the ground, “but when you skate onto that ice,noneof it matters.” He pointed towards the door. “There are twenty-three scouts out in that arena right now. Twenty-three. Do you think they’re here to watch a soap opera? No, they’re here to find the next kid who’s going to make their franchise look smart.”
He let that hang in the air. Somebody coughed. Nobody moved.
“You know what a scout sees if you two,” he jabbed a finger between me and Clay, “can’t look at each other? He’ll see guys who can’t handle pressure and fold the second things get hard.” Corby crossed his arms and scanned the room again. “I’ve coached fourteen seniors into full-time contracts. And you know what all fourteen had in common? They figured out how to pass the puck to people they both liked and hated.”
Elliot stood up. He didn’t say anything dramatic, just unzipped his warmup jacket and let it drop onto the bench. The sound of the fabric hitting the wood was enough to draw a few eyes his way. He grabbed his helmet off the top shelf and tucked it under his arm.
“You lose today, you lose your season,” Corby continued. “The scouts go home, and your futures get real uncertain real fast.” He stepped back toward his office, one hand on the doorframe. “So I don’t care about your drama. Figure it out and pass the damn puck. Now get out there and win this damn game!”
For three full seconds, nobody breathed.
Then the room shifted. Some players stood and cheered, clapping each other on the back. Others stayed put on their benches, unlacing and relacing skates they’d already tightened multiple times. Beside me, Perez ripped a strip of black tape off his roll with more force than necessary, the sound slicing through the stale air. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Dominic grab his water bottle, take one pull, and then slam it back onto the bench hard enough to slosh.
Across the aisle, Karter watched me. He didn’t look away or fidget. He just held my eyes like he was daring the rest of the room to matter.
Karter gave me a single nod.
I grabbed my helmet off the top shelf and strapped it on.
“Let’s go,” I said to Perez.
Striding out of the locker room, I was ready to give everything to win on the ice.
The cold hit first, a sharp blast off the rink that cut right through my socks. I dug my blades into the surface and carved a tight stop at the blue line.
Five minutes later, the puck dropped, and our locker room animosity bled straight onto the ice.
First shift. The puck squirted free near center ice, and Clay scooped it with nobody in front of him. Perez broke hard down the left side, wide open, his stick slapping the frozen surface twice.
“Here!”
To my frustration, I watched as Clay ignored him and kept his head down. He skated straight into three defenders packed tight in front of the net, tried to thread a shot through a forest of shin pads, and lost the puck off a defenseman’s skate. Their center grabbed the turnover, flipped it up the boards, and their winger buried it top shelf before our goalie even slid across.
The horn blared. One-nothing with not even ten minutes gone.
Corby didn’t yell. Didn’t throw anything. He just stood behind the bench with his arms crossed and stared at the back of Clay’s helmet like he was trying to drill a hole through it.
We changed lines and hit the bench. I dropped onto the wood, chest heaving, and grabbed a water bottle off the rack. Clay sat a full body-width away from the next guy. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t say a word. Then he reared back and smashed his bottle against the boards.
Elliot leaned forward from his spot down the rail. He tapped Clay’s shoulder pad with his stick.
Clay flinched but didn’t turn around.
Corby’s voice cut down the bench before Elliot could open his mouth. “Clay. You see that guy in the white jersey parked in front of their net? The one waving his stick like he’s directing traffic?”
Clay lifted his head an inch.
“He’s wide open. You pass to him next time, or you’re glued to this bench for the rest of the goddamn night.” Corby clipped the words short and hard, the way he’d bark at a referee. “I don’t care how many highlight reels your dad wants to send to scouts. You play selfish, you sit.”
Elliot stayed quiet. He didn’t need to pile on. He just tapped the top of Clay’s helmet once with his glove and vaulted over the boards for the next shift.
I resisted the urge to send a snarky remark Clay’s way and instead returned my attention to the ice.
The next rotation flipped the game. Clay took a pass with a defender bearing down on him, pulled the guy just far enough off his angle, and slid the puck across to Perez. Perez buried it low into the goal stick-side. The goal horn cut through the noise, and as we skated past the bench, Dominic reached over the boards and thumped Perez on the helmet with his glove in celebration.
Next shift, Clay took a cross-check square between the shoulder blades just to chip the puck into open space for me. He didn’t flinch or retaliate. He just braced against the glass and cleared the lane.
Then the third period got ugly.
