The lane closes. The puck hits a shin pad and kicks out to the neutral zone. The drill stops.
Callahan blows the whistle once. Not angry. Surgical.
"Again."
Isaac nods. Jaw tight.
Again. Same puck. Similar lane. Different body in front of him. He hesitates again, not as much, which is somehow worse because now the mistake has ambition. The puck gets through, but late. The forward has to adjust. The play dies in the corner.
"Again," Callahan says.
By the fourth rep, Isaac is sweating through the back of his practice jersey. Not because the drill is hard. Because thinking is heavier than skating when you are doing too much of it.
I know this kind of player. The body is ready and the mind is standing in the doorway with a clipboard.
Callahan knows it too. He watches two more reps, then looks at me.
"Cray."
I skate over. The hip registers the stop and sends a memo up the chain. I ignore it.
"Work with him after," Callahan says. "Gap control. Blue-line decisions. When to pinch, when to hold."
The assignment is tactical, also kind, also cruel.
Callahan could have given Isaac to Cole, who likes rookies because rookies remind him that people can still be surprised by hockey. He could have given him to Wes, who would teach by standing nearby until the kid absorbed defensive responsibilitythrough weather systems. He gives him to me because Isaac plays my position and because Callahan has a depth chart in his office that says the quiet part in ink.
Mentoring your replacement is a generous act if you do not think about it.
I think about it immediately.
"After practice," I tell Isaac.
His face brightens. "Yes, sir."
Jonah, skating past, says, "Hip."
"Shut up, Park."
After practice, the rink empties in layers. Forwards first, because forwards believe cooldowns are a rumor invented by defensemen. Goalies last, because goalies have equipment that requires its own climate. Isaac stays. I stay. Callahan watches from the bench for thirty seconds and then leaves us alone, which is Callahan's way of making sure the lesson belongs to me once he has assigned it.
I set two pucks at the blue line.
"Show me the hesitation," I say.
Isaac frowns. "On purpose?"
"You were doing it by accident. Should be easier."
He smiles before he can stop himself. Good. If a kid can smile while being corrected, he might survive.
He skates the pattern. Puck up the wall, pressure coming, lane opening. He pulls back a half-second too long.
"Stop."
He stops.
I skate to him. "What did you see?"
