“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
West, our assistant coach in charge of special teams, is waiting for us in the training room just before five, along with the video coach, Sammy.
“Take a seat, boys. We’ve got a lot of work to do,” West says, and the rookie sits front and center. I drop into my seat, a row behindand three over. There’s a full rink diagram on the whiteboard at the front of the room, but they haven’t drawn any moves on it yet.
Coach Dennings walks in before they can start. He likes to make sure the boys remember he’s behind every decision for the team, and that usually means he’ll make a point to stop in on sessions like these.
“Okay, I’ll keep it short,” he begins. “West and I have a plan to really dominate the power play this season, but you have to crawl before you walk, so for today, I want you all to focus on our base power play, really set our foundation. West, I’ll leave the boys with you.”
“Thanks, Coach,” West says, and then he turns his attention to us. He hands out the roles. “Raines, you’re our half-wall, Hart, you’ll be our weak-side flank.”
“Okay.”
“So you’ll start here,” West says, pointing to the whiteboard where he draws a WSF. “Hold your ice, stay inside the dots, stick at the ready. Don’t slide behind the net or drift high. Don’t go searching for the puck. If you’re in the right spot, it’ll find you.”
“Got it,” Hart replies with a curt nod.
They show us some video examples of successful power plays from previous seasons, reiterating why they worked, and then run us through a couple of mistakes.
“What’s open here?” West asks, looking to the seasoned players for answers.
“The seam,” Hart answers before I can, and West smiles.
“Exactly. And if that’s taken away?”
“The bumper,” I say, and Hart turns toward me, that wide smile stirring something inside me yet again.
“Perfect. Okay, moving on,” West says, and he runs through the code words next, reinforcing what I already know. Hart’s attention only leaves the front of the room when he turns to look at me as I answer one of West’s questions, and it makes me want to draw his attention even more.
Out on the ice, I can tell Luka wants to go after the puck. His skates shift as he holds his position, watching the puck’s every move. But if he starts freelancing and ignoring structure, Coach Dennings will bench him, or worse, send him down.
“Hold . . . hold . . .” I call out as we run through again. “Now,” I say, and Hart is exactly where he needs to be to get the puck and take the shot.
“Nice,” West calls. “Now do that another thirty times, just like that.”
When we make our way back into the locker room before lunch break, I switch the television onto the Harlow Park Golf Tournament in hopes it’ll help distract me from my aching muscles while I take an ice bath.
As captain, I get to choose what’s on the television, and while hockey is ninety percent of my life, I try not to let how others are playing or what the media are saying get into my head in here. The locker room is where we need to keep our cool, our focus, but also wind down after a session or a game. Right now, with every club inpre-season training camp, the news outlets will all be talking about what to expect from us this season.
My breath catches as I descend into the ice bath. It’s like a cold punch to my entire body. My legs start to burn first, all nerves firing, trying to convince my brain to get out. But my muscles need this. I grip the sides as I lower myself deeper.
“Fuuuuck,” I groan and then grit my teeth against the biting cold as it spreads up my chest.
After the longest fucking thirty seconds of my life, my breathing starts to settle, and the burning in my legs and arms begins to fade into a dull ache. My toes are numb, and the sensation is spreading. My heart pounds heavily like a beating drum, counting every second that I’m subjecting my body to this torture. I open my eyes for the first time since I started my descent and catch Luka watching me with a soft smile, and my heart does that weird flippy thing it’s started to do, only in the ice bath it feels ten times stronger.
“There’s no room for showboating in the top unit,” I say, and a determination flashes in his eyes.
“I know. Philly scored in about twenty-seven percent of their power plays last year, which was five percent higher than any other team in the league.”
“You know the stats, but it’ll take work to lock in the drills.”
“I’m sure with the right teacher I’ll nail them in no time,” he replies, the wide smile returning, only this time I notice the small, adorable as fuck dimples in his lightly freckled cheeks.
I force my eyes closed again.
I can’t let my mind go there. I have to keep focused on my game. I’ve only got a few years left in this sport, and I can’t let some rookie hotshot mess with my head.
I focus on my breathing, the pressure around my muscles building. Normally I’d be counting, even though there’s a timer on the outside of the bath—I like to know how close I am to getting out—but I’ve been distracted. Fuck, how long have I been in here for? My mind goes quiet; the noises of the television, the players in the room, all of it fades away to a low hum. I count down from one hundred and then push up. My legs feel stiff and slow, like they belong to someone else, and I step over the edge, gripping the rail for support while I find my feet as the timer sounds. Urgh, I’ll do the full session next time.
