Page 25 of King of the Crease

I feel a flutter in my chest, honored that I’ve made the cut in his opinion.

“It’s something my dad did. He loved people. Ready to become a wall?”

“A slightly less leaky wall would be ideal.”

He laughs. “We’ll get you there.”

On the ice, he starts simple. Very simple.

“First drill,” Hank says, skating backward. “Edge work. No puck yet. Just movement.”

He has me shuffle side to side in my crease, pushing off one skate, then the other.

“Short pushes,” he coaches. “Don’t hop. Glide. Imagine you’re a crab. A crab who stops goals.”

My skates wobble, but I focus on the edges, pushing cleanly instead of panicking. It feels better. Controlled.

“There you go!” Hank beams. “That’s it. Feel the ice.”

We repeat it again and again. Left. Right. Left. Right. My thighs burn, but I start to notice the rhythm. He tosses in commands.

“Post! Center! Post!”

I scramble to follow, bumping the post once with my pad.

“Ow.”

“Pads are your friends,” he says. “Trust ’em. Okay, next we’re going to do butterfly drops. I saw you do them at practice the other day, and…”

“They stunk?”

“There’s a lot of room for improvement.”

I studied up on Baltimore, but I should’ve been practicing my hockey.

“The key components to a butterfly drop: drop to the ice on your knees, spread your legs to block a shot, and seal your five-hole. Sounds sexier than it is.”

I snort a laugh.

“Okay”—Hank knocks on my helmet—“drop fast, seal the ice, then pop back up.”

He demonstrates—smooth, athletic, like gravity personally cooperates with him. Even though Hank is a bigger guy, he has the stealth agility of a gymnast. His legs must be all muscle. He must be dynamite in bed. The positions we could do…

I tamp down that thought so hard.

“Your turn,” he says.

When I attempt a butterfly flop, I collapse like a folding chair. And yet in the back of my mind are remnants of memories from my boarding school hockey practice. My coach had said something similar.

“Don’t throw yourself down. Control it.”

I reset, breathe, then drop again—cleaner this time. I manage to get back up without flailing.

“Yes!” Hank pumps a fist. “Fill out a withdrawal slip at your local bank because that was money. Do it again.”

I drop to my knees, legs out, this time with more control over my body.

“Yes!” he yells. “Someone call another Nick—Nicholas Cage—because that was a national treasure. Another one!”