Page 11 of On His Team

“One thing,” he repeats. “You know what yours is. If you don’t, come ask me and I’ll tell you faster than you’d like.”

Then he blows the whistle.

Practice is ugly. Which is probably the point. Coach breaks us into groups after twenty minutes. Mackey comes with me. Benson comes without being asked. Percy takes our net.

At the other end, I hear Fuller barking at somebody to get inside the dots, followed by Stanley arguing that he is “already inside emotionally.”

I stop listening.

Benson sets up near the top of the circle. Mackey waits on the far side of the net. I take a puck out toward the neutral zone and turn back toward our end. It feels stupid to dump a puck behind my own net on purpose.

Coach stands near the wall. “Go.”

I send it in.

The puck wraps behind the net.

I turn.

Skate.

Percy’s voice comes from the crease. “Pressure. Right.”

I look over my shoulder. Benson is coming hard from my right side, exactly where I expect him. My brain makes the decision before I reach the hash marks.

Wall.

I get behind the net. My stick reaches the puck. I send it up the boards. The whistle goes.

I stop.

Fuller skates toward me.

“What’d you see?”

“Reeve.”

“What else?”

I look around.

Mackey is standing eight feet away on the opposite side of the net with his stick on the ice. Open. I didn’t see him. Not because he wasn’t there. Because I stopped looking.

Coach waits.

“Nothing,” I reply.

He demands, “Again.”

I skate back out.

Second rep.

Dump.

Turn.

Percy calls pressure again.