Page 12 of On His Team

I look over my shoulder at twenty feet. Benson is coming from the same side. Everything in me wants to make the same decision. Wall. I force myself not to. At eight feet, I look again. Benson changes his angle. He comes underneath this time, taking away the reverse.

The far side opens. Mackey is there. I can see him because I actually turned my head. I get my feet around, arrive facing more of the ice instead of locking myself against the boards, collect the puck, and move it across.

Mackey takes it clean and walks out.

“There,” Fuller says.

It feels terrible. Like I completed six separate tasks to make one pass I normally make without thinking.

“Again.”

We keep going.

First look. Feet.

Second look. Pressure.

Puck.

Decision.

The more I think about it, the worse I get.

I know how to retrieve a puck. I have done it thousands of times. Now I am skating toward one like somebody handed me written instructions and I’m reading the damn list in my head.

Benson strips me on the eleventh rep.

Clean.

I’m halfway through my second look when his stick comes underneath mine, and the puck is gone.

He walks it straight out front.

Percy has to make the save.

“Fuck,” I shout.

“Again,” Coach says.

I go back.

Next rep, Benson cuts underneath.

The middle opens.

Or looks open.

I decide I am not going up the wall because I’ve apparently turned this drill into a personal fight with the boards. I take the puck and try to cut through the middle. Benson’s stick closes the lane immediately.

Turnover.

Another chance from the worst place on the ice.

Percy makes the save and says something under his breath in French.

I shake my head. “Yeah, I know.”

Fuller skates over. He doesn’t look annoyed, though I am. “You don’t have to use the middle because you see it.”