Page 1 of Offside Angle

The ice is a war zone and Damian is the general who decided mercy is for losers.

Four days until playoffs and he’s got us running the same drill for the third time in twenty minutes. My lungs are burning, my thighs are screaming, but I’m grinning like an idiot because this is exactly where I belong. The vets are eating it up. Cole is whooping every time one of the rookies eats shit on the turn, Shane’s barking encouragement that sounds more like threats, and Roman’s muttering something dry in Russian that makes half the bench laugh even while they’re dying. We’ve all been here before. We know the game.

The rookies, though? They’re not laughing.

Jace Moreno is about one whistle away from puking on his own skates. His golden-retriever face is flushed red, curls plastered to his forehead under the helmet, and every blast from Damian’s whistle makes him flinch hard enough to be embarrassing. Nico Bellamy is trying to hold onto his usual smug expression, but it’s cracking at the edges. The moment he slows down even a fraction, Damian’s voice snaps across the rink and gets him moving again.

“Bellamy! You skate like you’re on a date. Move your fucking feet or I’ll bench you for the opener and make you watch from the press box in a suit.”

Nico mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “yes, Coach” and picks up the pace. Smart kid. Stupid, but smart.

I cut left on the next turn, blades biting hard, and catch Jace trying to drift toward the boards. He’s fast when he wants to be, but he’s panicking and it shows. I swing wide, cut him off clean, and tap my stick against his shin pad hard enough to get his attention.

“Eyes up, Moreno,” I call, voice easy even though I’m breathing hard. “You’re telegraphing the turn. Watch.”

I drop into the defensive stance again, showing him the angle I want—hips low, stick active, body between the imaginary forward and the net. “Here. You cheat too far inside. Give them the outside lane and then take it away when they commit. Like this.”

I demonstrate the footwork slow enough for him to see, then speed it up on the next rep. Jace tries to copy it and immediately overcommits, sliding too far and nearly taking out Tyler who’s looping back around for the next wave.

Tyler laughs, bright and mean in the best way. “Look at that. Full circle, boys. Last season that was me eating pavement while you assholes chirped. Now look at you, pretty boy. Welcome to the big leagues.”

Jace flips him off without slowing down, but he’s smiling through the exhaustion. Barely.

I skate backward in front of him, mirroring his movement, stick loose in my gloves. “Ignore him. He’s just bitter because Shane painted that sad puppy on his locker last week. Focus. Again.”

Jace nods, jaw tight, and resets. The kid’s got good instincts when the panic doesn’t hijack them. I show him the move one more time, calling the timing out loud so he can hear it over the chaos of skates and Damian’s voice and Cole yelling something filthy at Nico from across the ice.

“Better,” I tell him when he gets it closer. “Now sell it. Make them think you’re giving them the lane. Then close it like you mean it.”

Jace actually grins for half a second before Damian’s whistle shrieks again and the whole line has to reset. He shoots me a desperate look, eyes wide, and starts edging toward the far boards like he’s about to defect to Shane’s end of the ice.

I laugh and cut across to herd him back in. “Oh no you don’t. You’re with me until you get this right, Moreno. Shane can’t save you from this one.”

The kid groans but doesn’t argue. Smart. He knows I’m the nicer one out here today.

Damian’s voice booms from the bench again, that familiar mix of ice and fire. “Rivera! Stop flirting with the rookie and make him earn it. If he can’t keep up with you, he doesn’t play.”

I glance over my shoulder at Coach, flashing the grin I know drives him up the wall on purpose. “Copy that, Coach. Just making sure your investment doesn’t die before the first round.”

Damian’s eyes narrow, but there’s the ghost of a smirk there.

I turn back to Jace, who’s staring at the two of us with a mix of awe and absolute terror. “You heard the man. Let’s go again. This time, don’t think. Just move.”

Jace keeps trying. He’s stubborn under all that panic, and every time he gets the footwork even half-right I give him the same steady nod and call the next adjustment. The line cycles again.

Tyler’s in rare form, skating backward past Nico just to mutter, “You’re leaking, Bellamy. Pretty boys aren’t supposed to cry on the ice.” Nico flips him off with a shaky hand and keeps moving, eyes glassy.

I stay glued to Jace. He’s breathing hard, legs shaking, but he’s listening. On the next rep he drops his hips lower, sells the fake lane like I showed him, then closes the gap hard and clean when the imaginary forward commits. It’s not perfect, but it’s the first time he’s actually done it without overcommitting or sliding into the boards.

“Fuck yes,” I shout, loud enough for the whole line to hear. “That’s it, Moreno. That’s the move. Do it again.”

Jace’s face splits into an exhausted, stunned grin. He resets immediately, clearly afraid the moment will vanish if he stops moving. He runs it twice more and nails it both times, the second rep even sharper than the first.

From the net, Shane lets out a long, piercing whistle—pure goalie approval, the kind that cuts through everything. “Look at that! Baby D-man grew some teeth!”

Jace whoops, throws his arms up in victory, and immediately faceplants straight into the ice like his legs have finally given up the ghost. He stays down for a second, helmet pressed to the cold surface, shoulders shaking with what might be laughter or the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that hits right after the adrenaline crashes. I skate over and tap the back of his helmet with my stick.

“Up, hero. You earned that one.”