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The third time, I catch his jersey as we rotate out. “Stay.”
He looks down at my glove, then at me. “Did you just put me in time-out?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No, Captain.”
“Watch.” I point with my stick as Mercer and Jax take the next rep. “See Jax?”
“Hard to miss him.”
“Deacon.”
“Watching.”
Jax holds his position instead of following the puck carrier. The play develops. Two seconds later, the pass Deacon has been trying to jump gets cut off because Jax is exactly where he’s supposed to be.
I look at Deacon.
Understanding clicks.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“I thought I could beat him there.”
“You probably can.”
His brow furrows.
“That’s not the point. You jump it and miss; you've got nobody behind you. Don’t make the flashy play because you think you can. Make the right one. And if you can’t make the play, make the pass.”
He nods once. “Got it.”
I smack my stick against the back of his pads. “Go.”
He gets it right on the next rep. I don’t say anything. Just give him a tap against the shin as we switch lines. The grin tells me he heard it anyway.
Mercer slides up beside me. “So, Cap.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything yet.”
“Never stopped you before.”
He hooks one glove over the top of his stick. “What’s Beckett think about his little sister living under your roof?”
I look at him. “Who the fuck do you think she called first?”
“Fair.” His mouth kicks up. “And Coach Beckett?”
“He knows she’s there too; the whole family knows. It’s not a damn secret.”
“I figured.”
“Then why ask?”
