Page 32 of Don't Puck Up
He grinned and nodded, happy that we were both on the same wavelength.
Hux stepped forward, and the room went silent. His lips were drawn in a straight line, but his eyes sparkled.
“Stop making the team panic, dude,” I warned with a strained laugh.
“Glad to have you back, man.”
He pulled me in for a hug and I wrapped my arms around him, holding on tight. I’d fucked up with him. I’d hurt Alec, and the media had punished him for something he didn’t do. I’d put out a half-assed statement when we’d returned from Fiji, but it had barely made a dent, garnering very few views online and being ignored by most media outlets.
Hux had forgiven me. I didn’t know why or how, and I certainly didn’t deserve it, but he’d gone above and beyond. Both he and Gauthier were there for me when I’d needed them. I’d been at Gauthier’s rink with them for a large part of the summer, and then when the season started, they’d both made time to skate with me. It meant the world to know they had my back.
“Glad to be back training.”
“We doing this?” Gauthier asked once they were all geared up.
Getting back on the ice was like coming home. The ozone smell was as familiar as the reek of sweaty socks that permeated the locker rooms no matter how good the ventilation was in there. The crispness of the air and the chill sank into me, and I instantly found myself sinking into the zone. Coach wanted to run crossover drills—the team’s passing in the last game had been off—but getting back to basics suited me just fine.
Gauthier started, and we followed. I sped up, pushing myself hard. My skates carried me over the ice like a rocket, the blades cutting into the surface as the wrister Hewitt slung to me hit my tape. I set up my shot and took it, blocking everything out except that puck and my teammates.
The puck found Hux’s stick, and he effortlessly shot it back to Cohen, who passed it to Agosta, and then he sent it flying to me. I slapped it to Gauthier, and he shot it back lightning quick. The puck was moving so fast, it was a blur, but I was still in the zone. I caught it with my tape and flung it back toward Nieminen, our third line center.
I dug hard into the tight turn behind goal and shot out the other side, taking the pass and leading the drill back up the ice.
Once we were all sweating and out of breath, Coach blew the whistle and skated out to us. “Good play, team. Scrimmage now. Let’s hustle.”
The team split into three groups—the starting, second, and third lines. “Minns, you’re with Mironov on the third line.”
“Yes, Coach,” I called out.
Our two assistant coaches split, and Sawchuck joined our group. “Right, let’s give ’em a run for their money,” he challenged.
“First and second lines, you’re up first,” Coach ordered.
I was over the boards and watching from behind the plexiglass with a bottle of water in my hand within seconds. Coach blew the whistle, and they faced up, ready for the puck drop. I held my breath and watched as Wilson snatched the puck from Gauthier. Hewitt tried to intercept the pass, but he missed. Hux shouldered past Bauer to get the puck to Gauthier. It was a game of cat and mouse, passes meeting their targets most of the time, but opportunities to score were few and far between.
Then Hux intercepted a pass, and he screamed up the ice lightning fast. He shot, and Agosta shouldered into him, sending him flying into the boards. Coach blew his whistle, but the puck had already found its mark, and Gauthier wristed it straight through Rune’s legs. The lamp lit up and the buzzer sounded.
“Penalty, Agosta. Clean up your act,” Coach warned, gesturing with his thumb for Agosta to get off the ice. “Switch lines. First for third.”
I hit the ice, and Nieminen and Wilson faced off for the puck drop. My muscles were coiled tight, ready to explode into action. The puck fell from Coach’s hand, and I launched forward with as much speed and power as I possessed.
Wilson moved with the speed of a bullet, stealing the puck from Nieminen before he had even moved his stick. I clocked the way Wilson angled his stick and made for Popov, shouldering into him as the puck sailed toward us.
I intercepted it, taking the puck into our offensive zone in a split second. I passed it to Mironov, and it was as if we’d never been apart. Mironov worked his magic, squeezing past the second line’s defense before slapping a wrister to our forwards. Popov passed back to Korhonen. Nieminen was in the open and moved to scoop it up as Korhonen shot it to him.
But Cohen’s stick touched the puck, changing its trajectory. I spun on a dime and intercepted. There was clear ice in front of me, nothing between me and the net only a few feet away. I slapped the puck straight up the center and held my breath as Austin reached for it. He batted it away easily, and I cursed, but Mironov was there, slapping my back and cheering.
“Minns, you’re on the third line this week with Mironov,” Coachcalled out.
“We’re back,” Mironov roared, and I high-fived him.
I was riding a high, my laugh echoing around the training rink. I skated to the benches as Coach directed and the scrimmage continued.
When Coach finally called us off the ice, steam was billowing from my pads. My compression gear was soaked, and sweat ran down my face and back in rivulets. My muscles had that well-used ache, and I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face.
Mironov was right. I was back doing the thing I loved most. I fucking loved my life.
The locker room was buzzing with energy, and I floated on the high. Our next game was in LA, and I was going to be there, watching it from the bench rather than the stands, and actually getting ice time too.