Page 62 of Pucking One Night Stand

I snatch up my stick and grip it tight, the carbon shaft bending just enough under my hands to remind me it’s mine. My puck’s already moving, skating under me like it’s part of my body. Through cones, around sticks, quick dodges, my head up, eyes scanning, holding control like it owes me something.

Davis cuts in beside me and flicks his stick out to test me. I toe-drag around him and keep going.

We push each other hard.

Across the rink, Bishy’s working his drill. I don’t look, but I know he’s watching. Waiting.

“You all look like you’ve shit yourselves this morning,” McCullum barks. “COME ON! Crisp passes! No sloppy work! Where’s the confidence?”

We shift into passing drills, no break, no water. Just fire.

I lock in with Brody first.

Tape to tape. Bang.

Then McAvoy.

Quick release. Redirect. No time to breathe.

The puck snaps back and forth, clean, sharp, fast. The sound hits the glass. Fills the rink.

Peters slides in. Then Davis.

We move like we’ve done this a thousand times.

Because we have.

Bishy enters the rotation.

He receives a pass at the top. I feel it. The energy shift. Like the air thickens.

I don’t look. I don’t give him that.

But I know he’s hoping I will.

“NO BREAK!” Danny shouts. “Defensive drills! Set up!”

My legs are burning now. Every muscle feels like it’s fraying. But this, this is where I live.

They send us into read-and-react drills, two-on-ones, rush coverage, angling, and breakouts.

I track my mark like he owes me money.

Cut him off at the blue line.

Force him wide.

Use the stick, my body, pin him if I have to.

Let the boards do the rest.

The hits echo like shotgun blasts. Guys slam into the glass, bark orders, grunt, and curse. Sweat stings my eyes, but I don’t let up.

Across the rink, I see Bishy shift again. He wants another crack. He’s testing the water.

Not now.

McCullum’s voice cuts the air again. “TIME. Okay, shower, freshen up, and meet in the media room for video strategy at one. And don’t even think about being late. Okay, McAvoy?” Coach’s eyes are locked on him like a sniper.