The locker room filled with the usual pre-practice noise—tape ripping, sticks clacking, and Pickle laughing with Hog over something on Pickle's phone. I pulled on my gloves, testing the fit around the still-tender spot where I'd caught a puck funny during yesterday's practice. The bruise was yellowish-green, healing but persistent. It was a reminder that hockey always left marks.
"You good to go, Spreadsheet?"
Coach's voice cut through the ambient noise. I looked up, surprised to find him looming over me.
"Ready, Coach."
"Good. Keep Vegas in line out there. Kid's got hands, but he plays like he's trying to impress his ex."
A few guys chuckled.
I wanted to say something. Defend him, or at least point out that Jake's showboating had led to two assists in our last scrimmage. The words stuck in my throat the way they always did when speaking up mattered most.
I stood and headed for the door, stick in one hand, helmet in the other.
Jake fell into step beside me. "So, any kind of mess you'd like me to avoid today? Or should I wing it and see what happens?"
I glanced at him sideways. He was grinning.
"Stick to the system. It's early in the season, but every game matters when playoffs roll around."
Jake's expression turned serious. "Playoffs. Right. The big picture. The long game. All very responsible and adult of us."
"It's not a joke."
"I know. Trust me, I know exactly how serious this is."
We reached the tunnel entrance, and I gazed at the ice beyond. It was where I made sense.
"Evan." Jake stopped walking. I turned to face him. "I'm not trying to screw this up for you, or for the team. I know you don't believe that yet, but..."
His voice trailed off, shrugging like he'd run out of words. Probably a first.
"Prove it," I said.
"Deal."
The ice was fast under my blades, a perfect combination of fresh Zamboni work and just enough give to let me carve turns without fighting for my grip. I took three warm-up laps, testing my edges and settling into a familiar rhythm.
Coach dropped the puck for the first drill—a simple 3-on-2 rush we'd run a hundred times. I settled into my position,reading Jake's approach with my peripheral vision. He was supposed to hold the blue line, force the play wide, and give me time to step up on the puck carrier.
Instead, he jumped the gap early.
The forward saw it coming and slipped a pass behind Jake's reaching stick. Now, I had two attackers coming at me with my partner three strides out of position, scrambling to recover.
I managed to break up the play with a poke check, but barely. The puck skittered harmlessly into the corner, and Coach's whistle shrieked across the ice.
"Again," Coach barked. "And Riley? The blue line isn't just a suggestion."
Jake skated back into position, shaking his head slightly.
We reset. Same drill. This time Jake held his position for two seconds longer before jumping again. Different timing, same result—me scrambling to cover for his freelancing while he chased a play that existed only in his head.
The whistle came again, sharper this time.
"Carter, Riley!" Coach's voice was like a Lake Superior foghorn. "Figure it out or hit the bench!"
I coasted to the boards, breathing hard. Jake followed, his blade working loose and easy, as if he hadn't just blown two consecutive defensive coverages.
