I started to wonder if this is what she was like before the accident. Her routine for the clinic is still basic, notnearly to the level it was before, not yet. But thatfire? That obsessive focus? That need toget it right? It’s burning again, and I haven’t been able to look away.
I haven’t told her this yet, but her drive has inspired me to really step it up with the team. While she’s working her clinic prep, I’ve been on the other side of the bench, working on new plays to show Coach, tactics we can use that we haven’t before. Maybe we use them, maybe we don’t—but working them out makes me feel like I’m taking a more active role in the team and I’m relishing in it. I’m adding them to my own folder of clinic prep, too. I feel like we’re in one of those montage scenes in a coming-of-age movie, except we’re not in high school and this is real life. Still, it makes me want to playI Wanna Get Betterby the Bleachers.
The cold air bites at my skin the second I step onto the ice for practice, but I welcome it. It sharpens my focus, cuts through the noise still bouncing in my head. This ismydomain.Myice.Myteam. If Monroe can pull herself up and out, so can I.
I push off, gliding into a tight turn as the guys trickle out behind me. Pucks ricochet against the boards as Callum and Tyler start a quick passing drill.
“So I guess you won the bet,” Jax says, skating up beside me. I turn my head, confused. “Monroe’s panties. You got them off first.”
I snarl at him. He’s been better lately, but he can still be such a little shit. “Fuck off, Jax.” He exhales a laugh and skates backward away from me. I hope Coach puts him in his place today, because he’s back to playing the entire rink instead of sticking to his position.
“Hey, Jax, if I put a mirror on the blue line, think you could skate faster toward it?” Finn hollers, and I hide a laugh. They compete for ice time as our two top six leftwings, and instead of working game plans together, they mostly hiss back and forth like a couple of feral cats.
“Shut up, O’Reilly,” Jax snaps back. “I’m faster than you’ll ever fucking be.” He bodychecks Finn, and Callum and JD have to pull them apart.
Coach watches from his usual spot near the bench, arms crossed, sharp eyes tracking everything. Aside from a few spats here and there—mostly thanks to our resident rookie—we’ve beengoodlately. Better than good. The team finally feels like a unit, instead of a bunch of guys still figuring out how to play together.
But we still need to be better.
I grab a puck from the nearest pile and tap my stick against the ice. “All right, let’s go. Warm-up laps—pick up the pace.”
JD chuckles. “Someone’s cranky.”
“Yeah, Rhodes. Sleep okay last night?” Callum calls, skating past me backward, grinning like an idiot.
I flick a puck at his skate. “Worry about your shot, King.”
Tyler barks out a laugh. “He’s not wrong.”
“Oh, fuck off. That shot scored two goals this week,” Callum snaps back.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “Less talking, more skating.”
The guys pick up their pace. Coach has us run through a series of technical drills—edgework, tight turns, explosive starts. Then we move into passing drills—fast hands, one-touch passes, quick transitions.
He’s pushing the tempo. We don’t have time for lazy plays.
“Move it, Finn!” I bark as he hesitates on a pass. Finn scowls, but hedoesreact, snapping a clean saucer pass to JD.
“Thereit is.” I watch Coach adjust the camera that records our practice footage for playback. We make eye contact and he gives me a tight nod.
We cycle through drills, refining plays, tightening our movement as a unit. When we hit scrimmage time, I dig in. I don’t let up. If the guys want to keep winning, they need to feel what that means in every practice.
Beck’s on the opposing line, grinning as he squares up against me for the face-off.
“Let’s see if you’ve still got it, Cap,” he chirps.
I nod back at him. The puck drops, and I win the draw. Puck control is second nature, my stick damn near an extension of my hands as I wheel up the ice. I split two defenders and shoot—Weston barely gets a glove on it.
“Shit,” Weston grumbles as the puck clinks off the post.
“Close one, Matty,” I call.
“Eat shit, Rhodes,” Weston Matthews shoots back.
We run the last play of the scrimmage—Beck tries to put a puck past Weston, but I intercept, kicking it to my stick. I pass to JD, who buries it in the back of the net.
The guysroar.