Chapter 12 Davis
I'm watching Mueller when it happens.
He's running a forechecking drill on the far side of the ice, and the thing about Mueller is that his work ethic is visible from two hundred feet away.
Every rep at full speed, every stride committed, his whole body saying the same thing it's been saying since day one: I will outwork you because that's the only level I have.
The coaches have noticed. Berger has started calling him "the machine" in the larger group chat.
Mueller doesn't know this because Mueller doesn't read the group chat unless someone mentions a drill.
I'm cataloguing his footwork through a transition when the sound changes.
It happens fast. One second the drill on the near side is running clean, Fontenot cycling low with Volkov on the wall.
The next second there's an elbow where it shouldn't be, a shove, and every head on the ice turns because you can hear the difference between hockey contact and personal contact.
This has an edge, a sharpness that cuts through the ambient noise of practice like a whistle nobody blew.
Fontenot chirps at Volkov but I can't hear from this distance.
Volkov drops his gloves. Not all the way, not a full invitation, but enough.
Fontenot's come off a second later and for one ugly moment the two of them are squared up on the ice during a training camp practice and the coaching staff is frozen because this is not supposed to happen here.
Asher gets there first. I don't see where he comes from, just that he's between them before anyone else moves.
One hand on Fontenot's chest, not pushing, just placed.
His other hand up toward Volkov, palm out.
He's talking. I can't hear the words but I can read the body language from across the rink.
Low voice, eye contact, the physical calm of a man who has done this before.
Fontenot's chest is heaving but he's not advancing. Asher's hand is enough.
Ikonen arrives from the blue line. He doesn't rush.
He just covers the distance in four strides and stops near Volkov, slightly offset, not between them but beside.
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't touch anyone.
Just stands there, six foot five and imposing silence, and the space around Volkov contracts.
Volkov glances at him once, picks up his gloves, and skates to the bench.
The whole thing takes maybe fifteen seconds. Coaches blow the whistle. The drill resets. Practice continues.
But the energy is different now. You can feel it in the way guys give Fontenot and Volkov extra space during the next rotation, the way conversations on the bench drop to murmurs.
Camp has been building toward this since day one and everyone knew it, the history was too loud to ignore, and now it's happened and nobody knows what comes next.
I finish practice on autopilot. My reps are fine but my head is somewhere else, replaying the sequence.
Asher's hand on Fontenot's chest. Ikonen's positioning.
Asher as the warmth that de-escalates. Ikonen as the wall that contains.
Automatic responses that compliment each other naturally.
Together they shut that down in fifteen seconds.
I think about this while I'm changing out of my gear, and I'm still thinking about it when I walk down the hallway toward the training room for my post-practice stretch.
That's when I see them.
Asher is leaning against the wall outside the coaches' offices, arms crossed, head tilted back.
Ikonen is standing across from him, close enough that the conversation is private.
They're talking quietly. I can't hear most of it, just the low murmur of two voices and then Asher saying something that ends with ".
..handled that, by the way." Ikonen shifts his weight.
His shoulders drop a fraction. Whatever he says back is too quiet to catch, but Asher's mouth tips into grin, and for a second the hallway is just two guys standing in the aftermath of emotional team dynamics they managed together.
I turn around and take the long way to the training room. Some things aren't mine to watch.
After my stretch, I'm heading back toward the locker room when I pass the equipment room.
The door is propped open and the stray cat is sitting just inside, the black one with the white patch on his chest who's been haunting the facility since the first week.
He's on a folded towel someone left for him, paws tucked, watching the hallway traffic with the calm authority of an animal who has decided this is his building and he has authority over who comes and goes.
Ikonen comes from the other direction, changed out of his gear, bag over one shoulder. We pass each other and he gives me a nod, the same efficient acknowledgment he gives everyone, and I return it and keep walking. Three steps later, I glance back.
Ikonen's stopped at the equipment room doorway.
His head is turned toward the cat and the cat is looking up at him, and for two or three seconds neither of them moves.
It's not dramatic. It's barely anything.
A man and a stray cat regarding each other in a doorway, neither one committing to what happens next.
Then Ikonen keeps walking. The cat watches him go, head tracking his movement down the hall until he rounds the corner. A slow blink, and he settles back down on his towel.
A stray cat and a six-five defenseman just had a conversation without saying a word. I don’t know what they were saying to each other, but it seemed significant.
But then again, what do I know.