17 - Aiden #2
Everyone else peeled away while our unit reset near the goal line. A fresh puck slid along the boards toward me.
“You do the honors,” Grayson said.
I collected it near the hash marks and pivoted toward the neutral zone. The Dallas forecheck simulation hit immediately, with two of our defensemen crashing toward me, sticks extended. They forced the puck wide along the boards, and it was Grayson who cut through the middle lane.
“Mine,” he called out.
I pushed the puck forward and shot a pass through the gap between their sticks. Grayson caught it in stride and sent it ahead to Landon crossing the blue line.
Coach blew the whistle before the play finished. “Again. But I want it faster. If it’s a nap you want, then get off my ice.”
We reset. The puck came back to me and this time, the pressure arrived sooner. Defenders stepped in with their bodies angled to shut off the boards.
“What about it, Hotshot?” Tucker grinned. “What’re you gonna do?”
I dropped my shoulder and cut inside with a grunt, shifting the puck to my backhand just long enough to slip between them. Cash Money cursed out loud as I sent a short pass into the neutral zone where Grayson caught it, and turned up ice.
“What did I tell you about backing up your shit-talk?” Cash Money slapped the back of Tucker’s helmet. It quickly devolved into a playful shoving battle that only stopped once Coach blew his whistle.
“That was better,” he said. “Now do it ten more times.”
The guys groaned, but we weren’t expecting anything less with Dallas Stars next in line on the fixture. But ten turned into fifteen, and our movements grew heavy and tired fast.
My legs burned by the eighth rep. By the twelfth, my lungs dragged in cold air that scraped on the way down. Every pass had to arrive clean. Every pivot needed to hit the right edge of the blade or the drill reset.
Across the rink the other guys ran a shooting rotation near the far net, taking turns blasting pucks while chirping at each other.
Tucker sent one high over the glass that got some of the guys laughing.
“Going for a souvenir?”
“Just testing the rafters,” Tucker shot back. “Gotta make sure those things are sturdy or our fans will bring the house down when we kick Dallas’s ass.”
Laughter carried across the ice, and Coach ignored them for the most part. This was how practice went, and as long as the team didn’t slack through drills, he let us get through it in whichever way we wanted.
Not me, though. I could never loosen up enough to carry on the way they did. Sometimes it made me feel like I was missing out, but mostly it was fine because I focused on my game. Nothing else.
“Next rep,” Coach said. “Keep it going, boys. You’ve got this.”
I grabbed the puck again.
Push off. Cut toward the boards. Shoulder into the turn. Pass through the lane before the defender closed the gap.
Repeat.
By the time Coach finally waved us off the drill, sweat ran down my neck under the collar of my gear.
Landon coasted past me on the way to the next station. “You practice like someone’s chasing you with a contract deadline.”
“Better than skating lazy.”
He snorted. “This is energy conservation. Saving it for that ass-kicking Tucker talked about.”
Grayson skated between us, puck balanced on his stick. “Both of you shut it and get to the blue line.”
We moved into the next setup while Coach dragged a crate of pucks onto the ice.
“Transition drill,” he called. “Three on two. Defense flips the puck out. First line attacks. I want pressure on the net.”
The defenders fired the puck into the neutral zone. Grayson grabbed it first and turned up ice, skating straight down the center lane.
“Left!”
I sprinted along the boards, stick out in front of me while Landon cut wide on the opposite side. Grayson sent the puck across to me as we crossed the blue line, but a defender closed the gap immediately, forcing me toward the boards.
Pulling the puck back, I circled behind the net and pushed it out front toward Landon charging into the slot. His shot rang off the post.
“Finish those,” Coach called, his scowl turning his face pink. “What the hell are you doing?”
We reset.
Another rush.
Another shot.
Every rep demanded more speed, more grit, more everything.
At one point Tucker drifted past and tapped my shin pad with his stick. “Relax your shoulders. You skate like the season depends on every pass.”
“Doesn’t it?”
He laughed and shoved off toward his group.
“The guy’s intense,” Landon muttered.
“You’re doing fine. They’re just giving you shit because they’re supposed to.” Grayson circled back beside me while we waited for the next puck.
“I can’t mess up.”
“You haven’t yet, and I don’t see it happening,” Grayson said with a shrug. “So why not try what Tucker said, and just chill out a little?”
Coach’s whistle cut through the rink again, and we pushed off toward center ice.
The drill started again. Rush. Pass. Shot. Guys joked between reps, tossing comments across the ice whenever someone flubbed a pass or whiffed on a shot.
“Stars are going to send you back to beer league with that form,” Landon yelled at Tucker after a particularly weak attempt.
“Keep talking,” Tucker shot back. “I’ll screen your next shot.”
The chatter rolled around me while I lined up for the next rush, and every now and again they’d try to pull me into it.
A playful shove here, a comment there. The kind of stuff teams did when everyone knew where they stood.
I tried taking Grayson’s advice, giving as good as I got and laughing when it was called for.
But it all felt forced in a way. It felt as though I were pretending I wasn’t firmly entrenched on the outskirts of whatever camaraderie they’d established.
Grayson tossed me a puck during a break. “Your turn to start the rush.”
I caught it clean and circled back toward our zone. The rest of the line fanned out ahead of me.
From the outside it probably looked normal. Just another practice.
But I knew better.
Coach kept us moving until the clock on the far wall crept past the hour mark and nobody had enough breath left to argue about it.
The drills changed, though the pressure didn’t.
One rotation turned into another. Shooting lanes.
Defensive coverage. Net-front battles that forced us to fight for position while the defense tried to shove us out of the crease.
Pucks kept coming from every direction, fired low, high, or straight into traffic, forcing quick reactions while Coach stalked the boards and shouted corrections.
“Keep your stick on the ice, Aiden.”
I adjusted the angle of my blade before the next shot arrived.
“Grayson, cycle faster.”
Grayson snapped a pass behind the net and circled back through the slot.
We worked until sweat soaked through the padding under my jersey and my legs carried that heavy pull that always showed up near the end of a hard practice. Nobody drifted through it. Coach wouldn’t allow that, especially with Dallas coming in.
When he finally blew the whistle to end it, guys glided toward the bench with the loose relief that followed a grind like this. A few pucks still rattled across the ice where someone had fired a final shot after the whistle.
“Same intensity tomorrow,” Coach called, and groans carried across the rink.
The locker room turned loud the minute the doors swung open. Gear thudded into stalls, someone blasted music from a speaker across the room, Tucker complained about a bruise blooming on his hip from the crease drill.
“That was your fault,” Landon told him while tugging off his shoulder pads. “You tried to screen Grayson and forgot he hits people.”
Grayson pulled his jersey over his head. “Move your feet next time.”
The showers filled fast. Steam rolled along the ceiling while the conversation jumped from the Dallas game to somebody’s helpless golf swing last weekend. Towels snapped. A roll of tape flew across the room after someone stole it from another stall.
I kept my head down while I packed my gear, though the noise around me kept dragging my attention back. Tucker tried convincing Cash Money that he could beat him in a sprint down the ice. Cash answered by tossing a dirty sock at him.
“You can’t even skate backward without tripping over your own stick.”
“I had bad legs that day,” Tucker said defensively.
“You have bad legs every day,” Cash replied with a smirk. “That’s your problem.”
Laughter bounced off the lockers as the guys carried on, and Grayson caught my eye while pulling on a hoodie.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” The lie came easy.
He nodded once and turned back to whatever Tucker had just said.
Outside the arena, a few headlights cut across the parking lot as guys loaded bags into their cars. The air carried that cool bite that settled in after the sun dropped.
I slung my gym bag over my shoulder and headed toward my truck parked near the far row. Halfway there, someone jogged up beside me.
Landon.
He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans while matching my pace. “Couple of us are heading to Sheila’s. Pool tables just opened back up after that remodel. Figured we’d break them in.”
I shifted the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “Can’t tonight.”
“Sure you can.”
“Got some stuff to take care of at home. Sorry.” The words came out automatically, the way they usually did.
Landon angled his head toward me without stopping. “What stuff?”
This was new. The guys never bothered delving into my ‘no’ once I’d given it. They left me to decline and go on my way. Now I felt the pressure of a lie that wasn’t thought out all the way.
“Just… stuff,” I replied weakly.
“I’m not buying it, and neither will they.” He chuckled under his breath, and jerked his chin toward the other side of the lot.
I followed the motion to find a group of the guys standing around Hunter’s truck near the row of light poles. Grayson leaned against the passenger door while Tucker and Cash talked near the tailgate. Hunter sat behind the wheel with the engine already running, exhaust drifting behind the truck.
Every one of them looked in our direction. Waiting.
I turned back to Landon. “They don’t need me there.”
“You’re first line now.”
“So?”
“So you don’t get to disappear anymore, Center,” he said. “Most practices, and after most games, we go out. The sooner you catch up with that, the less trouble the rest of this season’s gonna be.”
I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder. “What trouble?”
“You’ll find out if you don’t get your ass over there.”
When I made no sign to move or give in, Landon threw some kind of signal over his shoulder to the guys watching us. A quick motion with two fingers.
“What are you doing?”
His grin widened. “Fixing your schedule.”
The group around Hunter’s truck broke apart, and started straight for us. Fast. Sneakers thudded across the asphalt while Tucker’s voice carried ahead of them.
“Don’t let him run!”
I turned back to Landon. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer, but simply stepped out of the way as the others arrived.
Tucker reached us first, and before I could shift out of the way, his arms wrapped around my torso and lifted me clean off the ground. “Got him.”
“What the hell?” I twisted in his grip, but it didn’t come to anything.
Then Cash was on me, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “The man weighs nothing.”
“Put me down.” My gym bag swung against my side while I flailed in their grip, feet kicking uselessly above the ground.
“I’m sure Landon explained the logistics to you,” Tucker said, as he and Cash started in the direction of Hunter’s truck.
“I said put me down.”
“Grab his feet,” Tucker called over his shoulder.
Grayson and Landon moved in without hesitation. Each of them caught one of my legs just above the ankles, and lifted until my body stretched out between them like some kind of ridiculous parade banner.
“Are you kidding me right now?”
Cash laughed against my shoulder. “Dead serious.”
The four of them crossed the lot in a kind of stumbling sprint, while I struggled against their grip.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” Landon said.
My legs jerked against Grayson’s hold, but his grip was a vice. I wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.
Tucker glanced down at me. “I see you’ve been wasting your time in the gym, Center. My kid sister has more upper body strength than you.”
“You don’t have a kid sister.”
“But if I did,” he said with an evil laugh, “she’d have more upper body strength than you do.”
Hunter’s truck waited a few yards away now, engine idling while the headlights lit the strip of road in front of us. He leaned across the cab and shoved the passenger door open.
“About time,” he called. “Thought you guys were gonna let him get away.”
“Believe me, I tried,” I muttered.
They carried me straight to the tailgate, and tossed me onto the bed of the truck.
My bag bounced beside me while the rest of them piled in before I could swing my legs over the side.
Cash dropped down on my right, Tucker landed on my left, and they both hooked their arms through mine to keep me in place.
Landon climbed in near the tailgate, and Grayson shut it behind us before running to jump in next to Hunter up front.
It all happened so fast, there was no time to devise an escape let alone execute it.
Bodies boxed me in from every direction.
“You guys are insane.”
“You’re probably right,” Tucker said.
Hunter slammed the truck into gear, and the tires screeched across the lot as it shot onto the open road. Wind rushed through the windows of the cab while the guys shouted victory loud enough for everyone to hear.
Meanwhile, I sat wedged between them with my gym bag pressed against my knee, watching the arena lights fade behind us.
Somewhere between Tucker arguing with Cash about which table he was claiming first, and Landon pounding on the back of the cab to make Hunter drive faster, the tension that had followed me all day cracked open.
A laugh pushed out of me before I could stop it, and Tucker elbowed my side.
“There it is.”
“Shut up,” I said, and let my shoulders drop.