Chapter Five #3
I glanced toward the Zamboni entrance.
Jack was still there.
Ryan noticed where I was looking.
"Jack's one of the reasons this place feels like home."
"Seems that way."
"He's played a part in this program for years. Everybody here respects him not just because he's Coache’s son."
There wasn't any exaggeration in Ryan's voice, only certainty.
Looking around the rink, I realized every veteran acknowledged Jack in one way or another as they skated past. Some offered a wave, others nodded or flashed quick signs with their hands before taking their places for warmups.
Jack answered each greeting with an easy lift of his hand.
Nobody who knew the man treated him differently because he couldn't speak.
Communication adapted around him as naturally as breathing.
Coach's whistle pierced the air and the warmup began without delay.
We started with easy laps around the rink before transitioning into edge-work drills designed to wake up muscles still recovering from the retreat.
Assistant Coach Lauren McKenna directed the skating exercises from center ice, her years as a professional player obvious in every demonstration she performed.
She demanded precise knee bend, full extension through every stride and complete control entering and leaving each turn.
Any player taking shortcuts quickly found themselves repeating the drill.
"Lengthen your stride, Brooks," Lauren called from the blue line. "You've got the power. Trust it."
I adjusted, driving harder through each push until the difference became obvious.
"Better."
The skating work gave way to passing drills under Damien Carol's watchful eye.
Three forwards attacked through the neutral zone against passive defenders, emphasizing timing rather than speed.
Ryan controlled the middle effortlessly, constantly talking, directing both Luca and me into open ice before I even realized where he wanted us.
"Wide."
I skated toward the boards.
"Now cut."
The pass arrived exactly where I expected it.
Without breaking stride I returned the puck to Ryan before driving toward the net.
Everything happened at game speed.
Carol brought the drill to a stop.
"Again."
We reset.
This time Ryan delayed fractionally before slipping the puck behind the defenseman's stick. Luca exploded through the gap, drawing both defenders before sliding the puck across the slot.
I one-timed it.
The puck struck the inside of the post before disappearing into the back of the net.
"That's why we put you together," Carol shouted.
Ryan skated past with a grin.
"You're going to fit in just fine."
The drills grew progressively more demanding as the morning continued.
Offensive rushes transitioned into controlled scrimmages before Nolan Pierce took over with defensive zone coverage, repeatedly forcing our line to attack against increasingly aggressive pressure.
Every repetition demanded quicker decisions than the one before, and every mistake became another opportunity to learn rather than something anyone criticized.
Across the rink Viktor Sokolov and Oscar worked exclusively with the other goaltenders.
Even from a distance I found myself watching occasionally.
Viktor rarely demonstrated physically, preferring instead to position attackers in different shooting lanes before asking Oscar what he noticed.
Several times Viktor repositioned players by only a foot or two before repeating the exercise, teaching them how the smallest change in a forward's shoulders, hands or hips often revealed where the shot would go before the stick ever touched the puck.
Roman and Harvey missed several predictions early, but each correction visibly sharpened their awareness until both began reading the attackers more accurately.
Watching Viktor coach proved why Coach Callahan valued him so highly. He wasn't teaching reflexes. He was teaching anticipation.
And judging by the increasingly frustrated expressions on the shooters' faces, the new men guarding our goal were learning remarkably quickly.
Throughout the entire practice, however, I remained aware of something else.
Every time our line rotated back to the bench or I glanced toward the far side of the arena between drills, I found Jack watching the ice.
Not constantly, and not obviously enough that anyone else would likely notice, but often enough that I became conscious of it.
Whenever our eyes happened to meet, he didn't turn away immediately.
Instead, he'd hold my gaze for a second or two which made my heartbeat stumble every single time.
Instead, I found myself wondering whether Jack was watching the practice...
...or whether he was watching me.
By the time Coach finally called us together at center ice, my legs were burning in a way that only the first full practice of a new season could produce.
Sweat soaked through the base layer beneath my equipment, every muscle reminded me I'd spent the better part of two hours skating at full intensity, and despite the exhaustion I couldn't remember enjoying a practice more.
Coach hadn't wasted a single minute. Every drill had served a purpose, every correction had been immediate, and every assistant coach had reinforced the same message—that talent might earn an opportunity, but only disciplined execution would earn ice time once the regular season began.
There wasn't a player standing around me who looked anything other than physically spent, yet nobody appeared eager to leave the ice.
If anything, the atmosphere carried a sense of satisfaction because we'd all learned something.
Coach removed his whistle before addressing us.
"There were plenty of positives today. The effort was where I expect it to be, and I liked the pace once we settled into the drills.
That doesn't mean we're anywhere near where we need to be.
We gave away too many pucks entering the offensive zone, our defensive coverage broke down when pressure increased, and some of you are still thinking instead of reacting.
That changes with repetition. Hockey is played at a speed that doesn't allow hesitation. "
He slowly looked around the circle, making certain every player understood he expected complete attention.
"Brooks."
"Coach?"