Chapter 4
ADAN
The scrimmage was getting heated, and I fucking loved it.
Blue jerseys versus white, first line against second line, with Coach Brennan and Coach O’Brien calling plays from the sidelines while Coach Anders stood quietly near the boards, watching everything with those sharp eyes of his.
This was my favorite kind of practice: competitive, fast-paced, where everyone was trying to prove something.
The first goal had come early, a quick wrist shot from the slot after Tank made a perfect pass from the point. Nothing fancy, just good positioning and a clean release. But the second goal, that had been a thing of beauty.
I’d read the play perfectly, anticipating the pass before the defenseman even made his decision. Picked it off at the blue line while skating at full speed, suddenly alone with the goalie and two defensemen scrambling to catch up.
The first guy came at me hard, trying to force me wide, but I cut inside and deked around him so smoothly, it felt like he was standing still. The second guy was smarter, staying between me and the net, but I had momentum and options.
Fake shot to get him to drop down, pull the puck to my backhand, then bring it back to my forehand as I drove to the net. The goalie bit on the fake, sliding across the crease, leaving the top shelf wide open.
Bar down. Perfect shot.
Tank had given me shit about celebrating too much—I might’ve raised my arms and done a little fist pump—but whatever. Goals like that deserved celebrating.
“Nice one, Rivera!” Martinez called out as we lined up for the next face-off. “Save some for the rest of us!”
“Get better and maybe I will,” I shot back, earning laughs from my line mates.
The energy in the arena was palpable. Even though this was practice, scrimmages brought out everyone’s competitive side. Guys were throwing hits, goalies were talking trash, and the coaches were keeping score on their clipboards like it actually mattered.
Evans, our goalie, was chirping from the net about my celebration being “a little much for practice,” while Webb kept insisting his assist on the first goal was more impressive than the goal itself.
The blue team was down by two and getting frustrated, which meant they were starting to play more aggressively.
“Watch the cross-check, asshole!” Martinez yelled after getting shoved into the boards during a battle for the puck.
“Learn to skate!” came the response from the other team.
This was hockey at its best, with everyone pushing each other to be better. I lived for moments like this, when the game felt pure and everything else disappeared.
Webb won the face-off and sent the puck back to our defenseman. I broke toward the corner, calling for a pass as I saw an opening develop. The puck came my way, bouncing off the boards perfectly into my path.
This kind of corner work, where speed and strength mattered more than finesse, was one hundred percent my thing. I grabbed the puck and drove hard toward the net, lowering my shoulder as the d-man closed in. He was bigger than me, but I had momentum and the angle.
We collided hard against the boards, both of us fighting for possession.
I tried to muscle the puck free, pushing with everything I had, but somehow, he managed to tie up my stick and strip the puck away.
It slid harmlessly toward the corner where his teammate picked it up and cleared it out of the zone.
“Damn.” I slammed my stick against the boards in frustration.
“Unlucky break!” Tank called out. “You had him beat!”
I skated back toward center ice, annoyed. Sometimes, the bounces didn’t go your way. Sometimes, the other guy made a good play. It happened, but it didn’t mean I had to like it. I hated losing.
“Adan.”
Coach Anders’ voice cut through the noise of the scrimmage. I looked over to see him skating toward center ice, stick in hand.
“Can we look at that sequence for a moment?”
The scrimmage came to a halt, everyone gliding to a stop and turning to watch. My stomach tightened. Being singled out during practice was never fun, especially in front of the whole team.
“What about it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual. “Guy got lucky with the stick check.”
Coach Anders stopped a few feet away, his expression thoughtful but not critical. “I don’t think it was luck. May I show you something?”
“Show me what? I had good position, but he made a better defensive play.”
“Your position created the problem.” Coach Anders’ voice was gentle but determined. “You drove straight into his strength instead of using the angle to create options for yourself.”
Heat flashed through my chest. “I had the angle. I was beating him to the net.”
“But you only had one option and that was to power through him. What if he was stronger than you expected?”
“Then I power through harder.”
A few guys chuckled, but there was an edge to it now. I didn’t like being questioned in front of everyone, especially about something as basic as corner work.
“Adan.” Coach Brennan’s voice carried that warning tone I’d heard before. “Listen to your coach.”
That made it worse. Like I was some rookie who didn’t know how to take feedback.
I’d been dominating in corners since junior hockey, and now this guy wanted to tell me I was doing it wrong?
The two training sessions we’d had so far had been fine, but I hadn’t learned much new stuff.
So why was he getting on my ass about this?
“Look,” I said, my voice getting sharper, “I’ve been playing this way my whole life. It works.”
“Sometimes, but at the professional level, you need more than one option.”
“Are you saying I don’t have options?”
“I’m saying the position you took limited your options unnecessarily.”
The rest of the team was watching now, sensing the tension. Tank had that look on his face like he wanted to step in but didn’t know how. Martinez and Webb were exchanging glances. Even the goalies had stopped their usual chatter.
“Fine.” My jaw tightened. “Then fucking show me if you think you know better.”
Coach Anders nodded and skated toward the corner where the play had happened. “Connor, can you play defense?”
Connor, our backup goalie who’d been watching from the side, grabbed a stick and took position. Coach Anders set up exactly where I’d been when I’d received the pass.
“Same scenario,” Coach Anders called out. “Puck comes off the boards, defense closing in.”
Someone flipped him a puck, and Coach Anders gathered it smoothly. But instead of driving straight toward the net like I had, he angled differently, keeping his body between Connor and the puck while maintaining distance from the boards.
“From this position,” Coach Anders explained as he moved, “I have three options instead of one.”
He demonstrated each one: a quick pass back to the point, a wraparound attempt behind the net, and a cut toward the slot that left Connor scrambling to keep up.
“The key is making him choose.” Coach Anders skated back to where the play had started. “If I drive straight at him like this”—he replicated my approach—“he knows exactly what I’m going to do. He can set himself up and wait for contact.”
He was right, and I hated it.
The position he’d shown created so many more possibilities. Instead of trying to overpower the defense, he’d forced the guy to react to him. It was smarter, more strategic, and would work better against stronger opponents.
But admitting that meant admitting I’d been wrong. In front of the entire team.
“See the difference?”
“Yeah,” I said through gritted teeth, “I see it.”
“Good. That was all I wanted to show you.”
The scrimmage resumed, but concentration was nearly impossible.
Every shift, I was thinking about what Coach Anders had shown me, about how obvious the improvement had been.
My next corner battle went better—I used a different angle, created space for a pass instead of trying to muscle through—but I was still pissed about the whole thing.
When practice finally ended and we headed to the locker room, the usual post-practice banter started up.
“So who’s hitting up Delta Phi’s party tomorrow?” Martinez asked, pulling off his helmet. “Heard they’re bringing in some band.”
“Can’t,” Webb said. “Got a date with that redhead from my psychology class.”
“The one with the—” Tank made exaggerated hand gestures.
“That’s the one.”
“Nice, bro. Where you taking her?”
“Thinking dinner at that Italian place on Elmwood, then maybe catch a movie.”
“Dude, skip the movie. Movies are for when you run out of things to talk about.”
“What would you suggest, dating expert?” Webb asked sarcastically.
Tank shrugged. “Take her to that new bowling alley. You can talk, there’s beer, and if she sucks at bowling, you get to help her with her form.”
“Bowling? Really?”
“Trust me. Chicks dig guys who are good at bowling.”
“Since when are you good at bowling?” Connor asked, walking past our area with his gear bag.
“Since I started practicing with your mom last weekend,” Tank shot back, earning a round of laughter.
“Real mature, Tank.”
“I try.”
I half-listened to their conversation while yanking off my gear, still replaying the demonstration in my head. The usual post-practice energy was there—guys talking shit, making plans, complaining about professors and assignments—but I wasn’t engaged.
My mind kept drifting back to the corner positioning drill.
The worst part was that Coach Anders had been completely professional about it.
He hadn’t embarrassed me on purpose or tried to show me up.
He’d pointed out a better way to do something, demonstrated it clearly, and moved on.
Yet somehow, that had only made it worse.
If he’d been an ass about it, I could’ve been angry with him, could’ve blamed him for embarrassing me, but he hadn’t. Nope, I’d done that all by myself with my response. Hell, for Coach Brennan to call me out in front of the whole team…
My cheeks heated, not with anger, but with shame…
because he’d been right. They both had been.
I shouldn’t have been so defensive, especially not with everyone watching.
If I’d been calmer, if I had simply allowed Nils to explain, I wouldn’t have come across as such a dick.
What did Coach Anders think of me now? I’d given him every reason to resent me.
The stupid thing was that initially, I’d kind of wanted him to dislike me. Hell, I’d wanted him to quit so everything could go back to how it had been before. Before he’d shown up. Before I’d felt like I was under a microscope. Before he’d made me doubt myself.
But now? Now I wasn’t sure that I wanted him to leave. My dad always said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. To achieve a different outcome, you had to try something new, he often told me.
Coach Anders was something new. The old approach might have been comfortable, but it hadn’t created the outcome I’d wanted.
I hadn’t been drafted. If I wanted to get signed, something needed to change.
Maybe Coach Anders was that something. Maybe he really could teach me a thing or two, stuff that I needed to become the player clubs wanted to work with.
I rose from the bench, grabbing my bag.
“You heading out?” Tank asked.
“Yeah, I’ve got that economics paper to work on.”
“Want company? I’ve got accounting homework.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
But as I walked out of the locker room, Monday’s 7 a.m. session was already on my mind. I was going to have to face Coach Anders after demonstrating exactly why I needed individual coaching. Not because I lacked skill, but because I was too stubborn to admit when someone else knew better.
That realization sat heavy on my stomach, where it churned with the shame of today. Monday morning, I had another private session with Coach Anders, and I had no idea how to face him after today. How could I move past today’s embarrassment? I had a whole weekend to try and figure that out.
Fun times.