CHAPTER THREE MARSHALL
CHAPTER THREE
MARSHALL
Two weeks had flown by in a flash. This morning was my first practice, and it was everything I'd been afraid it would be.
We hit the ice at six thirty in the morning, and by six thirty-two I understood what Jeremy meant about Coach Briggs.
The man stood behind the bench in a team pullover and black track pants, arms crossed, watching every single player as if he were grading an exam in real time.
When he spoke, the entire rink went quiet because everyone knew that if you missed what he said, it wasn’t getting it repeated.
"Hayes. You're on line two with Ashford and Thatcher for the first drill set. I want to see what you can do."
I lined up at center ice and took a breath, inhaling the cold rink air.
The ice felt different here. Faster, somehow.
Maybe it was the maintenance crew, or the quality of the surface, or the fact that every guy on this rink was faster than anyone I'd ever played with.
The passes were harder, positioning was tighter, and the guys closed gaps before I'd even finished reading the play.
In college, you could wind up, pick your spot, let it go.
Here, the window opened and shut in the blink of an eye.
If you weren't ready the moment it appeared, it was gone.
Thankfully, I was fast. I'd always been fast. My feet found the rhythm within the first five minutes: crossovers, stops, starts, the edge work that had been drilled into my muscle memory since I was sixteen.
By the time we ran the second drill, I was keeping pace.
At this level, keeping pace with these guys on day one was enough for me.
Jeremy fed me a pass at the blue line during a four-on-four rush.
I caught it in stride, and one-timed it toward the top corner of the net.
The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net carried through the rink, that clean pop of vulcanized rubber against mesh that never got old, no matter how many times you heard it.
Ryan didn't even move. He was set for a low shot, and I'd gone high, and the puck was past him before he could adjust.
"Nice shot, rookie," Ryan called from the crease, tapping his stick on the ice.
I skated back to the line and tried not to let my face show how hard my heart was hammering.
Adrenaline coursed through my body. This was it, the thing I'd been chasing since I was five years old on the frozen pond outside of Sheridan with my cousin Dylan and my brother, while my father stood on the banks yelling at the three of us to keep our heads up.
We ran drills for ninety minutes. Breakouts, power play rotations, penalty kill positioning, neutral zone forechecks, and a battle drill at the end that was legalized assault in a ten-foot circle.
By the end, my legs were burning. I'd pushed myself hard enough today.
My lungs burned and my chest ached from sucking cold rink air in for too long. As awful as it sounds, I'd missed it.
"One last drill guys. Hayes, you're up. One on one board battle with Aiden Callaway." Coach Briggs shouted.
I looked over at Callaway. He was the left defenseman, six-three, two-twenty, and built like a wall.
Thatcher dumped the puck into the corner, and we both went for it, and for three seconds, it was nothing but elbows and the sound of blades tearing ice.
He pinned me against the boards with his forearm across my chest, his weight shifting into me.
I dug my skates in, pivoted under his arm, and came out with the puck on my backhand.
He grinned. "Quick," he said, just as the whistle blew and the lights went off signaling the end of practice.
Coach Briggs was standing in the tunnel between the rink and the locker room, clipboard in one hand, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. He didn't smile as I approached, but he nodded.
"Good first skate, Hayes. Don't let it go to your head."
"Yes, sir."
"And Hayes." He paused, and I stopped, and the cold from the rink settled against my damp skin.
"You're quick, but you're guessing on the defensive reads.
You reacted instead of anticipated on at least four neutral zone sequences I counted.
That works in college because you're faster than everyone else but it won't work here.
Make sure you take the time to watch the film tonight.
I've already sent the plays you missed to your iPad.
Study them, see where and what you're doing wrong. "
"I will."
He walked away, his sneakers squeaking on the rubber floor mat.
I stood in the tunnel for a second, letting his words settle.
He was right. I'd been reactive, reading the play a half-second late and relying on my speed to make up the difference.
My feet bailed me out every time, but my brain had been a step behind, and Briggs had seen all four instances.
He'd been watching me that closely. I was on his radar. I didn't know if that was good or bad.
I made my way into the locker room and Jeremy dropped onto the bench next to me, unlacing his skates. "Solid out there. Briggs doesn't give nods to rookies."
"He told me my defensive reads were shit."
"Yeah, they were, but at least he nodded at you first and then dumped the news on you. FYI, that's the Briggs love language: compliment, then correct. If he corrects you without the nod, that's when you should worry. Learn the code."
I pulled my jersey off and reached for a towel, pressing it against my face. My undershirt was soaked through and stuck to my chest and back. The cold from the rink was fading, and I could feel the ache settling into my quads and hamstrings.
"So, how's the neighborhood?" Ashford asked from across the room, his gear already half off, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He'd asked casually, but there was a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth that told me he'd been waiting to ask. "Have you settled the dog shit crisis yet?"
I groaned. "Don't even get me started."
"Oh, this is gonna be good." Jeremy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Tell us everything."
I told them about the porch confrontation, the woman who answered the door with a dog the size of a small horse, and the way she'd dismantled my argument piece by piece while I stood there.
Then I told them about the German Shepherd and the golden retriever, and the Rottweiler she'd listed off.
Then I told them about the way she'd made her dog lie down with one snap of her fingers to prove a point.
"Wait," Ashford said, holding up a hand. His grin was gone now, replaced by genuine curiosity. "Did you actually see the dog do it?"
I hesitated. "No, but…."
"There is no but. You went to her house at ten at night, accused her dog of shitting in your yard, and you had zero proof?"
"The proof is that there is a massive dog right next door—"
"Hayes, do you know what that's called in the legal world?" Ashford cut in. "Circumstantial evidence. Sure, you've got proximity and motive, but no witnesses and no physical evidence linking the suspect to the crime scene. Any first-year law student would get that thrown out."
"What do you know about it? You're not a lawyer," I said.
"No, but my sister is. And I'd put money on it, she'd tell you the same thing.
I suggest you get a camera." He pointed at me with his water bottle.
"One of those Ring doorbell things. Point it at the front yard.
Get the footage you need to build a case.
Then, once you have evidence, you go talk to her.
Otherwise, you've got nothing and you look insane. "
"He's right," Ryan said, toweling off his hair.
He was sitting across the room, calm as always, his pads stacked neatly beside him.
"No evidence, no case. I can't believe you went to a woman's door at ten PM smelling like dog shit and pointed at her dog.
That's not an argument; you had a meltdown. " He chuckled.
"I didn't have a meltdown, and I'd showered before I went over."
"You slipped in shit and fell on your ass in front of three witnesses," Jeremy said, grinning so wide it looked like it hurt. "And after you'd cleaned yourself up, you marched over to a stranger's house to yell at her about it. That's textbook meltdown behavior if I've ever heard it."
"I didn't yell."
"Did you knock calmly?" Jeremy asked.
I thought about the three hard hits on her door. "I knocked."
"You pounded," Jeremy said.
I sat there for a second, my towel in my hands, letting what they were saying sink in.
They were right, and I knew they were right, and it annoyed the hell out of me because I wanted to be angry at my neighbor and her giant dog and the smug way she'd shut the door in my face.
But I hadn't seen it happen. I'd assumed, and she'd called me on it, and I had nothing, so I couldn't fight her.
"Fine." I pulled on a clean shirt and laced up my sneakers. "I'll get a camera."
"Atta boy." Ashford raised his water bottle. "Surveillance before confrontation. Words to live by."
"That should be on a bumper sticker," Jeremy said.
"It should be a sticker on your bumper," Ryan said to me, smiling.
I flipped him the bird and left the locker room making my way home. By the time I pulled into the driveway, my body was settling into post-practice recovery mode. My legs were heavy, shoulders loose, and a pleasant exhaustion had moved over me.
I climbed out of the truck and stood there listening to the truck tick as it cooled. Then I walked to the mailbox. I had pulled my key from my pocket when my neighbor stepped up beside me. I'd never gotten her name, but she hadn't offered it.