7 - Michael
Michael
Frost Bank felt like an icebox, but the tension between the blue and white practice jerseys was enough to melt the glass. We were twenty-four hours removed from the Jets win, and instead of a victory lap, the morning skate felt like a trial.
I carved a hard circle around the face-off dot, the spray from my blades hitting the boards with a sharp hiss.
Hunter was already in the crease, his massive frame draped in goalie pads that made him look like a wall of white carbon fiber.
He caught my eye through his mask and gave a single, slow nod.
It was the only acknowledgement I’d received since stepping onto the ice.
"Okay, listen up!" Coach’s whistle shrilled, echoing off the empty rafters. "Standard weave into a two-on-one. Keep the passes crisp. If I see a lazy saucer pass, you’re all doing laps until the Zamboni comes out."
The drill started, and the friction was immediate.
I was lined up behind Landon and Tucker.
When it was our turn to break, I pushed off, finding the lane.
I was open for the drop pass, a clear line to the slot, but Tucker zipped it hard toward Landon instead, a pass so unnecessary it nearly tripped Landon up.
"Little slow on the transition there, Landry," Tucker chirped as we circled back to the line. "Maybe the air out here is too thick for those wimpy Seattle lungs of yours."
"The air is fine, Tucker. Maybe your vision is just blurry," I retorted, not looking at him.
The jabs continued through the power-play drills. It was death by a thousand cuts: a "mistimed" hit during a board battle that sent me shoulder-first into the plexiglass, a stick to the back of the calves when Coach wasn’t looking…
Hunter saw it all. During a water break, he skated toward the bench, his mask pushed up.
"Ignore them," he muttered, his voice muffled by the chin strap. "They’re territorial. Like dogs. You showed them up in the Jets game, and now they’re trying to piss on the carpet to prove it’s still their house."
"I didn't come here to steal anyone’s house, Hunter. I came to help them fix the roof."
"They’ll figure it out. Eventually." He tapped my shin guard with his blocker and skated back to the net.
Coach blew the whistle again, his face turning a mottled shade of red. "Enough of this disorganized horseshit! Split into groups. Group A, far blue line. Defensive zone exits. Group B, center ice. Transition puck protection. Group C, goal line—cycling. Move!"
I ended up in Group B with Tucker, Cash, and two rookies. It was a puck-protection drill: one man in the circle trying to keep the puck away from two defenders for thirty seconds.
The rookies were hesitant, looking at Tucker for direction. Tucker, however, was busy adjusting his glove, pointedly ignoring the drill setup. The momentum was dying.
"Okay, let's go," I said, stepping into the center of the circle. I pointed my stick at the two rookies. "You two, on the hunt. Cash, you’re on the perimeter for the outlet. Keep your feet moving. If you stand still, you’re a target."
The rookies jumped, instinctively reacting to the tone of command I'd used for a decade in the league. We started the drill, and for three reps, it was the best hockey we’d played all morning. The pace was electric.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Tucker skated into the center of the circle, his stick held horizontally like a barrier. "What are we doing here, Seattle? I didn't realize Coach had promoted you to Assistant Captain overnight."
"I'm just starting the drill, Tucker. We were standing around doing nothing."
"We have a captain," Tucker stepped closer, his chest heaving. "And we have a leadership group. You aren't in it. You’re a third-line winger on a one-year deal. So why don't you sit back, shut up, and wait for someone with a letter on their jersey to tell you when to breathe?"
The rookies looked at the ice. Cash looked up at the rafters.
I felt the familiar heat rising in my chest, the urge to drop the gloves and remind Tucker exactly why I’d lasted all these years in a league that chewed up guys like him and spat them out. I could have pushed back. I could have reminded him that I had more playoff goals than he had career points.
But I thought of the advice I’d given Kayla. Don't let people push you around.
Then I thought of the precariousness of my own position. One wrong move, one locker room blow-up, and I’d be on waivers by noon.
I took a breath, the cold air stinging my throat. I didn't need to win a locker room war today.
"Fine," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "It's your circle."
I skated to the back of the line. For the rest of the group session, I did exactly what Tucker wanted.
I stayed silent. I didn't coach the rookies.
I didn't suggest a different angle on the breakout.
I played like a ghost—efficient, but entirely detached.
I did my reps, I hit my marks, and I offered absolutely nothing of myself to the unit.
The results were predictable. The transition drill fell apart.
The rookies became timid, Tucker started over-handling the puck, and the flow we’d established vanished into a series of fumbled passes and offside whistles.
And still, I did nothing but exactly what was asked of me. Not a single thing more.
When Grayson looked at me for a cue on the next entry, I stared into space. When Tucker fumbled a pass and left the middle wide open, I didn't call it out. I became invisible. Efficient, but totally useless to the team’s momentum.
The quality of our group's work tanked. Passes were intercepted, the cycle broke down, and the intensity evaporated into a series of lazy glides.
Coach watched from the bench, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on our group. He didn't say a word until the drill finished. Then the sound of his whistle cut through my bones.
"Landry! Get over here.”
His voice boomed through the quiet arena, bouncing off the seats. I felt the collective smirk from Tucker and Cash as I unbuckled my helmet. Hunter caught my eye again, his head shaking slowly in disappointment.
Coach didn't even wait for me to get all the way to the bench. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
"Staying in my lane, Coach. Like the guys wanted."
"The guys? You answering to the guys now?
What about what I want from you? Do I tell you to stay in your lane or to own your fucking number out there?
" He stepped into my space, his eyes blazing.
"I saw you taking charge in that cycle drill.
I saw the rookies actually playing hockey for thirty seconds.
And then Tucker barks at you, and you...
what? You just quit? You spent the last forty minutes of my practice gliding like a retiree at a public skate. "
"I was trying to avoid a locker room fracture—"
"You were being a coward!" Coach shouted. "You’ve got over a decade in this league, and you let a guy like Tucker punk you out of doing your job? You took a back seat today, Landry, and you let this team get worse because your feelings were hurt. If you’re going to be a passenger, stay in the stands. I need players, not tourists."
“I’m trying—”
He pointed a gloved finger at my chest. "You’re slacking. You’re hiding. And if I see it again, you won't just be on the third line. You'll be on a fast ticket out of my team. Get out of my sight."
Blood rushed in my ears as I made my way back onto the ice. I’d tried to be the nice guy. I’d tried to keep the peace. And all it had done was cost me the respect of the one man whose opinion actually kept me employed.
My blood was a pumping current of ice and adrenaline. Slacking. Hiding. The words felt like a physical weight, a brand on a lifelong career I’d bled for.
The guys were finishing up some optional puck-handling drills.
Tucker was at center ice, lazily flipping a puck into the air and catching it on his blade, laughing at something Cash had said.
The atmosphere was light, relaxed, the kind of comfort that comes from successfully pushing a threat out of the inner circle.
I didn't wait for a whistle, or ask for a turn. "Rookie! Get on the wall!"
His head snapped up, and the laughter at center ice died instantly.
"Practice is over," Tucker said, his voice dripping with bored condescension. "Go find a heating pad and some chamomile tea."
I ignored him, and found a puck near the boards, driving it hard toward the circle. “I said on the wall. We’re running the transition drill again. Properly this time."
"He doesn't have to do anything you say," Tucker said, skating toward me, his stick held loosely in one hand. "I told you—"
I didn't let him finish. I exploded into a crossover, closing the gap between us in three strides.
It would have been too easy to hit him. Instead, I lifted his stick with a violent, surgical snap of my own, stripped the puck from his blade, and fired a no-look, tape-to-tape pass to the waiting rookie.
"Go!" I yelled at the kid.
Caught between my command and Tucker’s ego, the rookie chose me. He broke for the net. I followed, clearing the lane by physically moving Tucker out of the way with a heavy shoulder. A reminder of who had the higher center of gravity.
For the next fifteen minutes, I didn't play "guest" hockey.
I played Michael Landry hockey. I was loud.
I was heavy. I was everywhere. When Cash tried to poke-check me during a three-on-two, I stepped into his hands, taking the ice that belonged to me and leaving him stumbling.
I wasn't looking for a "C" on any jersey; I was looking for the back of the net.
I fired a slap shot from the top of the circle that caught the crossbar with a deafening ping, the vibration humming through the ice. Coach stood watching, quiet but calculating.
"The senior tour just closed for the day, Tucker," I said, my voice rasping in my chest. "You want to play hero puck? Do it on your own time. On my shift, you move the puck, or you get moved."
The silence that followed was different than the one before. It wasn't the silence of exclusion; it was the silence of a team realizing the predator in the room had stopped pretending to be their pet.
After practice, I skated off the ice last, my lungs burning with the kind of fire I hadn't felt in months. My hip was screaming, and my shin was a map of purple bruises, but the "tourist" was finally gone.
The locker room was a cacophony of slamming stalls and the smell of ozone and sweat. I walked in, stripping my gloves and tossing them into my locker. The resentment in the air had a metallic tang to it that stuck in the back of my throat.
Coach walked in a minute later. "Lines for tomorrow against the Stars. First line stays. Second line: Shawn, and Michael."
The sound of a tape-cutter snapping was the only noise in the room. Mason threw his towel onto the floor, and Tucker’s jaw tightened so hard I thought I heard his teeth crack.
"Landry's on the second?" Tucker asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "After he spent half of practice hiding behind the rookies?"
"He stopped hiding," Coach said, his eyes locking onto Tucker’s. "Maybe you should try doing the same. He’s got second wing. Deal with it."
Coach walked out, and the tension in the room snapped like a high-tension wire.
I reached for my skate tool, focusing on the blade. I could feel Tucker’s stare from three stalls down. It was a physical heat.
"You think you’re something, don't you?" Tucker said. He stood up, still in his base layers, his chest puffed out. "You come in here, suck up to Coach, and suddenly you’re the savior of the franchise?"
I didn't look up. "I’m a hockey player. I’m here to win games. If that hurts your feelings, buy a diary."
"You’re a washed-up hack looking for one last paycheck," he spat, stepping into my space. He kicked my equipment bag, sending my spare laces skittering across the floor. "You don't belong in this room. You’re nothing but a kiss-ass rat."
I stood up slowly. I was taller than him, broader, and I had a decade of scars that he hadn't earned yet. "Move your foot," I said, my voice trembling with warning.
"Make me, old man."
He shoved me—a two-handed strike to the chest that caught me off balance. I hit the back of my locker with a hollow thud.
Years of restraint, the "nice guy" persona, the "guest" etiquette… it all vanished. I didn't think about the press box or the waivers. I recognized the smug, entitled sneer on his face, and I saw red.
Then I lunged for him.
I caught him by the collar of his thermal shirt and slammed him back against the center island of the locker room.
Brushes, tape, and water bottles flew everywhere.
Tucker swung, a wild, desperate right hook that caught me in the temple, but I didn't feel it.
I drove my forearm into his throat, pinning him down while the rest of the team erupted into shouts.
"You ever touch my gear again, and they’ll be looking for your teeth in the nosebleeds." My knuckles were white as I bunched his shirt.
"Get off him!" Cash yelled, grabbing my shoulder, but I threw him off with a snarl.
Tucker clawed at my arms, his face turning a dark, bruised purple. I had him pinned, the raw, animalistic urge to finish it pulsing in my ears like a drumbeat.
"Michael! Tucker! ENOUGH!"
Coach’s voice was a thunderclap. He was back in the room, shoving through the circle of players surrounding us. He grabbed me by the back of my jersey and hauled me off Tucker with a strength that took me by surprise. Hunter was on the other side, stepping between us like a human riot shield.
"You guys need to grow up, and fast!" Coach said. “I’m over this bullshit. It’s done. You hear me? Done!”
I stood there, my chest heaving, my hair matted with sweat as I stared at Tucker as he slumped against the bench, gasping for air.
We’d only landed a few hits, but the locker room was a wreck.
Benches overturned, gear scattered, and the heavy, suffocating silence of a team that had just been torn wide open.
Coach looked from me to Tucker, his straight face barely hiding his fury. “Get up and get the hell out of my locker room.”
I didn't move. I just watched Tucker wipe a smear of blood from his lip, the war in the room finally, irrevocably, declared.