Chapter 7 #2
He called drills in that gruff monotone, no trace of the man from the bar. Still, I caught the flick of his eyes each time I passed his line of sight. Assessing. Remembering. Maybe regretting.
I didn’t care what he felt. I cared that I belonged here. That when he looked, he’d see skill, not a mistake.
Sweat slicked my palms inside my gloves. I bent into another turn, chased the puck down the boards, flipped a pass clean across the slot. My breath tore out in ragged bursts, head pounding but clear.
I wasn’t running. Not anymore.
He didn’t stop moving. Not once. That whistle kept slicing through the cold air, sharper than his voice.
“Again.”
Our lungs burned, our jerseys clung to sweat, and still he paced the boards like the ice was part of him. Every drill rolled into the next—transitions, sprints, puck retrieval under pressure. My legs screamed, but the rhythm took over. Push, glide, fire. Push, glide, fire.
“Pick it up, twenty-seven.” He barked it at Lo from the back line, then turned before her comeback finished forming. Nothing stuck to him—not sass, not exhaustion.
I wanted to hate it. The roughness, the impatience. But I recognized that tone. The one that made you sharper or broke you, depending on what you were built for.
Then came the shot accuracy circuit. Five pucks, five corners, full speed. He stood behind the net, arms crossed, watching like he could see inside your lungs. When it was my turn, my stick felt too light. I hit four out of five. The last one clanged off the bar so hard it echoed.
A few groans, one sarcastic “close enough.” He cut through that noise before I could even lower my blade.
“Close enough means you lose the game,” he said. His gaze hit mine. Not hard. Just direct. Like there was only one player on the ice.
My throat dried up. “Got it.”
“Do it again.”
Another round. Five hits, this time clean. The puck snapped into mesh, one after another, until the sound wrapped around my ribs and lit something in my chest. He didn’t smile, but he gave the smallest nod. That was worse than yelling—it meant he’d expected it.
We moved into circuits. Endless skating around cones until my legs strained. Sweat dripped from my chin, turning hot against the chill air. Still, he didn’t call a break.
Auri wheezed beside me. “Man’s training us for war.”
“Feels like it,” I muttered.
Calder’s voice boomed over the rink. “Switch lines—forty-five seconds!”
I sprinted toward the bench and mistimed it. The change tangled, our next unit colliding at the door. He saw all of it.
Whistle. One piercing shriek.
“You trying to impress me or get cut? Do it again.”
A few girls snorted, hiding behind gloves. My face burned hot enough to melt ice. I skated back out before my brain had words, reset our rotation, ran it again—spot on, tighter, exact.
He gave no praise, no nod this time. Just, “Better.”
That word dug under my skin like a hook.
He singled me out twice more. Wrong angle on forecheck. Late backhand pick-up. Each time he corrected, not cruel, just precise. No indulgence, no softness. The rest of the team started glancing my way, measuring how much heat I could take.
I didn’t shrink. I planted harder and pushed through the line until my body refused to quit.
By the final whistle, I could taste blood in the back of my throat. Calder’s gaze lingered on the group, then on me. Nothing secret in it. Just assessment.
And somehow that hit deeper than the shouting—being seen only as a player, not the mistake we both made.
It hurt. Or maybe it helped. I couldn’t tell yet.
After practice, the locker room filled with the hiss of showers and the sour tang of sweat. Someone kicked a bucket over by the bench. Pads clattered like falling shields.
Auri tugged off her helmet and flung it into her cubby. “He’s insane. That was pro-level conditioning.”
Reese peeled back her undershirt, face flushed. “He’s gonna get fired before midterms if he keeps this up. Half of us are gonna puke before then.”
Kira groaned from the floor. “Did you see Lo almost cry? I thought her lungs were gonna fall out.”
Laughter rippled through the room, but no one sounded amused. They were too tired for that. Steam rolled from the showers, mixing with the damp air, and my limbs still trembled from the last sprint drill. Every muscle in my body buzzed like leftover electricity.
Someone nudged me with an elbow. “You okay, Donovan? You didn’t crumble like the rest of us. You on caffeine or pure rage?”
I pulled at the laces of my skates, felt the ache in my wrists. “Just skating,” I said.
That earned a murmur of disbelief. They went back to complaining, voices blending—too much, too soon, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
I tuned it out.
Under the exhaustion, something else thrummed through me. Not panic. Not even embarrassment from being singled out on the ice. It sat deeper, heavier—like a pulse waking up after a long sleep.
Respected. Seen. Pushed.
I hadn’t felt any of that since before Nate decided my worth ended where his highlight reels began. Every practice with him had been about appearances. About fitting into the picture, smiling in the stands, being supportive. Calder Shaw didn’t want a smile; he wanted proof.
The difference sang all the way down to my bones.
Across the bench, Kira groaned. “I give it a week before someone complains to administration.”
Auri smirked weakly. “Good. Maybe then we’ll get a coach who doesn’t think we’re prepping for the Olympics.”
I looked down at my hands, red from lacing, calloused in all the right places. “I hope he doesn’t.”
The room fell quiet for a beat, enough for my words to settle. Someone muttered, “Figures,” but I didn’t care.
If Calder Shaw thought he could break us, he’d learn I was built for drills that felt like war.
Whatever this was, I’d survive it—every whistle, every glare—until he had no choice but to see me the same way I saw myself.