Chapter Eight #3
Dad wanted everyone back on the ice while yesterday's game was still fresh. It won't become a habit. Most Sundays you'll have the day off.
Mason read the screen.
"I'm going to remember you promised me that."
I raised an eyebrow and he shrugged.
"If Coach decides to schedule Sunday practices every week, I'm blaming you."
I rolled my eyes.
His grin faded into something more thoughtful.
"Seriously, though...thanks for letting me come along this morning. I would've been lying in bed wishing you were there instead and I wanted to be there when you speak with your Dad."
We stepped inside through the staff entrance and the familiar smell of sharpened skate blades, fresh ice, and rubber flooring greeting me like an old friend. Graham was already waiting near the equipment room with a mug of coffee balanced on top of the maintenance cart.
"Morning, Jack."
I returned the greeting with a wave.
His eyes drifted toward Mason before a knowing grin spread across his face.
"So this is why you didn't answer my text last night."
Mason glanced back and forth between us.
"You texted him?"
Graham chuckled.
"I wanted to know if he could swap shifts next weekend. I figured he was either studying or asleep. Turns out he was busy."
My face became even warmer and Mason's grin widened.
"I think I'll enjoy getting to know everyone around here."
Graham laughed before disappearing toward the equipment storage area, wisely deciding not to embarrass me any further.
I changed quickly into my work clothes while Mason waited outside the locker room, and a few minutes later we stepped onto the empty rink together.
The arena felt completely different without nearly five thousand spectators filling the seats. Yesterday the building had pulsed with noise and excitement. This morning only the low hum of refrigeration equipment echoed through the silence, making the enormous space feel peaceful.
Mason wandered to the boards while I climbed onto the Zamboni.
"I've seen these things a thousand times," he admitted. "I've just never actually watched someone drive one until I came here."
I smiled before starting the engine.
The familiar vibration settled beneath me as naturally as breathing.
After lowering the conditioner assembly onto the ice, I eased forward, allowing the blade to shave away the thin damaged layer left behind by yesterday's game while clean hot water flowed across the surface behind me.
The machine followed its usual steady flow, each overlapping pass leaving another strip of smooth ice stretching across the rink.
Years of repetition had turned every movement into instinct.
I hardly needed to think anymore. My hands guided the wheel automatically as I judged every turn by sight and feel, making tiny adjustments that most people would never notice but ensured every inch of the surface remained exactly level.
When I glanced toward Mason several minutes later, I found him leaning against the boards exactly where I'd left him.
When I glanced toward Mason several minutes later, he was still exactly where I'd left him, his attention fixed entirely on me.
By the time I completed the final pass and guided the Zamboni back through the resurfacer gate, the ice gleamed beneath the arena lights without a mark remaining from yesterday's game.
Mason met me outside the garage.
"I had no idea there was that much precision involved."
I shrugged lightly.
Most people don't. They only notice when something isn't perfect.
"I'll never look at a rink the same way again."
His words stayed with me as we walked together toward the locker rooms. He disappeared inside to change into his practice gear while I headed toward Dad's office to let him know the ice was ready.
Dad stood beside the whiteboard studying the morning's practice plan when I knocked lightly against the open door.
"Morning, son. Everything ready?"
I signed 'yes' and he glanced toward the rink.
"Good. Stay for a few minutes."
***
The arena gradually filled with the familiar sounds that marked the beginning of every practice.
Pucks skimmed across fresh ice, skates carved lazy circles through the neutral zone, and conversations drifted from one end of the rink to the other as the players completed their own warm-up routines before Dad officially took over.
I remained beside the boards where he'd asked me to wait, resisting the temptation to glance toward the locker room every few seconds even though I knew Mason would appear sooner rather than later.
It didn't take long.
He stepped onto the ice carrying his stick and stopped when his eyes landed on me. Even from the opposite side of the rink I could see the question forming on his face.
We'd walked into the arena together less than an hour earlier but instead waiting for Mason in the stands, I'd changed into skates and was standing beside Dad as though I belonged at the start of practice.
Mason started skating toward us before Ryan intercepted him. I couldn't hear what Ryan told him, but it was enough to make Mason glance back at me before turning reluctantly toward the rest of the team.
Dad gave everyone another minute to finish warming up before finally raising the whistle to his lips. One sharp blast echoed around the arena, bringing the players together at center ice until every conversation faded and every eye settled on him.
"Circle up."
As everyone gathered around Dad, Ryan leaned toward Mason with an unmistakable grin.
"Watch this."
I pushed away from the boards and skated toward the group, conscious of the familiar curiosity that always accompanied times like this. The returning players already knew why Dad had called me onto the ice. Mason, judging by the look on his face, had absolutely no idea what was about to happen.
Dad folded his arms as I came to a stop beside him. "Some of you are still giving away too much speed coming out of your backward transitions through the neutral zone. Jack's going to demonstrate."
I pushed away from the group with an easy stride, letting the blades settle beneath me before allowing my speed to build.
The first few strides carried me effortlessly across the defensive zone before I lengthened them, allowing momentum to build naturally beneath me.
Within seconds the boards began sliding past in my peripheral vision, every crossover blending into the next until it felt less like skating and more like floating across perfectly prepared ice.
Reaching the far blue line, I rotated smoothly onto my backward edges without sacrificing the slightest trace of speed.
My hips opened before my feet followed, shoulders remained level, and weight settled exactly where experience had taught me it belonged.
Another sweeping arc carried me through center ice before I pivoted again, returning to forward skating as cleanly as I had left it.
The rink remained silent.
When I glanced in Dad's direction he ordered, "Again."
This time I reduced my speed, exaggerating each movement so everyone could follow the mechanics instead of just watching the result. After completing the transition once more, I pointed toward my hips, then my knees, before tapping the inside edge of one skate.
Dad addressed the players.
"Jack is explaining that everybody watches their feet first. That's the mistake. Your hips control everything. Open them early and your feet will follow. Fight the rotation and you'll bleed speed every time."
One after another the players took their turn in practicing what I'd demonstrated, each receiving only the correction they actually needed.
Some required a slight adjustment to their posture.
Others were opening their hips too late or placing too much weight on their inside edges before beginning the rotation.
"Brooks," Dad called.
Mason skated toward me when everyone else had taken their turn. His expression carried equal parts curiosity and determination. I watched him complete the drill and only after the second attempt did I move alongside him.
Resting my fingertips lightly against his lower back, I encouraged him to begin the rotation earlier before sliding my hand to his hip to show him exactly where the movement should originate.
Finally, I crouched slightly and tapped the outside edge of his left skate before pointing down the length of the rink.
Understanding flashed across his face.
"I think I've got it."