5 - Haven
HAVEN
The rink looked like a temporary solution made permanent. It also looked like father time had kicked a few dozen dents in it, on all four sides.
From the outside it was nothing special; a low metal rectangle whose corrugated sides had been pummeled with decades of winter and overly ambitious snowplowing.
The parking lot was a minefield of alternating patches of salt and ice.
A sign over the entrance flickered just enough to look semi-intentional.
Inside was different. Not exactly better, but… theirs.
The air hit first. It was cold and sharp, carrying that familiar mix of ice and sweat and some unidentifiable funkiness.
The boards were scuffed to hell, the glass marked up with years of scrapes and violent impacts.
The benches looked original to the building.
They were worn so smoothly, they took on the appearance of polished wood rather than paint.
Coach Mercer hadn’t said much since I got there. He didn’t need to. He stood with his arms crossed, weight slightly forward, eyes locked on the ice like he could force the players to move exactly the way he wanted them to. Every now and then, he’d grunt.
Studying him, I could derive almost as much info as watching the game. His reactions and shifts in body language told the story every time. A missed pass, here. A blown coverage, there. He flinched at late rotations, and nodded his head slowly when a hit landed just right.
“Too slow,” he muttered at one point, wholly to himself.
When I wasn’t checking on him, I was studying my screen. The glowing tablet in my hand held volumes of precious, delicious data — all of it made available at the tips of my eager fingers.
I was in my element. This was my jam.
“Right side’s collapsing early,” I said, double-tapping the screen to mark it. “They’re overcommitting to the attack. Leaving the far lane open.”
The coach didn’t respond to what I said. He didn’t dismiss it, either.
Together we watched as another shift played out. I saw the same pattern. The same gap. The opposing practice line took advantage of the mistake. When they took a shot on net, it went in clean.
“Yeah,” Mercer grunted.
His voice was like gravel, dragged over steel. The affirmation still felt good.
I kept on tapping, switching windows, taking notes. Lining up the data over multiple spreadsheets, so I could compile it later on. Patterns would emerge. Patterns always emerged.
The team stayed out longer than they should’ve. They ran drills that blurred into a scrimmage, which turned into sort of an actual game. Mercer let it happen, taking his own mental notes. The team was fast. Physical. Messy.
But it was also very, very talented.
That much was immediately obvious.
I shook my head, more in awe than in disappointment. The Reavers were a complete shitshow, cooperation-wise. But if they could ever learn to work together…
“OFF!”
Coach Mercer’s bark echoed across the ice, in lieu of an actual whistle.
One by one the players peeled off, their skates kicking up snow as their blades dug in.
Helmets and gloves came off. Some ditched their sticks before skating over to gather around.
Grayson took his place up front, a towel slung over his shoulder.
His body still heaved with the exertion of playing hard.
His way-too-handsome face was covered in sweat.
“That,” Mercer said, jerking his chin out over the ice, “is exactly why you’re a .500 team.”
There was little reaction among them. A few of the guys looked down, briefly.
“You’ve got the skill,” he went on. “I’ve seen enough mediocre players to tell you that. You’ve got the size, too. Some of you sons of bitches look like you’ve been snacking on butter. You also have the speed.”
He paused for a moment, his stubbled face adopting more of a scowl.
“What you don’t have, is anything resembling a system that holds up under pressure.”
Ares shifted a little. Grayson didn’t.
“That’s where she comes in,” Mercer grunted, nodding my way.
The shift in attitude was immediate, the team’s body language speaking volumes. A few pairs of eyes shifted toward me, but only in curiosity. The rest outright refused to look.
“She’s going to take what you’ve got,” Mercer went on, “and turn it into something that actually wins games.”
There was a beat of silence. Then—
“Really?”
Grayson’s expression went beyond skepticism. His pretty boy mouth twisted into a smirk.
“And how’s she going to do that? By fucking magic?”
A few of the guys laughed, but only briefly. Mercer scowled them into silence.
“She’s a complete stranger,” Grayson added, like he was stating something obvious. “She doesn’t even know us.”
More agreement followed. More nods, and shifting of weight.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mercer open his mouth to say something else. This time I stopped him.
“You’re right,” I said simply.
I let the statement land. As the seconds ticked awkwardly by, more eyes shifted my way.
“I don’t know any of you,” I went on. “Not personally.”
I tapped the edge of my tablet a few times, with an extended finger.
“But I know what you put on the ice.”
I had their attention now. At least temporarily.
I had to seize on the moment.
“Ares,” I said, glancing to him first. “You hit hard. That’s obvious. You generate momentum, and you force turnovers at critical moments.” I gave him a nod. “When you’re on, you shift the pace of the game in our favor.”
Ares didn’t move. He didn’t react.
But I could see he was listening.
“You also overcommit,” I added. “You chase contact when you don’t need to, which pulls you out of position and leaves your lane exposed. The refs notice this, by the way. That’s where half your penalties come from.”
I sensed a small shift in the group. Nothing big. But definite movement.
“Caleb,” I went on, turning his way. “You’ve got one of the best shots on the team. Quick release. Deadly accuracy, from mid-range.”
He straightened a little, without meaning to. Like he’d been called on in class, by a teacher.
“But you also hesitate,” I continued. “You wait for the perfect look instead of taking the good one. By the time you make the decision, the window’s gone.”
His mouth tightened into something small, and sour-looking.
Still, he didn’t deny it.
“Asher,” I said, finding him next. “You read plays well. Your anticipation’s your biggest asset, and you’re usually in the right place before the puck gets there.”
I watched him flip his long hair back. He actually looked interested.
“You get lazy on the backcheck though,” I added. “You assume the play’s dead before it really is. That’s why you get caught trailing.”
Someone elbowed him. He absorbed it without resisting.
“Dorian, you’re consistent,” I took him on next. “You don’t make a lot of mistakes. Your play’s stable, and you don’t miss many opportunities.”
His eyes met mine. He actually nodded at my comment.
“But you also don’t take risks,” I went on. “Which means you don’t create opportunities, either.”
Zack got a look.
“You’re unpredictable,” I told him. “That’s worked for you so far. You break patterns. You create openings.”
Zack broke into a grin. He might’ve even taken a bow, if I didn’t continue.
“You also have no discipline,” I added. “Which is why you’re just as likely to break our plays, as the other team’s.”
His grin faded fast. I didn’t linger on him.
“Sebastian,” I said, addressing the goalie. “You stay composed under pressure. You don’t overreact, or leave the crease until the play comes to you.”
My floor mate stood behind his heavy padding, leaning on his stick. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Your problem is you’re not communicating enough with your defense,” I told him directly. “Which means they’re guessing when they don’t need to.”
He stared back at me placidly. Accepting what I’d said, without reacting.
“Finally, Grayson.”
All eyes shifted his way, including mine. The sudden notoriety didn’t phase him one bit, however.
“You’re the most controlled player on the ice,” I said, stating fact. “You see everything, and you adjust faster than anyone else out there.”
Grayson refused to look away from me. But he also refused to react at all.
“You also try to do everything yourself,” I continued. “This slows down the entire system. Very often, at the most critical time where it matters most.”
That one actually landed. For just a tiny fraction of a moment, I saw him flinch.
I lowered my tablet and stepped back to stand beside Mercer, as silence settled over us once more. But it was a newer silence. A heavier, more weighted one.
And for once, a silence that finally wasn’t dismissive.
There wasn’t any more laughter. No more jokes. Just a bunch of sweaty guys standing around, looking at each other. Trying to process what I’d just said.
Beside me, Mercer let out a low grunt.
“Told you.”