23 - Grayson
GRAYSON
It wasn’t working, and that was the problem.
We’d fixed it — or at least, we thought we had. The last game proved that. The system was tighter now. Cleaner. Faster, overall.
But today?
Things were slipping again.
Passes were late. Lanes collapsed, before we hit them. Timing was just off enough to kill momentum, before it ever built.
And momentum, I’d learned, was everything.
“Again!” Mercer barked.
We reset, and ran it again. Same result. I caught the puck at the blue line, hesitated a half-second too long, and by the time I moved it, the lane was gone.
Total breakdown.
Whistle.
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, under my breath.
We circled back again and again, but encountered the same problem. Every rep was late. Everything was just a fraction of a second off.
“You’re reading the collapse early again.”
I didn’t need to look to know it was Haven. Her voice carried across the ice, even when you didn’t want it to.
Especially when you didn’t want it to.
“You’re stepping up before you shift the puck,” she added. “Giving up too much time.”
I closed my fingers, tightening my grip on the stick.
“We know what the problem is,” I said flatly.
“Then fix it.”
That did it. I turned on her.
Fast.
“You ever actually been out there?” I snapped, jerking a thumb over my shoulder toward the ice.
Silence hit instantly. The guys stopped moving, as if a whistle had blown. Mercer didn’t say anything. Haven didn’t either.
I took a step toward her.
“Because from where I’m standing,” I went on, “it’s real easy to call it from the boards.”
Still nothing. Haven just looked at me, blankly. Her gaze was steady. Unflinching.
For some reason that made me even angrier.
“No?” I challenged, glibly. “Then shut up.”
The words landed harder than I expected. For a few long seconds, nobody moved a muscle.
Haven held my gaze for one more beat; those shrewd blue eyes locked on mine. Then she turned…
… and walked off the ice. Just like that.
No argument. No comeback.
Nothing.
Shit.
“Reset!” Mercer shouted, after a moment.
Everything went on like nothing had happened, which made me feel a little bit like shit. We ran it again. Same problem. I forced the pass too early this time, and it resulted in a turnover.
Whistle.
“Focus,” Mercer snapped.
I was focused — or at least, I had been. The issue was, well…
I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over my face as we circled back.
I’d probably gone too far.
Oh yeah? The little voice in my head chimed in. And just what the hell were you supposed to do?
I didn’t know. And that was another problem.
Take direction from someone who’d never—
I cut the thought off as we lined up again. We ran the drill. Same breakdown. I swore under my breath.
Something was off. Not the system, either. Me.
That didn’t happen. It couldn’t—
Movement at the edge of the ice caught my attention. I turned… and froze.
Haven stepped into the ice.
In skates.
There was no announcement, no hesitation. She just took off.
“What the hell?” Zack muttered behind me.
She didn’t look at anyone, or utter a word. She just picked up a stick, and took the puck.
The first thing I noticed was how clean it was. No adjustment. No testing the ice. The puck stayed glued to her blade as she moved, smooth and controlled, cutting across the zone like she’d been doing it her whole life.
Which, apparently… she had.
“Sebastian!” someone called.
The goalie reacted too late. He snapped upright in the net, pushing off hard as she closed the distance. She didn’t slow down, didn’t telegraph. She didn’t give him anything, really.
One quick shift of the shoulders — high — and Sebastian bit. In the same motion, she dropped the puck low—
Five-hole. Clean. Right through his legs.
Goal.
For a long second, nothing happened. Then the whole rink erupted.
“Holy SHIT!”
“Where the hell did that come from?”
Even Mercer laughed. Actually laughed.
But I didn’t. I just stood there, dumbfounded, watching her. Recalculating everything I thought I knew about her.
Haven skated behind the goal and turned slowly, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corner of her pouty mouth. Then she cut across the ice — fast — and snapped to a hard stop in front of us.
A spray of ice shot up, scattering across my legs. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t need to.
Zack stared at her like she’d just materialized out of thin air.
“Where’d you play?” he asked.
She didn’t break eye contact with me.
“Lindenwood,” she said. “Division one.”
He blinked.
“Left wing,” she added. “Three years on the ice…”
She let the sentence hang for a second, unfinished.
“… and one year watching you make the same mistakes, from the bench.”
Her words carried weight now. They landed with impact. All around me, players shifted nervously. Their attention focused solely on her.
“So yeah,” Haven said quietly. “I’ve been out there.”
Another beat.
“Enough to know when someone’s not doing their job.”
She skated away, leaving us to wallow in stunned silence. Only once Mercer started barking orders again, did everyone get back into position.
I swallowed once, unable — or maybe unwilling — to say anything.
And that’s because she was right.
Haven had seen what I hadn’t, and that bothered me. Maybe because I hadn’t wanted to. I’d been too busy writing her off. Too quick to place her in a neat little box; to decide who and what she was.
But I couldn’t operate like that. Not anymore. Not if I wanted this team to work.
Not if I wanted to win.
We reset, and ran the same drill. Only this time, I didn’t hesitate. I moved the puck early, and forced the shift. The lane opened. Just as she said it would.
My shot was clean. Sebastian didn’t have a chance.
Goal.
I let out a long breath of relief, as I looked toward the boards. And there she was, standing there, tablet in hand. Like she’d never left.
Like she’d never stepped on the ice at all.
But I knew better now. We all did. And that changed things…
Even more than I liked to admit.