Page 142 of The Dixon Rule

He rolls his eyes as he pulls his shirt off, revealing a bulky chest with abs that rival mine. I’m not the only one who stayed in shape this summer.

More guys stream in. Case Colson, Gigi’s ex and our co-captain. Nazzy and his wingman, Patrick. Austin and Tristan, who are now sophomores. Beckett strolls in looking tanned and well fucked. Soon he and Will are laughing about something in front of Will’s stall. All the juniors are seniors now, and it’s a bummer not seeing our old seniors in the room, like Micah, Rand, our goalie Joe.

“I am so fucking ready for this season,” I tell my friends. “Senior year, boys. All we gotta do is bring that trophy home again, then we’re off to the pros.”

“Well, you are,” Beckett says as he undoes his jeans.

I glance over. “Have you decided what you’re going to do after graduation?”

“No idea, mate.”

Beckett’s an environmental science major, but he’s never actually talked about what kind of job he’ll get when he leaves school. I know Will wants to travel. Ryder will be in Dallas. I’ll be in Chicago. Colson in Tampa. Next year is going to be interesting.

I strip out of my street clothes and shove them into my stall. Our black-and-silver practice uniforms are freshly laundered. Skates newly sharpened. I can’t wait to get out there.

The air inside the rink is brisk, carrying the scent of freshly resurfaced ice. The fluorescent lights glint off the polished surface as we gather around Coach Jensen at center ice. He’s a tall, imposing man with buzzed hair, shrewd eyes, and an aversion to words. He greets us with a curt, “Welcome back.” That’s it.

During the warm-up skate, I notice some of the guys are looking out of sorts. And it becomes more evident when Jensen gets us doing some skating drills. I don’t blame the freshmen for being a little slow on the jump—this is their first season at Briar and their nerves are buzzing. The sophomores and juniors, however, know better. They know precisely what to expect.

Clearly seeing what I am, Coach blows his whistle and skates toward us from the boards. He singles out the kid standing next to Austin Pope. Phillip Donaldson, who wasn’t a starter last year.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jensen demands. “Did you do a single push-up during the offseason?”

Donaldson mumbles something.

“What was that?”

“I said sorry, Coach.”

“And you?” Jensen points a scary finger at Nazem. “Looking a little out of breath there, Talis.”

Standing next to Nazzy, Patrick can’t stop a snort. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you spend your whole summer partying on Milford Lake.”

“I spent the summer with you and your stupid family,” Nazzy growls at him. “You were just as wasted as I was.”

Jensen snarls at them both. “Yeah, and it shows. Donaldson, Kansas Kid, Nazem. Laps for the rest of practice.”

I lift a brow. Whoa. If Jensen doesn’t deem them good enough for today’s drills, that means they’re really out of shape.

“All right,” Coach snaps. “We’re going to do a blitz breakout drill. I need to see who else decided to be lazy this summer.”

Ryder and I exchange a look. Blitzes are high-intensity and not usually the kind of drills you do on Day One. They’re supposed to teach players how to work together under extreme pressure and require precise passing, quick transitions, and rapid decisions.

Jensen brusquely sets up the drill while we all listen intently, our breath visible in the crisp air.

“Speed is key,” he finishes, that sharp gaze moving over the dozens of bodies on the ice. As if he’s trying to assess which one of us might be a little pudgy under our practice jersey. “I want that puck in the offensive zone before the defense knows what hit ’em. Let’s go.”

The anticipation is palpable as we spread out across the ice. I nod at Colson and Pope, my linemates for this drill. The familiar adrenaline rush that always precedes a challenging exercise is injected directly into my blood. When the puck drops, the rink comes alive with the scrape of skates against ice.

I burst forward in powerful strides, propelling myself toward the puck. Case snatches it first. His stickhandling skills are on full display. As the defenders advance on us to thwart the breakaway, Colson snaps the puck to Pope, who passes it to me.

We absolutely crush this drill. Our lightning-fast passes keep the defenders at bay, the puck zipping between us in a blur of black on the white canvas of the ice. I’m on fire as I weave through the defenders with a combination of finesse and brute force, leaving them scrambling to catch up to me.

As we cross the blue line, Colson executes a perfectly timed crisscross, disorienting Beckett and the other d-men, while our new starting goalie, Todd Nelson, braces for the impending assault. I unleash a slapshot that evades Nelson’s grasp and smashes into the back of the net with a satisfying thud.

The guys on the bench erupt in cheers and hollers.

“Holy shit, Lindley,” Jordan Trager crows as he skates out to take my place. “What was that!”

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