Page 66 of Checks & Bonds

We ran through the drills over and over again, each pass and shot sharpening our skills a little more. The physical exertion helped clear my mind, but every now and then, thoughts of Freya would sneak back in.

During a brief water break, Keaton skated over to me. "You seem distracted today," he observed.

I took a long drink from my bottle before replying. "Just... stuff going on at home."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Well, try to leave it off the ice, asshole. We're in the fucking playoffs."

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "I'll manage."

The rest of practice went by in a blur of motion and noise—the thud of pucks against boards, the scrape of skates on ice, Coach Morgan's occasional shouts for us to pick up the pace or tighten our formations.

We moved on to another drill, this one focusing on defensive zone coverage. Coach Morgan had us pair up, each duo tasked with keeping the puck out of our end. I got matched withKeaton, his chaotic demeanor contrasting sharply with my own restlessness.

"All right, boys," Morgan barked, his voice echoing in the cold rink. "No puck leaves your zone. Communicate and stay sharp."

Keaton and I positioned ourselves near the blue line, waiting for the whistle. The moment it blew, our opponents charged at us with a ferocity that only the promise of playoffs could inspire. I squared my shoulders and locked eyes with Sawyer Wolfe, barreling toward me, anticipating his every move.

He feinted left, but I didn't bite. My stick shot out, intercepting the puck and sending it skittering back toward Keaton. He scooped it up effortlessly, pivoting on his skates to clear it down the ice.

"Fuck yeah," he muttered as we regrouped.

I nodded, focusing back on our opponents who were already coming at us again. This time, they tried a different tactic—quick passes meant to disorient us. I kept my eyes sharp, tracking the puck as it zipped between them.

One of them managed to break through Keaton's defense and took a shot at our goal. Instinct took over. I dove low, my stick catching the puck just before it could cross the line. The impact rattled through my arm but there was no time to dwell on it.

"Clear!" I shouted.

Keaton was already in motion, taking advantage of the momentary lapse in our opponents' focus to send the puck flying down to their zone. It bought us precious seconds to reset our positions.

"Keep talking," Coach hollered from the sidelines. "You lose communication, you lose control."

The drill continued like that—intense, fast-paced, leaving no room for stray thoughts or hesitation. My body moved almost automatically now, every muscle attuned to the rhythm of play.Despite everything swirling around in my head earlier that morning, right now all that mattered was this game.

Keaton and I held our ground for most of the drill. We weren't perfect; a few pucks slipped past us here and there, but overall we kept our zone secure. Each successful block felt like a small victory, pushing back against all the uncertainty gnawing at me from within.

The whistle blew, shrill and demanding, signaling the end of practice. I coasted to a stop, breathing hard, feeling the burn in my legs. The team gathered around Coach Morgan at center ice, the usual post-practice chatter falling silent as we awaited his words.

Coach stood there, a hulking figure with his hands on his hips, looking each of us in the eye before he began speaking. His voice was gravelly and commanding, like something straight out of a war movie.

"Listen up, boys," he said, pacing back and forth in front of us. "Tomorrow night is it. This game ain't just another tick on the calendar—it's our ticket to the Championship."

He stopped and looked at us again, eyes narrowing. "We've worked our asses off to get here. Blood, sweat, tears—every damn cliché you can think of—but it means jack shit if we don't bring our A-game tomorrow."

I shifted on my skates, glancing at my teammates. They were all focused, absorbing every word.

"Now I know you all got shit going on outside this rink," Morgan continued. "Family issues, school work, whatever the hell it is that's eating at you. But when you step onto that ice tomorrow night? All that crap stays behind."

His voice grew more intense, eyes boring into us one by one. "You leave it all out there. Every ounce of energy, every bit of skill—hell, even your goddamn soul if you have to. We need this win."

The room was silent except for the hum of the arena lights and the faint sound of skates shifting on ice.

"Tomorrow," Morgan said slowly, letting the weight of his words sink in, "we're not just playing for ourselves. We're playing for each other. For this team."

He paused again and then gave a grim smile. "Now get your asses outta here and rest up. Tomorrow's gonna be one hell of a fight."

We dispersed slowly, each of us lost in our own thoughts but united by the same goal. As I walked off the ice and into the locker room, Coach's words echoed in my mind. This game wasn't just about moving on to the Championship; it was about proving something—to ourselves and everyone watching.

Tomorrow night would be our moment.

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