Page 63 of Cold Carnage

"You wear a C for a reason," he said finally. "Don't waste it by being your own worst enemy."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there in the empty locker room. His words echoed in my mind long after he was gone.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to stop letting the past control me.

But first things first—I had an ice rink waiting for me.

I grabbed my stick and headed out onto the ice, the cold air hitting my face like a welcome slap. The rookies were already out there, skating in lazy circles or fumbling with pucks. Their faces were a mix of nerves and excitement, all wide-eyed and eager to prove themselves. Some looked barely old enough to shave, their cheeks still smooth and boyish. Others had the beginnings of beards, their expressions hardened by junior leagues and draft camps.

I couldn't help but remember my first rookie camp, almost fifteen years ago. I had been one of them, once—hungry, determined, desperate to make a name for myself. The weight of those early days settled on my shoulders as I watched them. Part of me wished I had something to say to these kids, some piece of wisdom to pass down. But I kept my mouth shut. They’d have to learn the hard way, just like I did.

A couple of rookies in plain-colored jerseys whispered as I skated past them. Their eyes darted towards me before quickly looking away when I met their gaze. I ignored them, focusinginstead on the feel of the ice beneath my blades, the familiar rhythm that always managed to calm me down.

Barrett skated out onto the ice and blew his whistle sharply. The sound cut through the murmur of voices, drawing everyone's attention. His presence commanded respect without needing to say a word.

"All right, listen up!" Barrett’s voice echoed through the rink as he called everyone into a huddle. The rookies scrambled to form a loose circle around him.

I hung back slightly, observing more than participating. This was their moment, not mine.

"First up, we’re focusing on speed drills," he announced. "I want to see quick feet, sharp turns, and clean transitions. No sloppy skating."

His words washed over me, a distant hum as I zoned out for a moment. Memories of my own rookie camp flooded back—grueling drills, endless hours on the ice, the constant pressure to be perfect. The taste of metal from the rink’s cold air, the burn in my lungs from pushing myself beyond my limits.

I could still hear Coach Winters’ voice in my head, barking orders with that relentless drive for excellence. "Kane, you think you’re tired? You don’t know tired until you’ve played a triple overtime!" he’d yell. I’d skate until my legs felt like they were going to give out, but I never showed weakness. Couldn’t afford to.

"Next, we’ll move into puck handling," Barrett continued, snapping me back to the present. "Keep your heads up and control those pucks like they’re glued to your sticks."

The rookies nodded again, their focus unwavering. They reminded me of myself—so eager to prove their worth, so desperate for validation. My father’s words echoed in my mind: “Perfection or nothing.” It was a mantra that had driven me all these years, shaping every aspect of who I was.

Barrett's whistle cut through the air again. "Let's get moving! Show me what you’ve got!"

The rookies scattered across the ice, diving into the drills. I watched them for a moment before pushing off and joining in. My body moved on autopilot, muscles remembering the motions without needing conscious thought.

As I skated through the drills alongside them, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something—nostalgia, maybe? Or perhaps just a recognition of how far I’d come since those early days. The pressure to be perfect still loomed large in my mind, but maybe Barrett was right. Maybe it was time to start letting people in.

For now though, I focused on the ice beneath me and the rhythm of my skates cutting through it. The past could wait—today was about proving myself once again, not just to everyone else but maybe also to me.

I shook off the nostalgia and focused on Barrett's instructions. It was time to get to work.

"Pair up!" Barrett barked.

The rookies moved quickly, scrambling to find partners.

I caught one kid staring at me with wide eyes as if he couldn't believe I was real.

I nodded at him before turning away. Time for these kids to show what they were made of.

I paired up with the rookie who had been staring at me. He looked nervous, his hands fumbling with his stick as he tried to keep his composure. The kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen, his face still showing traces of teenage awkwardness.

"J-Jason," he stammered, clearly starstruck.

"All right, Jason," I said, my voice steady. "Let’s see what you’ve got."

We started with basic puck handling drills. The rookies moved in pairs, passing the puck back and forth while skatingthrough a series of cones. The goal was to keep their heads up and maintain control without losing speed.

Jason struggled at first. His passes were weak, and he kept looking down at the puck instead of where he was going. It reminded me of my own early days—clumsy and unsure.

"Keep your head up," I instructed as we moved through the cones. "You’ve got to trust your instincts."

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