Page 38 of On Thin Ice

“You ready?” Jacob asked, and Finn nodded.

“Okay, some footwork first,” Jacob said. “Your speed, but we’ll get faster. That’s the idea. Compress your reaction time, your physical response, and then we’ll work on stringing some movements together.”

He was a Reynolds, so he had good technique. His father would have never stood for anything else and had always hired the best coaches to come in and make sure that Finn not only had a grasp on the basics, but that he excelled at them.

They drilled footwork until Finn’s thighs were aching and his calves were burning. Jacob had the same intensity and single-minded focus of the other night, and it helped Finn too. Physical effort leading to mental focus.

“Good.” Jacob tapped his stick on the ice. “Now faster.”

He did it again and again.

When Jacob finally let him stop for a quick break, Finn pushed his helmet and his sweaty hair back, squirting Gatorade into his mouth.

“You good?” Jacob asked, and Finn nodded.

“You know, it doesn’t take a single day of practice to go from good to great. It’s a hundred times repeating the same time drills. A thousand. Until it’s second nature.”

Finn nodded.

“Let’s work on your transitions.”

Finn hated transitions, even though he knew how they could change an entire defensive stand. They were a bitch to drill, but apparently Jacob had decided to throw him in the deep end.

Hoping to make him a better goalie, for sure, but maybe also hoping to exhaust them both enough they couldn’t even think about sex.

But even as tired as Finn was—and he knew he’d be more worn-out after this—the awareness of Jacob as a man, not just a coach, sizzled under his skin.

“You’ve got better movement, your positioning is better, and what does that mean?” Jacob asked.

“First save’s better,” Finn said, finishing his Gatorade and slipping his mask back on.

“If you’ve got better control on your first save, then your rebound is better. More deliberate, less instinctual.”

“Right,” Finn said.

“Position,” Jacob barked.

Finn got ready, and what followed was much like what they’d done at Jacob’s house, but more intense somehow.

Maybe because Jacob wasn’t behind the machine, removed from the action. Hewasthe action, peppering him with pucks, sometimes one right after another, over and over again, getting right up into his face, until it felt like there was nothing but Jacob’s dark brown gaze challenging his.

“Good. Good.” Finally Jacob stopped. He’d run out of pucks, for the third time, and Finn let out a hard breath. “You’ve got great technique, but you’ve been relying on your instincts.”

“I thought I didn’t listen to them enough,” Finn complained.

Jacob grinned. “Different kind of instincts. There’s a feel for the puck, for the players. How they’re going to approach, the way they might take the shot, etcetera. But when you block, whenyou commit physically to a save? That’s preparation. Execution. Recovery.” He paused. “But you’ve got the ability and the foundation. I can see why the Sentinels took you in the third.”

Finn’s jaw dropped. “What?”

Jacob’s smile morphed into a smirk. “Don’t tell me you thought it was because your last name was Reynolds.”

“Well, yeah, I did. So did everyone else.”

“You gotta stop giving a shit what other people say. Listen to me. Listen to your coach over there. Listen to your teammates. But most of all, listen to yourself. Block the rest out. Let their words just bounce off you.”

“You do that?”

Jacob shrugged. “Mostly, yeah. Can’t say I never let anyone rile me up.”

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