Page 107 of The Rebound Plan

By the time everyone else is on the ice, I’ve taken a ton of shots on net and I’m the good kind of warm, all loose and limber.

When we circle up around the coach, I stay on the other side of the group from Max—far enough away I can’t really hear him if he mutters anything, but unfortunately that also puts me in his line of sight.

Avoid, ignore.

I can feel him staring at me, and it starts to be a bit of a game.

Ignore, avoid, disrupt.

Then we get set up to run some checking drills.

The point of these in practice is to better anticipate how really good players will avoid getting checked. It’s not to give your teammate a jarring bone crunch the day before a game.

We set up in two groups at either end of the rink. At the whistle, two guys take off, as if one is on a breakaway and the other is the only person who can stop him.

Zondi manages to clip Marsh pretty good, enough that he loses the puck. Kieran gives Malik a high-five for the effort, and they switch ends. Hooner isn’t as lucky up against Connor, but Ty has some words of advice for Hayden just before they, too, switch ends.

Two by two, we run the drill. Tilman takes on Gustafsson just before I take on Watanabe.

“Well that’s not a fucking fair size match,” Hiro says goodnaturedly to me as I help him up off the ice after simply putting my body in front of his at the last second.

“You still managed to snap the puck back at the last second, which is all you can do if someone wants to brick wall you.”

“True.” He claps my arm as we switch.

The groups weren’t even numbers, so the last rush is two on one, and then we line up again.

This time, the lines get rejigged a bit. The two on one rush is done right at the top, and by the time it’s down to the last pair, it’s me at one end of the ice and Tilman at the other end.

The whistle goes and we take off. I’ve got the puck, and he’s going to check me. I keep my head up because I’m not an idiot, and sure enough, he’s putting on more speed than he did the first run through.

I brace for impact.

He twists at the last second, slamming up and in to try and make me go over his back in a brutal open ice hip check.

I don’t go flying, so he gets tangled up around my knees and then tries to scramble away.

Fuck that.

I hook him around the neck and haul him back.

He flicks his gloves off, and I’m not backing down from that, so mine go flying too. He makes a bare knuckle run at me, but before he can connect, our teammates are between us and I’m being pushed off the ice.

“All right, all right,” Marsh says, shoving me down the tunnel as I yell choice words back in Max’s direction.

“He’s a fucking clown,” I snap angrily.

“Be louder. I don’t think the entire press crew heard you,” he says mildly.

I swallow whatever was about to come out next.

Whoever has Tilman takes him somewhere other than the dressing room, so I have a minute to cool down with Marsh just watching me.

But then the doors swing open and it’s not Max, and it’s not the coach. It’s Dick Dorrian, the team’s general manager. And he comes in at top volume.

“What the actual fuck was that, Rusty?”

I stare at him, thinking silence is the safest response.

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