Page 65 of Second Chance Faceoff

Coop narrowed his eyes, watching me carefully, then sighed. “Oh no. Why do I feel like I’m watching that Rambo movie—you know, the moment when Stallone gets that look in his eyes and you just know something big is about to go down?”

I grinned, yanking my helmet on and snapping the chin strap into place. “Because it’s about to.”

Coop let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn. Now I gotta watch this unfold.”

I stepped onto the ice, legs steady, focus locked in. The drills were about to start. Time to prove something.

The ice was fresh, the scrape of skates cutting sharp lines into the surface. My pulse had already settled into something steady, focused.

Overspeed drills came first. Easy.

I drove forward, legs pumping, cutting through the ice like a blade. Speed had always been second nature, muscle memory buried deep. But today, it wasn’t just about muscle memory—it was about sending a message.

I exploded off the line, my strides long and powerful. The drill was about control at full throttle. Each crossover was sharp, each pivot seamless.

My teammates were fast. I was faster. Forcing them to chase

Next, the Triangle Passing Drill. Here’s where I prove it’s not just about me.

I kept the puck moving, making every pass fast and clean. I did not hesitate, and I did not force plays—I just set up whoever needed it. A few guys noticed, but I was waiting for one reaction—Grady's.

I saw him watching now. Not commenting. Just watching.

The coach yelled out “Last drill. Backchecking.”

This was the one that would shut the conversation down.

The play unfolded fast, too fast for some. The puck moved ahead. I closed the gap hard, legs burning, cutting across the ice just enough to get into position. A half-second adjustment, then—stick on puck. Clean. No slashing, no desperation, just taking it back.

I swung the puck out to a teammate, then straightened up..

The ice was quiet for a beat.

Coop let out a low whistle. “Okay, new rule—someone piss him off before every drill.”

I yanked off my gloves, rolling out my shoulders. Grady didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. I’d already made my point.

***

The drive home was quiet. No music. Just the wheels humming against the road and the faint rattle of my gear bag in the trunk.

Back inside, I tossed my keys in the bowl and walked toward the kitchen.

The photo was right where I’d left it—me and Dad, frozen in that post-goal moment.

I picked it up.

The kid in that photo? He knew where to go when he needed answers.

I set the frame down and pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over the screen.

Then I tapped the contact.

Let’s see what happens.

The last conversation with my father had been clipped, surface-level. I hadn’t given him much reason to expect anything different this time.

Still, I hit dial.

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