Page 73 of What If I Hate You
"Every word." His eyes lock with mine, intense and unreadable behind his mask. "I’m too slow tracking the puck laterally. My right pad doesn’t seal post. I telegraph my movements and don’t realize it.” He repeats all my words back to me. “You’ve been right every time. So, help me fix it.”
I stare at him, momentarily speechless.
He's been listening to my analysis?
Taking it seriously?
The thought catches me off guard, but I quickly recover, squaring my shoulders.
"Fine," I say, scooping up a puck with the blade of my stick. "Let's see what you've got."
I skate backward toward the blue line, feeling the ice beneath me, remembering the weight of my body, the balance, the edge work. It's been years since I've done this competitively, but some things you never forget. The stick feels alive in my hands, an extension of my arms as I handle the puck.
"Ready?" I call out.
Barrett drops into his stance, knees bent, glove up, blocker ready. He gives me a curt nod, eyes focused behind his mask.
I push off, skating a wide arc as I approach the net.
I send the puck sailing toward Barrett's glove side, testing his reflexes. He snags it with a quick flash of leather, barely moving his body. Too easy.
"That all you got, Rivers?" he taunts, tossing the puck back to me.
I narrow my eyes, gathering another puck. This time I fake a shot, drag the puck to my backhand, and flick it toward the top corner. He stretches, just catching it with the edge of his blocker.
"Better," he admits, "but I knew where you were going."
"Because I telegraphed it," I say, understanding now. He wants me to show him what I see when I analyze his game.
I grab another puck and circle wider, studying his stance. His weight is slightly forward, his right leg angled just a touch differently than his left. It's subtle. Most people wouldn't notice it, but it's there. I skate back and forth, watching his reactions, how he shifts his weight.
"You have a tell," I call out, circling with the puck. "Your right shoulder drops a split second before you push off on lateral movements."
I demonstrate, mimicking his stance, then showing the subtle drop. "See? Anyone paying attention knows exactly where you're going before you even move."
Something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe even respect. I take advantage of his momentary distraction and fire a quick wrist shot that sails past his blocker.
"Shit," he mutters, fishing the puck out of the net much to the amusement of the rest of the guys.
“Nice play, Rivers!” Griffin applauds from center ice where the guys are now lingering to watch.
"That's one," I say, unable to keep the smugness from my voice when I skate past Barrett. "Want to see more of your weaknesses, Cunningham?"
He straightens, adjusting his mask. "Show me everything."
The challenge lights up something dormant inside me. A competitive fire I thought I'd buried along with my hockey dreams. I gather another puck, weaving it between my legs as I circle the zone. Barrett tracks me, his focus absolute as I test his edges, his patience, watching for the telltale signs I pointed out.
"Try to hide that shoulder drop," I call out, dancing with the puck. "Think about keeping your weight centered until the last possible second."
I fake left, then dart right, firing a shot that he barely catches with his pad. The satisfying thud makes me smile despite myself.
"Better," I acknowledge, collecting another puck. “You’ve got to get better control of your physical game. You’re slow sometimes because you’re overthinking.”
"Again," he demands, tossing the puck back.
I collect it and skate backward, watching him adjust his position. This time, I notice he's consciously keeping his weight centered, shoulders square. When I shoot, he moves with surprising fluidity, tracking the puck perfectly.
"There it is," I nod, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips.
