Page 28 of Slew Foot
The object of the drill was for a player to weave around the cone while receiving the puck, then pass it to the guy on the oppositeside, receive another pass, skate toward the goal, shoot the puck, then join the line on the other side.
Players wove back and forth, passing, shooting, and warming up their bodies and minds. It was a familiar rhythm for Rafe, and he settled into it, letting muscle memory take over so he didn’t get tripped up about the fact the uniform colors were all wrong and the logo on the ice was a hawk instead of an acorn.
He studied the logo while he waited for his next turn.
And okay, objectively, the hawkwascool. Way cooler than an acorn for sure. Seriously, who the fuck named their ice hockey team after a fucking tree nut? Real intimidating there.
The Harriers mascot was better too. Blaze the Hawk was definitely more awesome than Chippy the Chipmunk.
But badass logo or not, he missed his boys in Minnie. He’d gotten some texts from his former teammates, which was nice, but they all knew what would happen eventually. After a while, the messages would slow down. Guys would get busy or make friends with the new trade or the call-ups or whatever. It was … whatever.
Rafe was used to it.
It happened all the time. On every team, in every league. It was how hockey worked. The season got crazy, and it was impossible to keep up with everyone.
His boys, the ones he was really close to, he’d maybe keep in contact with them. He’d plan a trip during bye week or in the off-season, maybe. Rafe would probably keep up with Zach but the rest would slowly disappear for the most part, except for maybeaHappy Birthdaymessage or a quick text after a particularly good game.
The only other guy he’d been super close to was … Logan.
Rafe definitely wasn’t going to be texting Logan.
“Yo, move it, Moon,” Ben Estrada said, nudging his shoulder with the butt end of his stick.
Rafe blinked, realizing he was a beat behind and took off, feeling a satisfying thud on the blade of his stick when the puck connected. He carried it around the cone, shooting it to Mickey where it landed squarely on his tape.
He caught a glimpse of Mickey’s bright smile before he wheeled away. Rafe accepted another pass from some guy whose name he couldn’t remember. He skated toward the goal with the puck on his stick and fired it.
Jesse batted it away, chirping him about his aim, and Rafe laughed. He’d never been much of a goal scorer. The most he’d ever gotten in a single season was five, so it wasn’t like anyone was expecting him to rack up the numbers.
But if he could connect with Mickey and do his job on the penalty kill, maybe that would be enough.
A while later, they were all done with the drill to Hoyt’s satisfaction, Rafe skated to a stop, purposefully bumping Mickey. “Hey,” he said. “We did pretty good with our passing, huh?”
Mickey glanced at him, cheeks pink and blue eyes bright as he nodded. He looked happy, which made Rafe happy too.
After, they did breakout sequences from each end of the ice, focused on the power play and penalty kills for a while, then played a quick scrimmage.
The earlier high didn’t last though. Rafe felt like he was still scrambling and out of position half the time and he could see the frustration on Mickey’s face when they finished.
He opened his mouth to apologize to Mickey but got a look back that made him snap his mouth shut.
“Don’t,” Mickey said warningly, though he didn’t look mad.
“I was just going to?—”
“I know what you were going to do,” Mickey said with a laugh, jostling him. “And I’m telling you not to.”
Rafe sighed. “Can I say I wish it had gone better?”
“Sure,” Mickey said. “I’ll allow that. But how about we stay after for a little bit and work on some stuff?”
“Yeah? You don’t mind?” Rafe smiled hopefully at him.
“Hey, it’s for me too.” Mickey said with a shrug as he skated off to ask the associate coach, Rasmussen, for help.
Which … holy shit. Sometimes it still amazed Rafe that they got to work with guys like him.
Rasmussen was a Norwegian player whose legendary career as a high-scoring forward for the New York Rockets had been cut short by a particularly brutal knee-injury during a playoff run. Rumor had it, New York would have won if not for Rasmussen being taken out.
