Page 25 of Chasing The Goal
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The sting of cold air against my face was the best kind of pain. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it—the bite of the chill, the sound of my blades cutting into fresh ice, the sharp echo of sticks tapping in anticipation. The rink was my church, and today? I was back in the pews.
“Think you can keep up, grandpa?” Logan skated past me backward, grinning like he’d already won.
“Keep talking, Bennett. We’ll see who’s panting first.”
He shot me a wink and pivoted clean into a warm-up lap. I fell in beside him, our strides syncing like they always did, like some muscle memory that existed beyond injury or time off the ice.
Coach blew the whistle. “Lines! Let’s go—edge drills! Prescott take it EASY!!”
We broke into pairs, skating tight around the cones laid across the neutral zone. My hamstring twinged, but nothing like it had before. This wasn’t pain. This was strength reawakening. I could feel it—my legs remembering how to push, how to carve. The sweat was already forming at my temple, and I loved it. When Coach Tucker had texted about being cleared for light practice, the weight of a million boulders was lifted off my shoulders.
“Looking good out there, Prescott,” Coach shouted as I came out of a tight turn, breathing heavy.
“Thanks, Coach,” I called back, pushing off for another rep.
Next up: puck possession drills. Logan and I lined up for a two-on-one against a defenseman, and the moment that puck hit the ice, everything else faded. I feinted left, baited the d-man, then snapped a saucer pass across the crease where Logan buried it top shelf.
“Oh, we’resoback,” he grinned, skating over to bump my shoulder.
“Never left,” I panted, sweat dripping from my chin.
Coach watched us closely. His clipboard was out, but his eyes were narrowed in that way that said he wasn’t just looking.
He was assessing.
Measuring.
By the time practice wound down, I was gassed in the best way possible. We finished with battle drills—hard scrums in the corners, loose puck races, backchecking—and I gave it everything I had. Logan and I left it all out there.
As the final whistle blew, Coach cupped his hands. “Prescott, change quick then meet me in my office.”
Logan raised a brow as I peeled off my helmet. “Uh oh. Somebody’s in trouble.”
I flicked my towel at him and made my way toward the locker rooms.
Coach’s office was tucked in the back of the complex, past the team lounge and weight room. I’d been in there plenty of times before—mostly for strategy talk or chewing outs—but as I stepped through the door, I paused.
Mallory was already there.
She stood by the window, arms crossed loosely over her chest, clipboard clutched in one hand. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and her Hellblades polo looked unfairly good on her. She glanced over when I walked in but didn’t smile.
“Sit,” Coach said, motioning to the chair across from his desk.
I dropped into it, still breathing hard from drills, trying not to look as surprised as I felt. What was Mallory doing here?
Coach leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the desk. “Hell of a skate today, Prescott.”
“Appreciate that, sir.”
“You feel ready?”
I hesitated, but only for a second. “I do. It felt good out there.”
He nodded, then turned to Mallory. “He looked sharp. Strong on his edges. No hesitation going into contact situations. You agree?”
Mallory looked at me—really looked at me—and for a beat, I forgot to breathe.
