Page 107 of Game Misconduct
Cal’s still out there, skating a loop with his head down, stick dragging like he’s running through sludge.
A puck slips off his blade mid-drill and careens toward the boards.
He mutters something under his breath and goes after it.
I hover in the exit tunnel, dressed in my off-ice gear, but with one glove still clutched in my hand.
I should leave, let the kid have his space to wallow.
But I don’t.
Wallowing in his misery isn’t going to help get his head out of his ass and keep him off waivers.
I watch him stumble through another drill—tight turns, puck control, a cross-body pass that sails too far and hits the boards with a crack.
He exhales hard, shoulders tight, skates back to start it again.
No one’s watching. No one left to impress.
Except me.
I start to walk away. Get as far as the top of the stairs before something in me—something I don’t usually fucking listen to—pulls me back.
I drop my bag, put on my skates, and step onto the ice. “Reid.”
Cal jerks around like I caught him shoplifting.
He skates toward me, sheepish and flushed. “Hey. Uh…didn’t think anyone was still here.”
I toss him a puck from the nearby bucket. “You’re not keeping your top hand high enough. You’re losing accuracy in your follow-through.”
He nods slowly. “Okay. Got it.”
I step into position. “Again. From the dot.”
We run the drill.
No praise. No pep talk.
Just sharp angles, quiet ice, and the slap of sticks.
I correct his stance. Force a reset. Make him skate the same route until he gets it clean.
He doesn’t whine.
He works.
After the third round, we pause at center ice, sticks resting across our knees.
Cal’s breathing hard. Sweat dripping from the ends of his curls. He glances at me, eyes uncertain.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says. “I’ve read all the articles. You don’t really…do people.”
I tap the blade of my stick against his. “Don’t get used to it.”
He huffs a laugh. “Why help me, then?”
I shift my weight, eyes tracking a faint scar in the glass.
