Page 44 of Game Misconduct
The guy doesn’t waste movement, doesn’t waste wordseither. He’s already running mid-season form while the rest of them are still shaking off summer rust.
Eli grinds it out along the boards, a hard check here, a stripped puck there. Nothing flashy, but there’s an edge to him—controlled violence in every shift.
Beau slides into a defensive read, body angled not just to cut off Riley but to keep Cal from getting flattened in the process. Always the caretaker, even when he’s breaking plays apart.
Jace watches it all calmly. He’s a helluva captain. The man doesn’t need to yell to be heard.
His presence does it for him. We all read off him without realizing it.
Cal’s the only one still tripping over his own eagerness. Kid nearly face plants chasing down a loose puck, but he scrambles up quick, skating harder like he can make up for it with hustle.
I watch him and can’t help but see myself twenty years ago—raw, reckless, and desperate to prove I belonged.
The play turns and Finn fires one from the top of the circle, and I drop down, block it, then send the rebound flying.
Fuck me.
Pain knifes through my shoulder with the motion. Sharp, sudden, blinding.
I mask it and push up like nothing happened.
Nobody notices, and that’s the whole point.
I can play through it.
Iwillplay through it.
Because the second I show weakness, it’s over.
We cycle through several more scrimmages before the whistle’s called, indicating the end of practice.
“Hit the showers. Team meeting in ten,” Coach Holt calls out.
We shuffle into the locker room, which soon stinks of sweat and adrenaline, steam rising off the showers as guys strip out of their gear.
Letting the rest of the guys get to the showers first, I strip down to my compression gear and sit on the bench, moving gingerly to hide the pain in my shoulder.
I need ice, but there’s no way I’m doing it in front of the whole team or even a PT if I can get away with it.
True to his word, Coach Holt walks into the locker room, calling us into a quick huddle, voice carrying over the chatter.
He goes over some specific areas of improvement, thankful “goal tending” was left off the list.
“Energy was sharp today,” he says, gaze sweeping the room. “Conditioning’s still got room to improve before the regular season starts. Don’t get sloppy—preseason isn’t a tune-up; it’s an audition. You want your spot, then earn it now.”
Heads nod. Nobody jokes back.
We all know he’s right.
His eyes land on me a beat longer than the others. I keep my face neutral. Whatever he’s looking for, he won’t see it with me.
After the group breaks, Holt jerks his chin at me. “Coach Hartwell wants a word in the film room.”
I nod and head down the hall to see what the goalie coach has to say about my performance.
Coach doesn’t waste time. Clips flash across the screen, my saves, my misses, angles I know by heart.
He points out a drop in my stance, a half-second delay on a slide. “Stay sharp,” he says, like it’s that simple.
