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Practice might be over, but Coach has apparently not let up on his insistence of after-practice skill drills immediately after our usual session. He has us all lined up at the neutral zone, ready to skate in one after the other for some rapid-fire shooting.
For the first time being out with the rest of the team, I’m fairly pleased with how well I’ve meshed. I expected there to be some pushback or even some good-natured hazing of the “old guy” returning, but most of the players who I didn’t already know have been all right. Not that we’ve had a lot of time to shoot the shit with the way Coach is working us.
I move into a ready position when Olsson takes his shot, my muscles sore but my adrenaline high as I keep my eye on the goal line. I let my skates glide over the ice like muscle memory; at this stage in my life, being on skates is second nature. I keep my fingers tight on my stick, waiting for the lineup and bursting the short distance to the dropped puck before swiping at it hard. It skids over the ice at rapid speed, clinking against the inside corner of the goal post but sliding into the net just the same.
“That’s a good shot, Eighteen,” Coach calls before turning his attention to Kennedy. “Twenty-Four! Open up! I want to see that transition backward and forward.”
Jankowski nudges me when I fall back in line, offering me a friendly grin. “Doing pretty good, Old Man.”
I chuckle, shrugging. Jankowski is only a few years younger than me—we actually played together before I left for Calgary—so I know he’s just giving me shit.
“Knees are being good today, thank fuck,” I laugh.
Rankin snickers. “Do they even make walkers with blades on them?”
“Fuck off, Rankin,” Vasilevski groans. “I saw your baby ass fall on the ice last week.”
“Dude, I was just fucking around,” Rankin grumbles.
I laugh despite it all. I missed this. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t like my team back in Calgary—they were a great group of guys, after all—but this feels like home.
“All right, guys, let’s huddle up!” Coach hollers. “Over here.”
The entire team works across the ice to crowd around where Coach is standing, and he nods good-naturedly, looking among us. “That’s good work today. Like always, we’re having some details, doing everything full speed—I’m looking at you, Kennedy—finishing plays, falling toward the net…There were a lot of good handles out there.” He slaps Olsson lightly on the chest, grinning at all of us. “Way to work, guys. I’ll expect everyone back Monday for the first official day of training camp, yeah? I have a good feeling about this season. You boys be good till then.”
We break, and people skate off toward the locker rooms, but I coast over to the sideline where Jack is currently hanging over the railing where he’s been shouting encouragement for all of practice. His sling is a pale purple today, and even though he’s still out of play, he’s got his practice jersey on in full support.
“Looking good out there, Old Man,” he teases. “How are the knees?”
“You do realize you’re only two months younger than me, right?”
His cheek dimples with his smile, so similar to Lila’s it’s uncanny.
Not that I’m thinking about Lila. Not that I’ve been actively forcing myself not to think of her all week.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “But I’m young in spirit. By at least a decade. Your spirit was probably a passenger on the Titanic.”
“Dick,” I mutter.
Jack just laughs again. “I told you it was going to be great. Everyone was cool, right?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I tell him. “Rankin likes to bust my balls, but he’s harmless.”
“Rankin is practically a rookie still,” Jack snorts. “He’s just battling little-man syndrome.”
“He’s six four,” I point out.
“His spirit is little,” Jack amends.
“All right, Miss Cleo,” I laugh. “I’ll be sure to come to you when I need my fortune told.”
“Mr. Chase?”
We both turn to see a man not much older than either of us standing next to what I assume is his teenage son. It’s not uncommon for people to come sit in on practice sessions; the facility is open to the public, after all.
I return the smile he’s wearing, noticing that his son looks like he’s ready to shit himself. “Hey, man, how are you?”
“Good, good,” the guy says cheerfully. “You looked good out there. We’re stoked you’re back home.” He clasps the boy on the shoulder. “My son was too nervous to come over and say hi; he’s a huge fan. He’s watched every single game you’ve played, even when you were in Calgary.” He laughs then. “Put some strain on our household. We’re die-hard Druids fans, you see.”
