Page 42 of Slapshot Baby

"I heard her the first time."

"I'm repeating it because you have a documented history of ignoring medical advice."

She's not wrong.

I last two days before I drive to the team facility.

I'm not planning to skate. I'm not stupid.

I just need to see the ice. Smell it. Hear the sound of blades cutting and pucks hitting boards.

The hospital stripped me of everything that makes sense to me. I need to stand in a place where the world operates on rules I understand.

By the time I get there, the parking lot is half full. Practice is already underway. The security guard at the entrance recognizes me. He stands straighter, a little startled.

"Captain. Good to see you."

"Good to be here."

The hallway to the rink is filled with cold air. My chest loosens for the first time in days.

I push through the doors to the viewing area above the ice. The glass stretches across the full rink, observation seating empty except for a couple of staff members reviewing footage on a laptop.

Below me, the team runs a neutral zone drill. Brennan's whistle cuts through the noise every now and then.

Wyatt takes the puck wide, cuts inside. Too wide. He's cheating to his forehand, leaving the backside exposed. A defenseman reads it and strips him clean.

"Tuck it in," I mutter. "You're giving away the angle."

Nobody hears me. I'm thirty feet above the ice behind soundproof glass.

I sit down. Stand up. Sit again.

Easton cycles through the offensive zone, calls for the puck from the half-wall. Jordan feeds it tape to tape. Easton shoots high glove, beats the goalie.

Good. The release is faster than I remember. He's been working on it.

Brennan blows the whistle. Line change. Theo lumbers to the bench. He grabs a water bottle and squirts it without looking, half of it hitting his beard.

They reset for a five-on-five. I lean forward.

The opposing unit sets up in a 1-3-1 forecheck. Our center takes the draw, wins it back to Jordan. Jordan moves it to Theo along the boards.

Theo holds too long.

"Move it. Move it up." I'm on my feet. "Wyatt's open on the weak side."

He doesn't move it. The forechecker closes, forces a turnover. The puck squirts free and the other unit transitions up ice.

I slap the glass with my palm.

"That's a two-on-one if you move it on time."

Nobody flinches. Nobody turns. They can't hear me and wouldn't see me if they looked up because the glass reflects the rink lights.

The drill resets. I stay standing, arms crossed, tracking every shift change, every missed assignment, every hesitation.

When Wyatt loses an edge on a crossover and nearly wipes out a defenseman, I shake my head.