Page 8 of On the Breakaway

He hops off, still grinning, and I watch him go.

Grabbing a stick, I head for the ice desperate to get out of my own mind. The Zamboni is long gone, leaving behind a clean, untouched sheet that begs for first cuts.

I curse under my breath when I see someone already out there.

Drew Barrett.

The kid’s got his helmet on, gloves half-strapped, skating slow circles near the blue line like he’s trying to wear a groove into the ice before anyone else gets here. I forgot I told him I’d help him out with his one-on-ones. There goes my quiet morning.

I hop the boards and glide out, the cold hitting my face. Drew looks up when he hears me, straightening like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

“Relax.” I stop in front of him. “You’re early, not late.”

He huffs out a breath, pushing over toward me. “Figured I could get some extra reps in until you got here.”

He’s got the skill. Anyone can see the quick hands and a shot that’ll turn heads if he keeps developing it. But right now, he’s thinking too much. You can see it in the way he hesitates before committing. That might’ve been fine in college, but in the NHL, second-guessing mid-play is going to get him burned every time.

I skate backward a few feet, setting my edges. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“Now?”

“You got somewhere else to be?”

“No. I’m good.”

I tap my stick once on the ice. “Puck’s yours. Start at center, and come at me like it’s game speed.”

He pushes off, collecting the puck and circling back. I watch the slight shift in his weight, the tell in his shoulders that he hasn’t even realized he has yet.

Rookies always have tells. Don’t get me wrong, most veterans do too, but they usually hide them better.

Drew comes at me fast, crossing the blue line before trying to cut inside. It’s not a bad move, just predictable. I angle my body, close the gap, and poke the puck clean off his stick before he can finish the deke.

“Too slow?” He skids to a stop, frustration flashing across his face.

I nudge the puck back toward him. “You’re waiting for me to react. Don’t. Make me react.”

We reset.

This time, he comes in harder, faster. There’s still hesitation, but less of it. I force him wide, leaning in to throw him off balance, knocking the puck loose again.

“Better,” I say. “But you’re still thinking about what I’m going to do instead of what you’re going to do.”

He drags a hand down his cage. “I don’t want to screw it up.”

I skate a little closer, lowering my voice even though we’re alone.

“You will,” I tell him. “A lot. That’s what no one wants you to realize. Watch Nathan’s game tape from last season. You’ll see a ten-year veteran in the league fuck up often. He’s still one of the best.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, but we both know it’s true. Up until he met Wesley, Nathan was at serious risk of losing his contract.

“Look,” I continue, tapping my stick against his. “You’ve got the skill. But at this level? Everyone’s skilled. You have to trust yourself. Worst case, I take the puck. Best case, you make me look stupid.”

That earns me a grin. “Alright, I can do that.”

We reset again, and this time, there’s a shift. It’s subtle, but it’s there: less hesitation and more intent.

He fakes outside, cutting in quicker than before, and I actually have to adjust. I still get a piece of the puck, but not cleanly. It ricochets off my stick instead of settling, sliding past me and giving him time to recover.