After a one night stand on New Year's Eve, Lia and Derrick don't expect to see one another again. After all, she's a Harvard PhD student and he's a professional hockey player for the Boston Knights - there's no way their paths should cross again.
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The loud chirp of a whistle sounded. "Wellsley, you're up."
I barely heard the assistant offensive coach, solely focused on the task at hand as I jumped over the boards and took my second run through the obstacle course laid out on the ice. Starting off with one fast lap around the rink, my blades glided swiftly; a movement as routine as walking to me after all these years.
When I crossed the center red line, I snagged a puck from the pile to the side and began to weave my way through the sequence of pylons scattered on one side of the ice. There were twenty of them, all fairly close together, but my stick handling was second nature and in about ten seconds I was through, then pushing myself hard to the other end of the ice where Nyberg waited, ready between the pipes.
Looking for the perfect shot, I saw that he was ready on nearly every level. His stance was strong, protecting much of the net, and on his feet, he was agile. Waiting for me to make a move, his eyes flicked between the puck and my face. I knew I had a tell—relying on my core muscles and right side as I bent over my stick to shoot—so, after formulating a plan of action, I did exactly what was expected of me.
With a short wind up and quick release, my wrist shot flew off my stick and hit its mark—about two inches above where his blocker had been. It was an easy save, but I wasn't hoping for a goal. I'd been after the rebound, and as the puck bounced back onto the ice, albeit a little farther to the left than I would've liked, I got my chance.
I knocked a one timer towards the top of the net, swore under my breath when Nyberg deftly slid across the crease to block it.
He chuckled through his headgear as I rounded the back of the net, heading back for the bench. "Better luck next time."
Whistle after whistle sounded as the rest of the team gave the course one more go, with only a few hitting the back of the net as Coach alternated goalies. And when the drill ended, leaving me without a goal, I was more determined to kick it into high gear for the half-hour scrimmage that ended our practice.
The division of players was fair, with players from all four lines mixed among teams, and while everyone knew to take it easy on the hits, we all still wanted to give it our all.
It took a few shifts, but I settled into my groove when I found myself rushing down the ice next to Brookes, who I was used to playing with on game nights. The puck bounced back and forth between our sticks as we deked out the defensemen, and this time, when I saw the open five-hole and took a shot, it sailed cleanly across the goal line.
Followed by another bullet to the top corner two shifts later, which secured our team the win at 5-4 as practice came to a close.
"Okay, bring it in men," Coach said from center ice, his voice echoing throughout the arena. Most of us sucking wind after hours of skating, we glided slowly towards him and waited for his parting words. "After Wednesday's win in Dallas, I was proud to see you guys putting the same level of effort into today's practice. If we come out here tomorrow night with this kind of morale, we'll have the fans on our side when we show Montreal that them getting the best of us the last time we met was a fluke." There were whistles and hoots in agreement. "Now get out of here," Coach said, waving towards the tunnel. "And I better see you all here tomorrow, ready and hungry for a win."
