Page 41 of Pucking Forbidden

“Right behind you,” Jensen calls.

We file out together, the noise of the locker room trailing behind us as our focus shifts and we go into full hockey mode.

The cold air hits my face. For a second, my head clears.

We’re already on the ice when Coach skates out. Sticks stop tapping, conversations taper off, and heads turn as we all realize he’s not alone.

I don’t recognize the guy trailing just behind him. He’s tall, with sandy blonde hair and dark green eyes that sweep over us, taking the whole team in. He looks young, as if he’s just coming out of college. He’s got light brown hair and sharp hazel eyes with a crooked nose. Probably broke it a few times given its odd shape.

“Bring it in,” Coach calls.

We circle up near the boards, forming a loose half-ring. The new guy stands just off Coach’s right shoulder, posture relaxed. He’s in full gear, helmet under one arm, gloves tucked loosely under the other.

“New addition,” Coach announces, voice carrying easily across the ice. He nods toward him. “This is Theo. He’s going to be B string for Right Wing.”

I tense. My position? I didn’t know they were even looking at bringing anyone else in under the right wing. Yeah, we haven’t maxed out the twenty-three-man roster each NHL team is allowed, but I didn’t think they were really looking to bring anyone specific in right now. A sense of foreboding trickles up my neck. Is this because I brought up Chicago to Coach? Is he already prepping my replacement?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: DRILLS

JULIAN

“Jump in here,” Zander calls to Theo, motioning toward our line.

Theo nods. “Got it.”

He skates over to join us.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Coach calls from the boards. “No wasting time today.”

We make two lines at the blue line, and one at center. Pucks are already scattered where they need to be.

“Quick touches,” Coach calls. “No dusting it off. Move it.”

I tap my stick once against the ice, shifting my weight forward. Coach’s whistle cuts through the air, and we push off into the first drill.

D-to-D pass, up to the wing, cut through the middle, get it back in stride, and drive the net.

The first pass comes hard across the ice. I take it on my forehand, barely letting it settle before snapping it up to Zander on the boards.

“Go,” he calls, already moving.

I pivot, cutting inside and pushing hard through my edges. The ice is fresh, just enough bite to feel every shift of weight.

Zander sends it back ahead of me.

I reach, catch it in stride, and pull it in close to avoid the defender stepping up.

“Middle!” Jensen shouts from behind me, trailing the play.

I fake left, cut right, and drive straight toward the net. I take the shot. It hits Carson square in the chest.

“Again!” Coach barks. “Too predictable. Sell the move.”

I circle back, and we run it again. This time, I hold the puck a half-second longer. Enough to shift the angle and force Carson to adjust.

The puck snaps off my stick and slides just inside the post.

“Better,” Coach calls.