Page 27 of Knot Your Pucking Secret

He pushes off first, taking the puck with him as the other two forwards explode down either wing. They spread the ice exactly as they should, trying to force me into committing to one side before slipping the puck across the slot.

At least someone remembers the fundamentals.

I don’t chase the puck. I watch Holden’s hips before darting up to his face. His eyes dart left. A fake. His top hand shifts lower onto the stick. He wants me to bite on the cross-ice pass, but I don’t. What sort of a rookie does he take me for?

Instead, I skate backwards, matching his speed while holding my gap. “Closer!” I bark at the two trailing forwards. “If that’s the fastest you can transition, you’re wasting oxygen!”

One of them curses under his breath before digging harder. Holden reaches the blue line. He drops his shoulder. I angle him toward the boards. His winger breaks for open ice. Too early. Holden commits. I skate into the lane. The crack of composite against composite echoes through the arena as I lift his stick cleanly, knocking the puck loose before he can complete the pass. Gasps ripple across the rink. The puck slides behind me. I pivot, one stride, two. I gather it into my blade before firing a crisp breakout pass straight onto the tape of the waiting winger at center ice. Perfect.

“Dead!”

Every player slows, and I look straight at Holden.

“You telegraphed that pass from the moment you crossed the red line, Woods.”

His brows pull together.

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

I don’t raise my voice, because I don’t need to.

“You looked where you intended to pass before your teammate even created the lane.”

I skate closer, stopping just outside his reach.

“At this level, every defenseman will read your eyes.”

I tap the blade of his stick with mine. “The great ones read your feet. You’ve gotten lazy.”

His jaw flexes.

“If you don’t want to play for the NHL you can always play the way you’ve been playing. That might just do it.”

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter spreads through the team, but Holden doesn’t move.

“You rely on talent. But you of all people should know that talent isn’t enough. You gotta be good to stay good. And you’re only as good as the last game you played. And from where I’m standing, you’re playing like shit.”

My double meaning hangs in the air between us. I don’t bother lowering my voice. I want the others to hear. I want them all to know that if I’m willing to cut the star forward down to size, that they’re totally screwed if they don’t get their shit together. I’ve been the nice coach. I’ve been the thoughtful and forgiving coach. But she died. And so did this team.

“Winning isn’t everything. But it’s a whole lot fucking better than losing.” I look around at the other players, some with their helmets off, their eyebrows raised. “And I don’t know about you but I hate to fucking lose.”

“Yes, Coach,” a few players answer in unison, finally getting with the program.

“Again!” I say, skating backwards into position, ready to play until we get this right. Every failed rush earns another repetition. Every lazy pass. Mistimed transition. Every player who dares coast instead of skate. Again.

The hours bleed together until every jersey is soaked through, breaths ragged, and the scrape of steel across the ice is heavier with exhaustion. Only then do I finally call it.

“Enough. We’re done for the day.”

No one celebrates it, or speaks. They simply coast toward the bench, utterly spent. I peel away from the blue line, lazily weaving between the players. The puck glides effortlessly across my blade as I carry it with me, rolling my wrists out of habit before flicking it into the boards. The movement is almost absentminded. Comfortable. Home.

I complete another slow lap around the zone before skating toward the bench myself.

That’s when I feel it. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.

I lift my head. High above the rink, standing behind the glass overlooking the arena, Sasha Volkov doesn’t move. His broad frame is rigid. Hands are planted against the railing so tightly I wouldn't be surprised if the metal buckled beneath them.