Page 64 of Unmanageable

It blurs past my cheek on the rebound, grazing my sweatshirt before Cash catches it in his peripheral vision. His hand snaps shut around it, his eyes never leaving the blue painters’ tape stuck to the wall.

“Eyes on the tape! Stop guessing where it’s dropping!”

Coach Grant looks like he hasn’t slept since the 2004 playoffs.

His training philosophy relies entirely on making you do fifty things at once until your brain shorts out, which, judging by the state of this basement, is his preferred method for creating elite goaltenders.

We are in the bowels of a community rink forty minutes outside of Washington, surrounded by rusted weight benches, broken folding chairs, and the pervasive stench of damp concrete and decades-old gear.

Cash is balancing on a flat-bottomed foam pad with one leg. His six-foot-three frame is steady, but his right ankle and thigh are constantly twitching, making microscopic adjustments to keep him centered. In his hands, he’s holding a pair of heavy, textured reflex balls, tossing them rapidly against the wall in an alternating pattern, catching them on the rebound to force rapid, tight-space visual tracking.

I mean, I understand that goalies need reflex training and peripheral vision practice, but isn’t this a bit… weird? It looks like a high-stakes version of juggling for the insane.

Thwack.

Grant fires another tennis ball from a hand-held launcher. Cash uses his peripheral vision to catch the flash of green, drops his left hand from the reflex drill to snare the ball, tosses it back, and goes right back into his tracking sequence without his foot ever touching the floor.

“Good,” Grant says. “Keep your wrists loose. Scottie, read him the scouting report while he’s tracking. Let’s see if he can actually think and move at the same time, or if he’s just a giant pair of shoulder pads.”

I adjust my briefcase under my arm. “Charlotte’s been scrambling on defense since they traded Miller, Cash. Their coach is forcing everything down the left wing now, so expect a lot of heavy, screened shots from the circle.”

Cash doesn’t blink. He keeps his eyes fixed on the blue tape.

“The new kid they called up from the AHL panics when he’s pressured on the back check,” Cash mutters, his hands never slowing. “He always panics and forces a pass to the slot. I just need to hold my ground and not bite early.”

“Right,” I say, tapping my pen against the folder. “Also, the front office is finalizing the contract rewrite tomorrow. If you don’t look sharp in this scrimmage, they’re going to try and push that performance-based escrow option again.”

“They can take that option and shove it right up their—”

“Language, O’Connell!” Grant barks. Without warning, he drops the launcher and hurls a weighted, six-pound medicine ball straight at Cash’s chest.

Cash drops the reflex balls and drives his hands forward, absorbing the medicine ball against his chest. The impact forces him off the foam pad. His sneakers squeak violently against the rubber mat as he drops into a deep athletic stance to catch his breath.

“You’re mad at management now,” Grant says, pointing a finger at him. “The second she mentioned the contract, your shoulders locked up. If your upper body is rigid, your glove hand is late and you’re letting in soft goals over the shoulder. Reset.”

I watch him step back onto the foam pad, taking a deep breath.

This is the second stop on our tour, and the routine is starting to blur together into a haze of sweat and frustration.

The basement is small, the yellow light from the bare bulbs making everything look old and slightly tobacco-stained. It’s a far cry from the pristine facilities in Boston or Toronto, but there’s a raw energy here that I’m starting to prefer.

“Alright, Agent Lady,” Grant says, a mischievous glint in his small eyes. “Let’s add some visual screen variables. Go stand by the equipment locker.”

“I’m fine right here, Coach.”

“I didn’t ask if you were fine. I asked you to move. In a real crease, you’ve got two defensemen fighting for position, guys trying to tip the puck, and a winger trying to take your eyes away. You’re the screen today, Scottie.”

I roll my eyes but move toward the dented metal locker, standing directly in Cash’s line of sight.

Grant pulls a handful of small, bright red racquetballs from his pocket. “Cash! Alternating wall-tosses with the heavy balls. Every time I whistle, you drop one and catch whatever the lady throws at you from the flank. Active tracking through a screen.”

“She’s not going to throw anything, Grant,” Cash says, his hands already in motion against the brick again. “She has a five-hundred-dollar manicure.”

“And my aim is perfect,” I add, reaching into a plastic milk crate nearby and picking up a small, dense foam reaction ball with uneven, jagged nodes on it.

“Oh, great,” Cash mutters. “She’s got the weird one.”

Grant is whistling, shouting random numbers, throwing tennis balls from different angles, and occasionally kicking a soccer ball toward Cash’s feet to force quick kick-saves while keeping his upper body steady.