With both of us playing at the same level this season, no one will be able to deny it.
The energy in the locker room is completely different before the first official practice toward the end of the month. The guys are pretty quiet as we suit up, this nervous excitement radiating off of everyone. No matter how hard we worked in captains’ practices, how seriously we took Zero and Kovy, it’s not the same as answering to the coach who’s going to determine your ice time.
We get a few minutes to warm up and stretch on the ice before Coach Campbell blows his whistle and calls out, “On the line.”
There’s a collective sense of ugh, here we go as we take to the goal line and another blow of the whistle sends us sprinting to the lines and back. I have a distinct disadvantage with my shorter legs. I might be quick in-game, using my size to duck around bigger guys and get the jump on them, but when it comes to a dead sprint, it’s harder for me to keep up.
It’s a flaw that NHL scouts will no doubt agonize over when they start getting nitpicky between Jaysen and me. I’m not about to let him show me up here. I push myself to the point of collapse, the taste of iron in the back of my throat, but I still end up a couple strides behind him. We both gasp for air, bent over with our sticks across our thighs, but when he looks up and catches me watching him, he looks so pleased with himself I could smack him.
Our starting goaltender, Colie, is on a whole other level when we move on to shooting drills. He was pretty good during captains’ practices, but under the scrutiny of his Olympic gold-medalist goalie coach, he’s stepped it up. His reflexes are so quick it’s mildly frightening, and he makes it look so easy, I’m half-tempted to put on the pads and try it for myself. I’m so impressed I can’t even get frustrated when he blocks most of my shots.
It helps that Jaysen’s not having any better luck. The upperclassmen have been playing with Colie long enough that they know his weaknesses and are able to exploit them a bit before he shuts them down, too.
After that, we move on to three-on-twos, with Coach Campbell shouting out real-time feedback, like:
“Cicero, keep your head up!”
“Caulfield, more pressure on the puck along the boards!”
And, “James, you had a lane! Take the one-timer next time!”
I huff, far enough away he can’t hear me. I can wrist a one-timer all day, but I was at the point for that one, and I’ve never been confident in my slap shot. Especially not on a moving puck. I’d rather take the time to set it up than risk whiffing on it and making a fool of myself.
We get in a good hour and a half of ice time before Coach calls it quits. As we head off the ice, Coach says, “Cicero, Caulfield, James. Hang back a minute.”
“Oh boy,” Zero says, nudging me with an elbow. “You two try not to get your egos too close together. We don’t need any concussions.”
Jaysen tchs, and I feel myself frowning. I’ve been able to avoid him through most of practice, but as I hoist myself up onto the boards, my feet dangling over the ice, he stops right next to me. He leans back against the boards with his elbows hiked up onto them, almost touching me. Zero stands straight to my right, holding his stick across his shoulders to open up his lungs.
Coach stops in front of us, flipping through some notes he made on a clipboard. He’s my dad’s age, drafted in the same year but nowhere near as high as him. I think he was fourth round or something. He didn’t last long in the NHL, but he’s made a name for himself in coaching. Dad’s happy with him at least, or he would’ve been more worried about me coming here, alma mater or not.
My favorite thing is that Coach doesn’t coddle me because of my name. He’s shared ice with plenty of stars, including Dad, so he’s not fazed by it. To him, I’m just another one of his insolent players who basically needs to be retaught how to play hockey from scratch.
I like him. He makes me feel like I deserve to be here, no matter what Jaysen Caulfield says.
But then Coach goes and says, “I want you three on a line together,” and all my respect for him goes out the window. Before I can voice my concerns, he adds, “Cicero, left wing, Caulfield, center, James, right wing.”
Okay, wait a minute, what? I didn’t hear that right. I’ve been playing center since I first learned that not everyone is supposed to chase the puck at once. I am a center. I’m the best face-off guy in the NCAA. I have the best hockey sense of anyone on this team. My name might as well be written on the ice in the slot and behind the net, that’s how much I own those spaces. Center is mine.