“Alright, gentlemen,” he says, his deep voice bouncing off the ice. “We had a solid game the other night, but there are still plenty of things for us to tighten up.”

I listen intently as he calls out the areas we need to work on as a team, mentally adding his points to my own running list of improvements. It’s a list that grows longer after every game, regardless of whether we win or lose. These little details matter. Small adjustments are what separate good players from great ones, and I refuse to be merely good.

“The power play in the second period was sloppy,” Dunaway says, tapping his clipboard. “Too many missed connections. Our penalty kill needs to be more aggressive on the forecheck.” He points to specific players as he goes through the rest of his notes. “Sutton, backcheck was late getting into position during their rush. You’ve got to close that gap faster. Grant, excellent positioning on the breakaways, but we need to tighten up the rebounds.”

I nod once, mentally reviewing the three rebounds I gave up during our last game. Two of them turned into goals, both on my right side. The Prowlers game tape showed me leaning slightly, telegraphing my weight shift. That’s fixable, but I’ll have to put in the work to do it.

“Let’s run some odd-man rushes,” Dunaway calls out. “Then we’ll move into power play setups.”

As we break into drill formation, I slide into the crease, tapping my stick against the post three times in my usual habit before settling into my stance.

The drill begins, and everything else fades away. Each shot becomes a puzzle, something for me to solve as I analyze the angle and velocity of the puck or the player’s stance as it telegraphs the direction of their shot. My body moves by instinct, years of muscle memory taking over as I drop low, my glove flashing out to snag a shot headed for the top corner.

The next few shots come in at predictable angles. I stop them easily, redirecting pucks to the corners and eliminating rebounds. As we keep going, I’m vaguely aware of movement in the stands of the practice arena as Margo Blake, one of our PR people and Noah’s wife, sets up her camera equipment.

She’s here for most of our practices, documenting our work for the team’s social media, so I barely register her presence. She’s just another thing in my peripheral vision, like the scoreboard or the banners hanging from the rafters.

Noah fires a wrist shot that I deflect with my blocker, and Reese follows up with a one-timer that I catch cleanly. But just as Theo cuts across the slot, lining up to shoot, a soft, musical laugh floats down from the stands.