“AC-ES!” we chant together and throw our hands up in the air as Dunaway blasts on his whistle to officially start training. I’m not sure what their usual training regimen is, so I hold back for a beat, observing until I realize that the whole team is jetting off for a few warmup laps around the ice.

I take a lazy circle around the arena the first time around but notice the guys ahead of me are picking up their pace for the second one, so I follow suit. I dig my blades in deeper, unleashing my speed, and end up soaring past several of them. On the third lap, Dunaway blasts his whistle again, and the guys start to split off toward the benches, gearing up for a full-ice scrimmage. I skate over to grab a drink and tap gloves with a few of the guys before Dunaway calls out the lineups.

“Blue jerseys take the home bench. Whites, away. Let’s get after it,” he barks. I follow the rest of the defensemen in white over to the far side. Theo is already tossing chirps at the guys on the other bench, and I try to focus on soaking it all in without looking like a total rookie.

I get thrown out there with Reese on right wing, Noah taking center, and another D-man named Collins who gives me a nod and nothing else. The whistle blows, and we’re off.

Right away, the pace is fast. No one is holding back, and it’s clear Dunaway wants to see who can hang when the drills are over and the game gets real. I stay tight to my zone, keep my gaps clean, and call out switches when the opposing team dumps it deep. When the puck squirts loose from the boards, I jump on it and make a clean breakout pass to Noah, who’s already flying up the right side.

The play shifts fast, and before long, we’re back in our zone and facing pressure. A forward cuts through the high slot and winds up, but I close in, get my stick in the lane, and deflect the shot up into the netting. The goalie taps his stick against the post in thanks. I just nod and get back in position.

A few shifts later, I intercept a pass at the blue line and move the puck up ice with a quick dish to Noah. He passes it to Maxim Federov, who drops it back, and I rip a shot from the point. It’s low and through traffic—not a pretty goal, but it finds an opening and slides through the five-hole. The bench erupts, and Theo hoots from the other end like I’ve just stolen his lunch money.