Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Well, first of all, what’s already working is impressive. Your stamina? Exceptional. Your power? One of the best on the team.”
His expression doesn’t soften. “But?”
“But your transitions need work,” I say. “It’s not that you can’t move fast—you do. But you could be more efficient. Let’s start with your crossovers.”
Moreau sighs as if I’ve just asked him to handwrite the Declaration of Independence. But then he pushes off and skates a lazy figure eight around me. His power is undeniable, but his edges are sloppy for a player of his caliber, skidding slightly in every turn.
When he’s done, I skate over to meet him. “Okay, here’s the deal. You’re rushing through your transitions, and I think it’s a trust issue.”
His eyebrows lift. “Trust?”
“Yep. Let me guess—coaches have been harping on you about clean edges forever, right? And also your knee bend. Dig in here, shift your weight there, think about every little thing your blades are doing. It’s exhausting.”
He crosses his arms. “It is… not my favorite thing.”
I smirk. “Exactly. So let’s try something simpler.” I grab a hockey stick from the bench area and set up a simple three-cone drill. Then I position myself at center ice and hold my stick out horizontally—like a limbo bar.
“Here’s the deal. Forget about your edges. Think about carrying the puck through this course, skating crossovers. But you need to bend your knees and ankles deeply enough to skate below this stick the whole time.”
He frowns at me like I’ve just proposed juggling flaming swords. “But that is not a skating drill. That’s a stick-handling drill.”
“I don’t care what you call it. Just keep your chest up,” I say with a shrug. “Make yourself short enough using only your lower body. Five times, okay? Down and back.”
He sighs. But then he bends his knees and starts the drill.
“There we go.” I have to skate backward with my limbo bar as he moves. “Stay low! But no dropping your shoulders. Tits up!”
He lets out a snort of laughter at the turnaround.
“Keep it up!” I call, increasing my speed. “Deep knees! Faster.”
At first he’s as awkward as ever. But on the third lap, something shifts. His body gets used to the lower position, and his edges start to carve more deeply into the ice. And the last two laps are fast.
When we stop, he’s breathing hard, his face unreadable.
“You didn’t cheat and think about your edges, did you?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
His frown deepens, but there’s something thoughtful behind it. “No… I did not.”
“Good,” I say. “Sometimes you just have to trick your body into doing the right thing. We’re going to do it again, and then we’re going to do it backward. Your only goal is staying low without slumping your upper body forward. And don’t lose that puck.”
He stares at the puck, then at me. “To… trick my body.”
I nod. “Until edging just feels natural. Ready to run it again?”
He shrugs, but his expression is less surly. “Oui. We do it again.”
By the end of our session, Moreau is drenched in sweat. But he’s getting a better grip on the ice, and he isn’t even giving me murder eyes.
I even get a brusque “Merci” as he steps off the ice.
I’ll take it.
After our session, the building is quiet. The players will be headed home to rest for the afternoon before gathering at the arena this evening. Whistling to myself, I tap in the code for my locker.
And when I open the door, I scream.
Chapter 40
The next sound I hear is the pounding of feet, and I stiffen. But then Bernie comes running into the corridor and gasps. “Oh shit. Zoe! Is that… blood?” He’s staring at the word scrawled in red on the walls of my locker.
WHORE. And writing it just once was apparently not enough. My bully has written it multiple times.
“N-no,” I say, as my heart rate tries to settle back into its normal range. “It’s not blood. It’s that.” Treating the area like a crime scene, I point at the little red tube that’s lying on the floor of my locker without touching it. “Fenty Gloss Bomb in MVP red.”
He clutches his chest. “That shriek you made? I thought someone was dead for sure.”
“That stuff is twenty-five bucks a tube! You’d scream, too.” I look up and squint around the corridor. “Weren’t they going to put…”
“Shh,” he says, finger to his lips. “That’s a secret. But it happens tomorrow.”
“Fuck.”
“We’ll get him,” Bernie growls. “I want to take the first punch myself. Can I make a suggestion, though?”
“What?”
Bernie leans his hip against a door frame and strokes his mustache with two fingers. “Don’t tell Merritt about this until after tonight’s game.”
My hackles go up immediately. “Why?”
He rolls his eyes. “Just trust me on this. We need his focus tonight.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and starts shooting pics of my bully’s artwork. “These are for Mr. Sharp, okay?”