Chapter 7

                                    

                                          
The rink was buzzing with energy as the other Falcons skated across the gleaming ice, their sticks clashing with the echo of determination. Coach Miller used the last thirty minutes of practice for scrimmages and a number of the guys on the team used that as an opportunity to prove themselves. Especially those who were searching for a line upgrade.
Carter Price, a winger from the second line, barrelled down the ice with the puck. I tracked his movements, predicting when he was going to fake a shot before slipping around the back of my net. I slid down into position, hugging the goal post. He flew out from my right side, missing Maverick's interception by mere inches. As anticipated he lined himself up, slapping the puck towards the net. The clap of the stick against the ice resonated throughout the rink. Maneuvering back into a more central position, I stuck out a gloved hand, snatching the puck out of the chilled air before it could fly over my shoulder.
A short cheer came from a couple of my teammates. Their sticks beating against the boards. It was nothing like the roaring of a crowd, but the encouragement warmed my stomach. Once the whistle had been called I bounced the puck around in my hand, sending Carter a wink. That had been his fourth attempt on net and nothing was sticking. He teasingly flipped me off, wallowing back to the centre line.
Any other practice and he would have probably wiped the floor with me. Carter was one of the most dedicated members on our team. Unfortunately for him, he played the same position as McKinley. And while the two of them were neck and neck in terms of skill and ability, no one could compete with being the coach's son.
I handed the puck off to one of the trainers who was running the scrimmage. 
"Nice save there, Tate." The two finger salute he gave me did nothing but swell my ego. Maybe it was too soon to be celebrating, but I was finally feeling as if things were back to how they should be. 
A few moments later and the puck was back on the ice, moving left and right as both sides battled for dominance. This was the thrill I appreciated so much about the game. Hockey was a machine. Each player was a gear–a vital proponent to keeping things running and in working order. Every guy on the Falcons deserved to be there. They were some of the best hockey players I had ever been around and that is where the pressure came in. 
I didn't want to be that piece that caused the whole machine to break down.
The shrill sound of Coach Miller's whistle cut through the rink–bringing the scrimmage to an end. I heaved a sigh of relief as I dragged myself back onto my skates. I wasn't the only one. Each player was gassed, feeling the burn from an hour and a half long practice. It didn't matter if we won or lost, Miller didn't shy away from skating us hard.
While the other guys on the team fought to catch their breath Booker took off at full speed from the other end of the rink, sliding to a stop in front of Maverick. A mist of ice and snow flew into the defenceman. Maverick wiped the slush off of his visor with a gloved hand, dropping his stick to chase the screaming Booker around.
Shaking my head, I allowed a laugh to pass through my lips. Unlike the last few practices, things ended with me in an overall good mood. Nikolas saluted me from the other net across the rink. I waved back. The kid had talent, I'd give him that. But I wasn't willing to give up my starting position without a fight.
"Great practice today boys," Coach called from his spot on the bench. He brought his hands together in a loud clap. "Hit the showers."
Following orders, I moved to grab my water bottle off of the top of the net, but not before I caught Coach Miller's eye. He gave me a stiff nod. An acknowledgment of a job well done. I returned the gesture. Relief flooded my chest. I wasn't out of the woods yet, but at least I was on the road to proving I wasn't as washed out as I had been feeling the last couple of months.