THE EAR-SPLITTING SHRIEK of the whistle echoed through the chilly arena air, and the rest of the ambient noise—the scraping of skates, the tapping of sticks and the boom of pucks hitting the boards—faded out.
“Okay, guys, last drill of the day. Let’s make it count.” Coach Taggert’s heavy baritone echoed down the rink.
Cooper stood by the boards, elbow resting on the end of his hockey stick, watching as center Eric Jacobs—or Cubs, as he was better known to his teammates—turned on the jets and blew past the rookie on the outside. But instead of hustling back into position, Brett slammed his stick on the ice, upset at getting beat.
That pulled Sillinger’s defensive partner out of position, and Cubs capitalized on the defensive error by sending a beauty of a cross-crease pass to a wide-open Luke Maguire, who easily tapped the puck into the net.
It was all Cooper could do not to roll his eyes as the kid swore and flung his glove at the boards, not even having the grace to look embarrassed when he lumbered over to stand beside Cooper.
“What are you looking at?” Brett demanded, all little-man swagger as he unsnapped the chin strap on his helmet.
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