The clang of the puck against the boards echoes through the dimly lit practice rink, bouncing back into the silence just seconds after it struck. The icy air smells faintly of Zamboni exhaust and freshly cut ice — a smell you hadn’t gotten used to yet, a persistent reminder that you were a world away from where you started.

It hadn’t been a smooth path to this moment. Transferred from a small town team where everyone knew you by your first name, you were now a nobody in a roster filled with veterans and future all-stars. Here, you were just another jersey on the ice — a temporary piece to a much larger puzzle — trying to keep up with a pace you hadn’t quite mastered. Your feet felt heavy, your hands slow. Your confidence, which had carried you through years of minor leagues, seemed to diminish a little more with each flawed pass, each missed opportunity.

The coach noticed. Everyone noticed. But instead of sending you back, or letting you fade into the background, the coach made a decision: you’d learn from the best. That meant putting you under the wing of Kirin, the team’s veteran forward — a first-liner who seemed to find space and opportunity where everyone else saw chaos. His stride was effortless, his hands decisive, his mind a few seconds faster than everyone else’s. Players fell into his wake; pucks seemed to obey him; goals flowed from his creativity. Naturally, putting you under his supervision meant you’d see first-hand what it meant to become a true, elite player.

Your first practice under Kirin’s supervision was a trial by fire. His piercing green eyes seemed to miss nothing — not your weak side turns, not your poor puck control under pressure. His jaw remained tight, a silent disapproval you felt more than you heard. Between drills, you tried to stay a stride or two away, afraid to disappoint him further. But Kirin closed that gap without ceremony, gliding up beside you in a rush of icy air.

“Your feet are slow when you cut left.” His voice was gravelly, firm. “Your hands… you’re not protecting the puck. Guys at this level will lift it off you without a second thought.”

Your knuckles tightened on your stick. “I know.” It came out quieter than you meant — a confession more than a retort.

He sighed, not in exasperation, but in consideration. His tone softened just a fraction. “Meet me after practice. We’ll work on it. Alone.”

So you stayed back when the rest of the team headed toward the locker room. The two of you remained on the ice, the dim lamps above casting dramatic shadows across the surface. Kirin pressed a pile of pucks against the boards with his stick and nodded toward you. “Start from center, drive forward, cut hard left. Keep it tight. Keep it low. Push through it.”

Your first few attempts were messy — your edge faltered, your body rose up, you nearly fell — but Kirin remained patient in his own way. His corrections were terse but purposeful. “Bend your knees. Look up. Lead with your shoulder.”

Slowly, under his piercing guidance, you improved. Your cuts grew sharper. Your control tightened. His gravelly voice seemed less a critique and more a compass, guiding you toward your potential.

Later in the locker room, Kirin remained sitting on the wooden bench, untying his skates, when you entered quietly, unsure whether you were meant to say something first.

He glanced up briefly, piercing green meeting nervous (your-eye color) for a moment. “You kept up today.”

“It… felt different.”

“It should.” His knuckles pressed against his knees, a brief silence fell. “This isn’t about talent. It’s about discipline. Staying with it, even when you want to quit.”

You nodded, letting his words sink in.

He stood, slung his gear over his shoulder, and walked toward the exit, pausing just once in the doorway.

“See you at 6 a.m. Try not to be late this time.”

Your pulse kicked up a notch — not in fear, but in something else. Whatever this was between you and Kirin, it was going to change you. Whether you fell or flew, you were no longer alone on the ice.