Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Granted, I had to sign an agreement that the footage could only be used in the documentary—as if I’d sell the info to an opposing team. I’ve got Marta on standby to go through the daily feeds from the comfort of her home in Los Angeles, but I prefer to watch things unfold live first.
Real tells happen in real time.
Evan is in his “focused” zone, the camera on his right shoulder. People underestimate the strength it takes to hold that equipment steady, but Evan’s a powerhouse of a man. The only thing he takes more seriously than filming is working out.
“Start wide,” I murmur. “Get the full drill. Don’t chase yet.”
He adjusts without comment, lens sweeping across the ice as the players finish their warm-up laps, blades carving clean arcs into untouched ice. They’re dressed in alternating practice jerseys—forest green and white—helmets on, sticks taped in personal rituals that speak to superstition and habit.
Coach Monahan stands at the boards, whistle at his lips, clipboard tucked under one arm. He barks instructions as the drills shift into structure—edge work through cones, passing sequences that demand timing and trust, defensemen pivoting backward as centers cut through the neutral zone.
I’m proud of myself for knowing the mechanics of hockey, as it’s not a sport I’ve been following for long. Rather, I had to study my ass off to get ready for this project. I’ve spent the last three months in preparation studying hundreds of hours of game footage, including a deep dive into how announcers analyze a game. I’ve plenty of books on the craft of hockey, and I’ve picked Evan’s brain relentlessly. I’ve always enjoyed watching sports of all varieties, but I’ve never been an expert on any of them.
I can safely say, as I sit here right now, I’m pretty much an expert on hockey.
Which is why my attention keeps snagging on the defenseman in black—Locke Donovan.
He’s exactly what the file said he’d be.
Big. Ornery. All muscle and coiled restraint. He was picked up in the expansion draft on potential but flagged for discipline issues. He’s known around the league as a gamble no one’s quite figured out how to manage. The man skates like he’s angry at the ice and when the whistle blows, he doesn’t decompress—he locks down.
No chatter. No smiles. No release.
I’ve seen this type before. Men who learned early that control is survival, and that losing it—even for a second—comes with consequences they don’t ever want to revisit.
He might be a very good story, but I’ll see how it plays out. He might not even make it through training camp.
I watch Locke as he explodes into the drill like he’s been waiting for permission to hit someone.
It’s a controlled scrimmage—half speed by design—but he closes the gap too fast, shoulder dropping as he drives an opposing forward cleanly but brutally into the boards. The impact cracks through the rink, sharp and hollow, loud enough that a few heads snap up.
The whistle shrieks and the forward pushes off the glass, clearly rattled. Locke doesn’t even bother to look at him, merely turning and skating back into position for the next drill.
The assistant coach, Van Turner, barks his annoyance. “Donovan… take it down about ten notches.”
Now that’s a man I can’t wait to interview. Turner happens to be the son of a serial killer and no one has as interesting a backstory as he does.
Locke doesn’t look at the coach, but he doesn’t argue either. There’s no back talk, no flaring up.
Just a single breath through his nose before he plants his skates and waits for the next rep like nothing happened.
“Want me to stay on him?” Evan asks.
I glance over at Crosby, who’s carefully watching the byplay between Locke and Coach Turner. I wonder if he’ll intervene.
“Track Hale,” I say softly.
Evan narrows his focus as a new drill starts.
Crosby is in the crease, rotating through reps with mechanical consistency. His movements are economical, almost understated, and I’ve yet to see him exhibit any frustration when a rebound gets away from him.
He simply resets, settles and waits for the next puck.
I think he’s a man who doesn’t let much rattle him, which is well-suited to his job as the protector of the net.
I’ve done my research on Crosby. Thorough research, the kind that starts with press releases and stat lines and then keeps going long after the easy information dries up.
He grew up in a hockey town where rinks outnumbered stoplights and was drafted young. He moved through the league steadily, earning his reputation as an elite goaltender not because he courted attention, but because he survived without it.
In the public spotlight, he’s an enigma. No social media. No personal brand. He doesn’t shy away from reporters and will talk about the game all day long, but he has no personal footprint in the digital world.