NHL 19

While Dylan was lost in thought, Joeon glanced at him and carefully peered inside the bucket of pucks. The small scratches on the surface of the practice pucks stood out. They were likely marks of honor, created by Dylan through countless hours of practice over a long time.

While the goal was being set up, Joeon picked up a puck for no reason and fiddled with it in his bare hands. Unlike its light movement when struck by the thin hockey stick, the puck, worn down by countless practices, was colder and heavier than it looked.

Just then, a large, white hand gently wrapped around the back of Joeon’s hand as if to soothe it, and then slipped the puck out of his grasp. When Joeon looked up, Dylan, who had approached him at some point, had a sullen expression as he tossed the puck across the ice like skipping a stone.

“…I was looking at that.”

This time, Dylan took Joeon’s hand and openly kneaded it. Perhaps because the air was cold, the body heat against his skin felt warmer than usual.

“Joeon, your hands are warm.”

“…”

Dylan let go of Joeon’s hand and fidgeted with his own as if disappointed.

“Don’t misunderstand. Pucks are supposed to be cold. Otherwise, they become uncontrollable and can bounce all over the place.”

He muttered in a somewhat blunt tone, then picked out a practice puck from the bucket. The official hockey league mark engraved on its surface shone purple. His voice, now much softer, explained kindly.

“They need to be cold to be harder, and that’s how you control them.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Ah, but even if they’re hard, they can’t stop a bullet. Someone tested it, and it shattered into pieces.”

That was something I wasn’t curious about. When Joeon showed no particular reaction, Dylan continued to explain.

“When they’re frozen, they maintain their color like this, but if the color turns transparent, you have to cool the puck down. That’s why pucks are constantly switched out during a game.”

Only then did a bit of curiosity stir in Joeon, and his eyes widened.

“It’s no different from other sports. In baseball, if the stitches on the ball come loose, it becomes difficult for the pitcher to control, so they change the ball.”

Dylan, who hadn’t missed that look and had captured it with his eyes, threw the puck back onto the ice and rummaged around for another one. There were many plain pucks without logos, but he threw all of those onto the ice and picked out only the ones that sparkled like new and had beautifully distinct colors to show Joeon. Just like a kindergartener showing off pretty seashells they found at the beach.

“That’s fascinating.”

Joeon reacted with a feigned sense of wonder in a flat voice. Since Dylan wasn’t unperceptive enough to be fooled by such clumsy acting, he quickly returned to a blank expression and took the stick Joeon had been holding under his arm.

“Alright, ready to learn? We’re going to practice shooting today.”

“Suddenly? I can’t even skate.”

“It’ll be easier with a stick.”

Joeon furrowed his eyebrows at the way he tapped the ice. It reminded him of an old man walking with a cane. Though he himself couldn’t even take a baby step, using the stick as a cane wouldn’t be bad for keeping his balance. That’s what he meant.

The more Joeon’s brow furrowed in dissatisfaction, the more a smile spread across Dylan’s stoic face. Then, Dylan, revealing his teeth, finally gave in and, relaxing his eyes, started to laugh out loud.

“Come here. It’ll be much more fun than just skating. I’ll teach you.”

Dylan grabbed Joeon’s arm, wrapped his arms around his shoulders as if hugging him from behind, and slowly pushed him forward. As he did so, he didn’t forget to use his stick to pull the pucks, scattered haphazardly here and there, into one place.

With Joeon, who was still clumsy at skating, tucked in his arms, Dylan skated a lap around the rink and then stopped in the center, directly facing the goal. Surprisingly, the pucks he had pushed around so nonchalantly were all gathered together in the center, as if by magic.

“Joeon, you’re right-handed, right?”

“Yes.”

“As I thought. Good thing I brought the right one. Grab the end of the stick with your right hand and the shaft with your left.”

Dylan, standing opposite Joeon, demonstrated, separating one puck from the group and then hitting it with a stance similar to a golf swing. Upon impact, there was a solid sound, as if hammering a stone. Then, in the blink of an eye, the puck flew off and could be seen leisurely circling in front of the goal.

“…Did you miss?”

“What are you talking about. It went in and bounced out.”

Dylan shook his head, put on airs, and smiled arrogantly. The speed was so fast that Joeon’s eyes couldn’t even see the puck go into the goal.

“It went into the top left corner.”

“Were you aiming for there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s so fast, I can’t follow the movement at all.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Joeon recalled the memory of being overwhelmed by the incredible speed whenever he watched a game. While every sport has a different speed, hockey was on a completely different level from other ball games. Unlike traditional field sports played on grass, on the low-friction ice, players dash at speeds of 30 to 50 km/h. All while controlling a puck smaller than their palm with a thin stick.

The goal is just as small, so when a goalie, made even bulkier by pads, protective gear, and a helmet, stands blocking the front, an attacker like Dylan has no choice but to increase their shooting accuracy to score a goal.

“Um, Dylan. Then, by any chance…”

Joeon hesitated for a moment. He was hesitant, worried he would look like a child asking a childish question. As if reading his thoughts, Dylan asked for him.

“You want to know if I can hit something like a water bottle?”

Joeon nodded his head, looking awkward.

“Was that too childish of a question?”

“No, not at all.”

Dylan looked around but couldn’t find anything suitable, so he picked up three or four pucks. Then he skated toward the goal and precariously stood the pucks up on their sides.

“Watch closely.”

Thwack, after the same impact sound as before, the puck on the far left disappeared. The puck Dylan hit flew off in an unexpected direction upon impact, and the puck that had been standing up went straight into the goal. Joeon couldn’t believe what he was seeing with his own two eyes and busily looked back and forth between Dylan’s stick and the puck standing in front of the goal. There was no way he could have set up some kind of device in this short amount of time, so it was true that he was using a puck to knock over another puck. It was, in a way, a hockey version of tiddlywinks.

“Want me to do more?”

After hitting all the pucks, Dylan looked at Joeon’s face with a triumphant attitude.

“I’m good, right?”

“…Yes, that’s amazing.”

Looking at Joeon’s expression, it seemed that this time he was genuinely impressed, thankfully. Otherwise, there would have been no point in showing off.

“You can do it too.”

“Me?”

“Of course. If you practice with me 500 times every day.”

“…”

Dylan said, “Nothing in this world is easy,” and came to stand behind Joeon, getting into position. He placed his hand over Joeon’s on the stick and pressed down on his upper body with his chest to make him bend at the waist, causing his butt to stick out awkwardly and touch Dylan.

The warmth radiating from Dylan’s face, positioned over his right shoulder, tickled the shell of his ear. By the time he thought they were too close, a serious Dylan explained in a gentle voice.

“Keep your eye on the goal and align the head with the puck.”

The hot whisper seeped into the nape of his neck.

“Pull the stick back and then hit it just like that.”

The instructions were simple and clear. The stick, held by both of them, moved more according to Dylan’s will than Joeon’s. In any case, the puck, struck by the head, moved sluggishly and then crawled toward the goal. The moment it crossed the red line, Dylan threw his hands up in the air and cheered, then stopped himself from hugging Joeon and patted his head instead.

“Is that a goal?”

“Yes! It’s your first goal in your hockey debut. Congratulations.”

“My first goal in my hockey debut… It’s just practice.”

But even though it was just practice, the phrase ‘first goal’ made the moment special. Joeon relaxed his arms, which had been stiff with tension, and finally broke into a bright expression.

“Keep going. If you miss, I’ll score for you. Then that will be Joeon’s assist.”

Dylan skated near the goal, loitering around with skillful skating and waving his arms. Joeon swung the stick with all his might for his first hockey assist.

⛸️

The practice ended when his hands, gripping the stick, had lost all their strength from the continued shooting and passing drills. If Dylan hadn’t been startled to see Joeon wilted like a flower that hadn’t had enough water and called an end to the session, he would have suffered from muscle soreness so bad he wouldn’t have been able to walk properly for days. It was a good thing he realized, albeit belatedly, the difference in stamina between an ordinary person and a professional athlete.

Still, while concentrating on the palm-sized puck, the trivial thoughts and the somehow sulky feeling seemed to have been washed away, as Joeon had a naturally relaxed expression on his face without even realizing it. It was true that when your head is complicated, moving your body is the right answer to clear it.

“Shall we clean up?”

Dylan said it, but it wasn’t a forceful suggestion. He started the cleanup by skating a lap around the ice rink, lightly tapping the pucks scattered all over the place to gather them in front of the door.

Then, he pulled out the goalpost that had been fixed in line with the goal line and quickly approached Joeon. He, having taken off his gloves, wiped an ice chip off Joeon’s cheek and asked.

“Are you tired?”

Joeon, who was about to put on a false bravado and say not really, immediately changed his mind.

“A little. I’m thirsty, too.”

“I forgot to bring a water bottle.”

“It’s okay. We can just drink when we go inside.”

“Okay, then.”

He held the goalpost and all the sticks in one hand, tucking them under his arm, and wrapped his other arm around Joeon’s shoulder.

Even though two arms wouldn’t be enough to do everything, he didn’t give up on a single thing. If he could have his way, he would have wanted to carry the exhausted Joeon under his arm as well.

Perhaps thanks to the effect of the special training from a professional player, Joeon was now able to skate in a straight line in step with Dylan. He no longer tensed his trapezius muscles with nervousness, nor did the skate blades pushing against the ice tremble.