NHL 26

“No, there’s no need to go that far.”

Dylan looked around, and unable to find anything suitable, he picked up three or four pucks. He then ran toward the goal net and used the side of the pucks to balance them precariously on their edges.

“Watch closely.”

Clack. After a collision sound just like the one before, the puck standing on the far left disappeared. The puck Dylan hit flew off in a completely different direction upon impact, and the puck he had set up slid perfectly into the goal. Even though Joeon had seen it clearly with his own eyes, he couldn’t believe it; he 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 rigged anything in this short time, so he really was using one puck to knock down another. It was a hockey-style “egg-cracking” shot.

“Shall we do some more?”

After knocking down all the pucks, Dylan surveyed Joeon’s face with a triumphant air.

“Am I good, or what?”

“…Yes, that’s amazing.”

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

“You can do it too.”

“Me?”

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

“…”

“There’s no such thing as an easy job in this world,” Dylan said, stepping up behind Joeon to set his posture. As he overlapped his hands over Joeon’s on the stick and pressed his chest against Joeon’s upper back to force him to bend his waist, Joeon’s hips naturally bumped into Dylan’s.

The warmth radiating from Dylan’s face, positioned over his right shoulder, tickled his earlobe. Just as the thought that they were too close hit him, Dylan became serious and explained in a soft, low voice.

“Keep the head aligned with the puck and keep your eyes on the goal.”

His hot whispers seeped all the way to the nape of his neck.

“Pull the stick back, then strike.”

The instructions were simple and clear. The stick they were holding together moved more by Dylan’s will than Joeon’s. Regardless, the puck, struck by the head of the stick, moved sluggishly and crawled toward the goal. The moment it crossed the red line, Dylan raised his hands and cheered, then started to reach out to hug Joeon, but stopped himself and patted his head instead.

“Was that a goal?”

“Yes! That’s your first goal of your hockey debut. Congratulations.”

“My first goal of my hockey debut… but it’s just practice.”

Even though it was nothing more than practice, the expression “first goal” made this moment feel special. Joeon let the tension out of his arms, which had been stiff with nerves, and finally wore a bright expression.

“Keep going. If you miss, I’ll put it in for you. Then it’ll count as an assist for Joeon.”

Dylan ran toward the goal net, pacing around with skillful skating, and waved his arms. Joeon swung the stick vigorously for his first hockey assist.

🏒🥅

By the time the shooting and passing lessons were over, the strength in Joeon’s hands from gripping the stick had completely drained away. If Dylan hadn’t been surprised enough to call the end of the lesson after seeing Joeon go limp like a withered flower from not drinking enough water, he would have ended up with enough muscle soreness to prevent him from walking properly for days. It was fortunate that he realized, however belatedly, the difference in stamina between an average person and a professional athlete.

Still, while focusing all his concentration on a puck no bigger than his palm, the trivial worries and the heavy, unsettled feeling he’d had earlier had vanished as if washed away. Joeon found himself naturally wearing a relaxed face without even realizing it. It was true what they said: when your mind is cluttered, moving your body is the answer to clearing it out.

“Shall we clean up?”

Dylan said that, but it wasn’t a suggestion with any pressure. He began the cleanup by circling the ice rink and lightly tapping the pucks scattered haphazardly here and there to gather them in front of the door.

Then, he pulled out the goal net that had been fixed to the goal line and approached Joeon quickly. Having taken off his gloves, he brushed a piece of ice off Joeon’s cheek and asked, “Are you tired?”

Joeon, who had been about to puff out his chest and pretend he wasn’t, immediately changed his mind.

“A little. And I’m thirsty, too.”

“I forgot to bring the water bottle.”

“It’s alright. I can just go inside and drink.”

“Alright, then.”

He held all the goal equipment and sticks in one hand, tucked under his arm, and wrapped his other arm around Joeon’s shoulder.

Even though two arms would barely be enough to carry everything, he didn’t give up on anything. If he had his way, he would have even tucked the exhausted Joeon under his arm to carry him.

Perhaps thanks to the professional athlete’s special coaching, Joeon was now capable of skating in a straight line, keeping pace with Dylan. He didn’t tense his trapezius muscles with anxiety like before, nor did he let his skate blades shake as they pushed against the ice.

Was it because these were the expensive skates professional athletes wore that the fit was different? As he had such useless thoughts, Dylan, who was opening the rink door, suddenly looked down at Joeon.

“Before we go in, do you want to ride the Zamboni one last time?”

The way he was so desperate to get him on the Zamboni for some reason bordered on persistent. Joeon couldn’t hide his wavering eyes for a moment.

In fact, he had wanted to ride it when Dylan first suggested it, but he had declined only because it was cold and the process of putting skates on and off was cumbersome. Now, however, after finishing his workout, his body was heated up, and he felt more relaxed than before.

“Is that okay?”

“Of course!”

Dylan saw the flushed, rosy glow on Joeon’s cheeks as he nodded, and he gave a satisfied smile, as if he had finally achieved his goal.

“Wait here just a second. I’ll go bring it around.”

He headed to the garage carrying the folded goal net. While Dylan was filling the Zamboni with water and unplugging the charging cable, Joeon struggled to take off his skates.

Dylan, having returned after putting things away, sat in front of Joeon and personally helped him into the slippers on his feet, which were still warm and flushed.

“Climb up carefully. Don’t fall and get hurt.”

The Zamboni’s driver’s seat was much higher than it looked when viewed from the ground. With the hand supporting his back, Joeon climbed into the seat without much difficulty.

“You see the levers on the right? That’s how you operate it. Pulling the straight lever down releases water, and turning the round lever to the right moves the slate that levels the ice up and down.”

Dylan explained how to operate the Zamboni. Joeon exerted as much concentration as he had during his workout, listening intently to his explanation.

“Alright, then, I’ll leave it to you.”

“Huh?”

Joeon looked at him askance at his lighthearted tone, as if he’d just shed a heavy load.

“The ice grooming.”

Dylan calmly ordered him to groom the ice. A heavy sense of responsibility—the need to groom a professional athlete’s private rink—descended onto his shoulders with a thud.

“This counts as the ice rink usage fee, right?”

“Haha, sure.”

“Then… I’ll give it a try.”

He wasn’t sure if he could do it well, but… Joeon swallowed his lack of confidence and ignored his pounding heart.

Dylan covered his mouth with his hand, rubbing it as if to hide his laughter. A snowstorm was forecasted for tonight anyway. Because a massive amount of snow was expected to pile up, there was no real need to groom the ice.

However, Joeon, not having thought that far, drove the Zamboni just as Dylan had instructed, spraying water to smooth over the ice surface marred by light scratches.

Reaching the end of the rink, he stopped for a moment and looked back. Unlike the surrounding area, where rough and opaque ice fragments remained, the path he had passed was smooth and shining as if a jewel carpet had been laid. The groomed ice reflected the pink sunset like a well-polished mirror. At the end of it, Dylan, standing and leaning against the fence, waved his hand broadly to greet Joeon.

His deep platinum-blonde hair shone more dazzlingly than the freshly polished ice. Even from a distance, his clear, sharp blue eyes stared at Joeon with an unwavering gaze.

As if his body had been bound by that look for a moment, Joeon couldn’t move and took in the surreal scene. The man, with the small snowfield, the blue coniferous forest piled with snow, and the massive mansion at his back, was the kind of person Joeon would never encounter this closely in his life.