Calling it a “drill” might be a slight overstatement. “Lukas, I’ve had this idea since the WJC. You’ve gotta be ready to defend yourself.” “What?” “Yeah man. That’s what hockey is all about. Camaraderie, solidarity, alla that shit.” “What’s your point?” “You gotta be prepared for anything. I’m gonna try to rock your shit sometime during practice today.” See, Abdi’s got a bit of a big head since he won that fight in the WJC. No amount of “it was entirely chance” or “the guy more tripped on his way to you than you actually doing any fighting” would stop him - this was his Mr. Miyagi moment. Most of practice came and went without a hitch. Nothing to report besides the conspicuous absence that day of one A. Smokes, which nobody really paid any mind to. It was a sound, at first. The hideous scrape of equipment dragging on ice, being willed as fast as possible past the bewildered stares of the Citadelles and directly towards Lukas. It became a sound once more; a fleeting moment of airborne beauty, all whoosh and speed, before a painful impact to the ice and a slow skid at the feet of number 44. “…nice one. ough……..”