The Ice King’s Fake Fixer
I wrapped the neon-blue tape tightly around the shaft, creating a distinct, raised ridge exactly where his lower thumb should rest during a defensive line pass.
"A tactile anchor," I murmured, passing the stick back to him. "When your vision fractures, you will not look at the puck to calculate the distance. You will slide your hand down until your thumb hits this ridge. The physical alignment of the stick will automatically adjust the blade three point five inches to the right, regardless of what your eyes are telling you."
Jaxson gripped the stick, his large hand wrapping around the shaft. He slid his palm down until his thumb locked against the raised blue ridge. He looked down at his han