TYLER
“Why so quiet, fucker?” Chase shoots me a questioning look as we step inside the glass double doors of Northview Arena’s main entrance.
It’s a fair question. I wasn’t exactly good company during the drive to practice. I simply stared out a window while a chorus of “you’re fucked” played through my brain on repeat to the melody of the national anthem.
“Thinking about practice,” I tell him instead. “Mark is breathing down my neck about my puck tracking and rebounds.” Just one reason of many I can’t afford any distractions—especially not in the form of a pink-haired girl I’ve thought about more than I care to admit.
My reticence wouldn’t be quite as obvious if Dallas wasn’t checked out. As alternate captain, he always grills us about our practice plan and game strategy on the way to the arena. If you looked up “Type A personality” in the dictionary, there’d be a headshot of Dallas Ward in his hockey gear. He’s been unusually preoccupied today, immersed in some kind of back- and-forth sexting marathon with his girlfriend, Siobhan.
“You sure that’s all?” Chase presses. “Yeah.”
Not even a little. I’m still reeling from Seraphina’s identity revelation, unsure how to handle being “friends,” and stressed as fuck about the possibility of the truth getting out.
In addition, I’m stressed about being stressed. Playing goal means my mental game has to be top tier. Over the years, I’ve carefully honed the ability to shake off errors without falling apart. Even blowout losses don’t faze me as much as they did when I was younger. I don’t give a shit about most things that happen on or off the ice. I’ve specifically trained myself not to. So why does this situation have me so rattled?
Chase’s attention lingers on me, evidently unsatisfied with my response. “Are you pissed about my sister moving in? Like I said, it’ll be temporary. Probably a couple of weeks at the most.”
“All good. Seraphina can stay as long as she needs.” My reply comes out a little too quick and a lot too eager. A thin sheen of sweat forms on the back of my neck beneath the fabric of my black T-shirt, the collar tightening around my throat. What the fuck is going on? I never act like this.
“I think you’ll like her once you get to know her,” he adds. If only he knew.
Because I can’t trust myself to behave normally, I forgo any additional verbal responses and merely grunt in assent. We move through the room, greeting the rest of the team as we pass. Dallas, still entranced by his phone, wordlessly trails behind.
Chase snickers, shrugging out of his zip-up hoodie. “Are you cranky because you’re having a dry spell?”
“It’s not a dry spell.” Contrary to what his needling might suggest, my recent hiatus from sex has been fully self-inflicted. My encounter with Seraphina at XS was top fucking tier—and it demolished my interest in anyone else after. I took it as a sign I was spread too thin and decided to focus on other things for awhile. Or on one thing, rather: hockey.
At any rate, I’ve ignored several booty call texts since getting back into town, including one with a topless sneak peek photo attached. I could easily get laid if I wanted to. But I haven’t wanted to, and I’m not sure what that says about me.
“Whatever you say, Ty.” Chase’s gaze flicks over to Dallas, who’s standing next to us in a daze and still hasn’t removed a single item of his street clothing. At this rate, practice will start and finish without him even noticing. “Quit thirsting over your girlfriend and get dressed, Ward. Miller is gonna bag skate us if you make practice start late.”
Unsurprisingly, Dallas doesn’t respond. Chase leans over and shoves him. I snort a laugh as Dallas loses his balance, nearly collides with his equipment stall, and staggers half a step before steadying himself. His head jerks up, his mouth pulled into a sheepish grin.
“Shiv’s been in Florida for the past week,” he protests, putting away his cell. “That’s a long time.”
Chase narrows his eyes, shaking his head. “You whipped motherfucker.”
“Like you’re one to talk.” Dallas flips him off.
Much to my relief, they start discussing the couple’s trip they’re planning for Valentine’s Day next month because they are, in fact, both whipped motherfuckers. This change in subject spares me any additional questions about my sex life or lack thereof, so I’m not complaining.
Tuning out their talk about flowers and wine and other shit they’ve got planned, I turn away and pretend to be focused on getting into my gear to deter anyone else from making conversation. Fortunately, my resting “fuck off” face is strong, and no one attempts to engage.
As I lace up my skates, my thoughts circle back to Seraphina. The basement is solely my domain, and I’m not used to having anyone else in my space. This means I’ll have to make a few adjustments, like no more naked trips to the bathroom. Or naked sleeping in general, I guess.
Then again, Chase described her as a social butterfly and claimed she was rarely ever home. Maybe that means this clusterfuck will be a little easier to navigate.
With my luck, probably not.
“Oh, shit. Did you guys see Coach’s email?” The urgency in Dallas’s voice snaps me out of my thought spiral. When I glance up, he’s clutching his phone again, staring at it in disbelief.
“Huh?” I ask absently, fastening my chest protector. “What email?”
Chase makes a face. “Fuck no. He sends like thirty a week. Update this, compulsory training that. Who the hell is reading all of those?”
“No, this is huge. He said—”
A wolf whistle pierces the air behind us. Startled, we whirl around to find Coach Miller standing at the front of the room standing next to a tall guy sporting a scarlet Falcons hoodie. A guy who does not, to the best my knowledge, attend Boyd—because he plays on the starting line for one of our rival teams.
“What in the actual fuck?” Chase says beneath his breath, so low that only we can hear.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Dallas hisses.
I glance over again in confusion. As Woodbine’s top forward, Reid Holloway is one of the division’s point leaders this season. I can hold my own in net, but there’s nothing more unsettling than the sight of him barreling down the ice on a breakaway after he’s weaved through our defensive line yet again. He’s that good.
He’s also a total prick, as most opposing players are. Shoots high, crashes the net, and every time we play in their barn, he leads the crowd in chanting my name to taunt me. At this point in my career, I can block it out for the most part, but it’s still irritating as hell.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Per my email earlier today, we have a new athlete joining us this semester.” Coach Miller gestures to Reid’s towering figure with his red clipboard. “This is Reid Holloway, our new junior forward. Most of you are familiar with him from his time with the Panthers where he was one of their top performers. The rest of you will get to know him over the coming days at practice.
“I expect everyone to welcome him with open arms and make him feel like a valued member of this team.” He levels the room with a steely glare, lingering pointedly on Chase. Given how much time he spends in the sin bin whenever we play against Woodbine, Miller has a point.
Around the room, the guys offer tentative greetings and half-hearted welcomes. Beneath the forced friendliness is a definite undercurrent of reluctance. Changing up the roster in the middle of the season is almost unheard of, and for good reason. It throws off the whole team dynamic.
Reid heads for his new locker looking about as happy as we are to see him, which is to say he looks miserable. Something catastrophic must’ve happened to make him transfer so abruptly. I’m mildly curious as to what it might be, but not curious enough to find out.
We finish getting dressed while Coach Miller runs us through the day’s practice plan. He’s already rearranged our starting forwards, placing Reid with Dallas and Chase on the first line. Chase is wholly displeased with this development and slips on his crimson jersey overhead while muttering a tirade of curses under his breath. At least I’m not directly affected on the ice. I would be pissed about that, too.
Everyone else filters out of the dressing room while we hang back, intentionally dawdling to buy time. Chase watches Reid push through the swinging door, then turns back to face us in the empty dressing room. Tension stretches across his face, mirroring the way I feel.
“This is bullshit.” He snatches his water bottle off the bench, clutching it like he’s trying to strangle it.
“Chill, man.” Dallas makes a “calm down” motion with his hands. “It’ll be fine once the new lines have a chance to gel. Whether or not you want to
admit it, Holloway’s one of those players you hate when he’s on the other side but like having on your team.”
Pretty common scenario in hockey. My money’s still on Reid being a dick, though.
When neither of us respond, Dallas continues. “Help me out here, Ty.
You know you’d hate Carter if you had to play against him.” “Fair enough,” I admit. “He’d be the fucking worst.”
Chase’s head swivels to look at me and he levels me with a scowl, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh. Thanks to his physical playing style and smart-ass mouth, he can get under other people’s skin like no one can. It’s his God-given gift. Speaking as a goalie, players like that are a huge pain in the ass.
“Either way,” Dallas adds, “you’re going to have to get over it. Consider it practice for the league.”
This is true, unfortunately. Players get traded mid-season in the pros all the time and when it happens, everyone has to move past any prior grudges for the sake of the team. I’m practical enough to understand that, but spiteful enough not to care at the moment.
It’s also possible I’m not thinking clearly after today’s earlier events. Maybe I’ll be more level-headed after some time on the ice. Practice always helps me get my head straight.
“Gonna be a long semester,” Chase mutters.
I grab my helmet, pushing to stand. “Sure is.” Just not for the reasons he thinks.
