Page 1

Chapter 1

The puck glides across the ice, sharp and smooth, just like we practiced. I shove past the defenseman, my stick catching the puck clean as I pivot, aiming for the top shelf.

“Move your ass, Grayson!” Coach yells from the bench.

I don’t need the reminder. My body moves on instinct, my muscles screaming but alive. The goalie lunges, but he’s too slow. The puck snaps past him and slams into the net with a satisfying thud.

The crowd explodes, and I skate straight into the team to celebrate. Then I glance into the stands, my eyes locking on the top row, center aisle.

My dad’s there, same as always, arms crossed and that intense look on his face. He’s not cheering like everyone else. He never does. His approval isn’t loud. It’s in the sharpnod, the way his jaw tightens like he’s saying,That’s it, Eli. That’s how you get to the show.

And he’s right. Every play, every shot, every second counts. The NHL doesn’t hand out contracts to slackers.

“Told you, man!” Logan, my left winger, skates up, slapping my helmet. “They’re eating shit out there. We’ve got this.”

I smirk. “Just keep up.”

The ref’s whistle blows, and we line up for the face-off. My mind’s buzzing with plays, angles, what’s next. But out of nowhere, the energy shifts.

The crowd isn’t roaring anymore. There’s shadowed movement and scattered yelling in the crowd.

The puck drops, but I don’t react. My head jerks up, back to the stands. The movement comes from a few uniformed men, hungry to get to someone.

“What the fuck is going on?” I say, watching people yelling at the police.

Logan skates closer. “What’s going on?”

My eyes lock on the commotion. Two cops. Uniforms crisp, expressions cold. They’re climbing the steps, pushing through the crowd, and…

Dad?

It’s him. He’s standing now, towering like always, but his hands...they’re behind his back. Handcuffs gleaming under the shitty stadium lights.

“No,” I breathe. It’s like the ice under my skates tilts.

The cops are dragging him, barely giving him a chance to move on his own. People are pointing, whispering. Some are filming.

“Eli!” Coach’s voice slices through the chaos. “Eyes on the puck!”

Fuck the puck.

I shoot toward the bench, ignoring my team’s confused shouts.

“Grayson! Where the hell are you going?” Coach barks, but I’m already ripping my helmet off as I leap over the boards.

The crowd blurs around me. I shove past people, my skates thudding on the ground as I hit the corridor. My chest heaves, breaths jagged and sharp.

“Dad!” I shout, sprinting toward them.

The officers barely glance at me. One’s reading him his rights, monotone and detached. The other’s got a firm grip on his arm.

“What the hell is this?” I demand, shoving between them and my dad. “What are you doing?”

“Step back, kid,” the shorter cop says, his hand twitching near his belt. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Bullshit! That’s my dad!”

Dad finally looks at me. His face is unreadable, but his voice is calm. Too calm. “Eli, go back to the game.”