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Chapter One

Brogan

Nobody makes it easy on you here. Not the ice. Not the people. Not the goddamn sky that spits snow sideways until your face feels like ground beef. We don’t hand out gold stars for showing up. You earn your place. You earn your shot. And God help you if you don’t deliver—because we don’t whisper about failure in here. We drag it out to the middle of Main Street, hang it on the damn water tower, and watch you squirm until you figure it out or pack your bags. That’s the thing about me. I’m stubborn as hell. I don’t give up on my people… but I won’t let you lie to yourself, either. You wanna wear the name on the back? You better fight for the name on the front. And right now, Brogan Foster’s got everybody holding their breath—including me.

Playlist: “Harder to Breathe” by Maroon 5

I hit the ice, ready to shake off this damn slump—and promptly lose the puck on my first pass. It clanks off the boards like a cannon blast aimed straight at my ego.

“Nice hands, little brother!” Bennett chirps from the other end, not even looking up.

Around me, the guys are locked in, sticks clattering, skates digging deep like we’re already mid-game instead of warming up. Miner’s Memorial Arena feels more like a battlefield than a hockey rink today.

The puck ricochets off the post with a clang that sounds a little too much like‘You’re done here, Foster.’

I grit my teeth and loop back around, trying to shake off the nerves tightening around my ribs like a cheap pair of compression shorts. This isn’t new. I’ve been in slumps before. But this one… this one feels like it’s settling in, building a damn Airbnb in my head with a “No Check-Out” policy.

Coach Duff shouts something I don’t quite catch, but the crack of his clipboard against the boards fills in the blanks just fine.

I glance toward the bench where my grumpy, elder brother’s leaning on his stick, chin tucked down, watching me like I’m the last goddamn joke in the world and he’s already heard the punchline.

Shep’s grin twitches as he holds back some smartass comment, but even he knows better than to poke the bear when the bear’s already skating on thin ice.

And just like that, my stick snaps in two on my next slapshot.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I try to shake off the nerves and focus, but there’s a heaviness in my legs that feels like I’m skating through mud. I need to step it up—no more excuses.

Water break hits, and while everyone’s gulping down their drinks, trying to shake off the intensity, I decide it’s time for a little Brogan-brand magic. I mean, if you can’t laugh at amorning practice that feels more like a death march, when can you laugh, right?

“Alright, listen up!” I yell, clapping my hands for attention. The guys turn, eyebrows up, expecting either profound wisdom or... well, me. “I’ve got a new pep rap for you, fresh from the Foster lyrical genius vault!” I announce, and groans ripple through the group, mixed with a couple of chuckles. Even Coach Duff pauses, his expression screaming ‘this better be good.’

I clear my throat, launch into my rap with a beat I clap out on my pads, “We’re the Slammers who slam, we crash and we bang, on the ice, we bring fire, opponents—feel our ire!”

Holden covers his face with a glove, but he’s laughing—I think. Heath shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips as he throws a towel at me. Shep, bless him, actually attempts to beatbox, adding a surreal soundtrack to my questionable rhymes.

“We skate, we score, we always want more, from the first period light to the last buzzer’s bite!”

Coach Duff’s face morphs slowly from mild amusement to disbelief, especially as I finish with a dramatic mic drop—minus the mic. The team erupts into a mix of laughter and applause, the tension momentarily forgotten. But just as I’m soaking in the adoration, Coach Duff calls out, sharp and clear, cutting through the noise, “Foster 3! Real cute. Now let’s get serious, or you’ll be rapping from the bench tonight!”

With a sheepish grin, I nod, picking up my fresh stick, ready for the drills that I know are about to double in intensity.

Determined to wipe the smirk off Coach Duff’s face and prove that I can do more than just spit bars, I throw myself into the next drill with everything I’ve got. It’s a brutal puck control exercise, and I’m hell-bent on showing I can handle it.

I dart across the ice, puck at my stick, weaving through cones with a focus I didn’t know I had this morning. Around me, the sharp hiss of skates cuts through the arena’s cold air, asymphony of effort from the team. Holden’s giving me a thumbs up, and even Wolfe, Mr. Silent-but-Deadly, nods in approval. It feels good, really good—until it doesn’t.

In my overzealous dash to impress, my skate catches an edge. Time slows. I feel my body tipping, but there’s nothing I can do. The puck slips away like it’s got a mind of its own, shooting across the ice straight towards—no, not towards...

The puck slams into Coach Duff’s coffee mug, an innocent bystander in my tragicomedy of errors. The mug doesn’t just fall; it explodes in a spray of coffee that drenches Coach’s pristine, definitely expensive, definitely not coffee-proof, wind suit.

Silence slams into the rink harder than I hit the ice. I scramble up, every pair of eyes on me—some wide, some squinting, all shocked. Coach Duff stands frozen, dark drips of coffee staining his front, a look of apocalypse on his face. This isn’t just a mistake; it’s an epic fail.

“Foster!” Coach Duff bellows, the arena ringing with his fury. “You want to play clown? Do it on your own time!” His voice, a mix of anger and disbelief, echoes off the walls, pinning me in place.

The entire team freezes, the humor of moments ago chilled into a frosty silence. I stand there, my stick feeling like a hundred pounds in my hands, heat crawling up my neck. It’s one thing to mess up privately. It’s another to do it under the blinding lights of Coach Duff’s wrath.

The guys shift uncomfortably, skates scraping muted apologies across the ice. Holden shoots me a sympathetic grimace, and even Bennett, normally the one to pile on, has his eyes narrowed, not in judgment but in commiseration. They’ve all been here. Maybe not in such a spectacular fashion, but they know the drill—pun intended.