Page 73 of Back in the Game (Pride in the Game #1)

He was proud of the kid. Cote had been a shy rookie at the start of the season who barely spoke, but now he was a very assertive and valuable player on his line.

Other than the fact that he was a homophobe.

“Welcome back, princess. We were worried Toronto would be a normal team with you gone, and then we would have to respect them.”

AKA: Normal because their token gay player was gone.

He was such a dick. Jett was happy he didn’t know enough about Cote to turn his hatred against him as well. The kid didn’t need that.

“Settle down, Nickelodeon,” Jett chirped. “Where’s Drake? He normally stops you from acting stupid—and you’re pushing the line of discrimination, buddy.”

Campanelli sneered for real this time, his features twisting into something ugly. “What the fuck are you rambling about, Fraser?”

“You don’t have kids?” Jett asked, giving him a winning grin.

“No,” Campanelli growled. “But at least I’m man enough to fuck a girl and have them if I want.”

When Jett laughed—mostly in disbelief— Campanelli spat on the ice and sped off to meet Bracken at center ice.

Jett was still chuckling when he took his position, which pissed off Florida’s right wing, earning him a shoulder shove when the refs weren’t watching. It stung, but Jett ignored it.

“Keep your fucking shoulders to yourself, Forbes,” Wolf called, ignoring the whistle when the refs immediately tried to settle things down.

“Cute,” said Forbes. “You all jump in to protect your little wifey.”

When Wolf smiled, Jett moved the fuck out of the way.

Gloves came off on both sides. Forbes tried to go in for a cheap shot, but Wolf grabbed his sweater and yanked him so hard he missed, and then punched him in the mouth.

The fans were on their feet screaming, and the thrum of sticks against boards lit up the arena. Jett knew it was going to be like this when he came back. Florida hated Toronto on a good day, but there was something deeper behind the aggression tonight, and he knew it was about him.

Forbes stood no chance. He was barely six feet on skates, and Wolf was easily six five and filled with rage. He punched the guy until blood started splattering, and then the refs were blowing whistles and jumping in.

When Forbes hit the ice and Wolf was still hammering him, the Florida goalie came out and paced around the red line, Powers left his net too and started gliding forward.

Everyone was on edge. Jett was surprised Bracken hadn’t clocked Campanelli in the face yet, but they couldn’t lose him after puck drop to sit in the bin.

Forbes and Wolf were separated and thrown into the bins, still chirping at each other through the glass. Forbes was holding a bloody cloth to his face and refusing to see medical, and Wolf was holding up his torn knuckles to proudly show them off, which started another round of verbal arguments.

“Can I fight him?” He heard Powers ask as the Florida goalie, Mason Shepherd, continued to taunt him from the other side of the red line.

The refs were yelling at them to get into position, so Bracken shook his head, and Powers slumped and returned to his net .

“You should let him fight someday,” Jett said, cringing when the crowd screamed as the footage of the fight replayed. “Everyone loves a goalie fight.”

“And let him get hurt?” Bracken readjusted his gloves, looking appalled. “I could never do that.”

“Okay, next time we have Rose in the net, you better not stop him.”

Their second goalie was older and close to retirement, but he had been in a scrap before. When he wasn’t passing down his knowledge of how to stop a puck to Powers, he was giving him tips on how to win a fight.

“Bracken! Center ice now or you’re getting a penalty for game delay.”

Bracken let out an exaggerated sigh before rolling his eyes all the way to the face-off circle. He dropped into position, tapping his stick impatiently as the official finally dropped the puck.

Jett surged forward the second Bracken won the face-off, but his momentum barely carried him a stride before he was swallowed by Florida’s defensive wall.

The Barracudas weren’t just aggressive—they were relentless .

Their forwards were fast, their defensemen were brutal, and the second Jett had the puck on his stick, Beauregarde was on him like glue.

It felt like trying to win against his shadow.

No matter where he turned, Beauregarde mirrored him, leaning in just enough to throw Jett off balance without drawing a penalty.

He had to pass almost immediately every time he touched the puck, and when he didn’t, he paid for it with a hard shove or a stick lift that stole it away.

The tension from the earlier fight hadn’t faded—it had ignited the tempo. Everyone on the ice was playing like they had something to prove. Helmets knocked together, skates tore up the ice, and sticks cracked against each other in a flurry of blocks and intercepts.

There were no whistles. No breaks—just five straight minutes of furious, punishing hockey.

By the time Wolf leapt back onto the ice, slamming his stick down hard and barking for the puck, everyone was dripping sweat. Jett barely registered his exhaustion. The burn in his legs and lungs was addictive .

He rotated in and out of shifts like clockwork—off the ice, gulping water, wiping his face, and throwing himself right back into the fray. The longer they played, the louder the crowd got, a thunderous wall of sound rising with every blocked shot and missed opportunity.

When they hit the ten-minute mark with no break, the arena was practically vibrating. That’s when it happened.

Jett finally broke free.

He saw the opening before it was there—a subtle shift in Florida’s line, just enough to slip past Beauregarde and grab a lead pass from Hellstrom. The puck hit his tape, and he was gone , flying down the center lane with all the speed he could muster.

The goalie was in his sights. Jett drew his stick back to shoot—

And his foot was hooked from behind.

His legs whipped out from under him, and he crashed to the ice, sliding past the crease on his side. He swung his stick instinctively, trying to push the puck toward the net, but without his full weight behind it, it was an easy stop for Shepherd.

The whistle blew.

Jett grunted and pushed himself upright, twisting around to see Beauregarde standing nearby, his expression dark with frustration. His red hair clung to his temples, soaked with sweat, and his jaw was clenched so tight Jett could practically hear his molars grinding.

The refs were on them in seconds, arms extended to keep things from escalating. Players from both teams surged toward the crease, chirping and shouting, sticks tapping the ice and gloves readying to come off. But with Toronto going on the power play, the Toronto players were keeping themselves.

Jett locked eyes with Beauregarde as they were separated, both breathing hard, hearts hammering.

“Beauregarde, in the bin,” said the ref. “And don’t fucking argue today.”

Beauregarde shifted his posture to look threatening, and Jett was already opening his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Plus dur la prochaine fois, ma petite fraise.”

He saw shock register on Beauregarde’s face, followed quickly by a blush that turned every inch of visible skin the same colour as his hair. He didn’t wait to be led to the bin—he skated over on his own and shut himself in there without a chirp in response .

“Florida number 98. Two minutes for interference.”

“The fuck did you say to him?” Hellstrom asked on his way to the bench.

Jett shrugged, smiling as they repositioned in the Barracudas zone for the puck drop. Cote was back on his left, and they had two minutes to get a goal. He could work with that.

Bracken won them the puck, and Cote surged forward into position alongside Jett. It was like Tic-Tac-Toe: Bracken-Cote-Jett.

There was a loud clang as the puck hit the left corner of the post and went in as smoothly as silk. The Florida fans booed, and the Toronto fans cheered, but Jett couldn’t hear anything over the cries and whooping as his teammates tackled him into the boards.

Wolf was the one who dug him out of the pile so he could celebrate with the bench, smacking him on the back so hard he stumbled.

Jett accepted his fist bumps with Cote and Bracken following behind.

He was about to go through the gate and sit since his shift had ended, but the guys grabbed him and hauled him over the side into a smothering hug.

“Welcome back, Fraser!”

“Fuck man, that will shut the haters up.”

“Look at Campanelli. He’s so angry, he’s about to piss himself.”

Jett accepted their praise, and he realized that he needed this more than he thought he did. The affirmation he received from his team was one of the better cures to drown out the incessant buzzing of depression and anxiety.

Jett’s 101 on how to escape the demons of your past—score as many fucking goals as you can.

He sat, taking his helmet off and hydrating to prepare for his next shift. He was checking his stick over when the warm press of a hand on his head made him pause.

Harrison.

Jett smirked to himself. He couldn’t react to his boyfriend without drawing attention, but the pride was so evident in the touch that he didn’t need to do or say anything.

He knew what that goal had meant for them both, and Jett was so overwhelmed by it that he had to wipe away tears before he got caught .

Bracken swung an arm over his shoulders when he came to the bench, shaking him until the irritation dried up the rest of the waterworks.

“It’s okay, buddy.” Bracken ruffled his sweaty hair. “I knew you could do it.”

The whistle blew, and they paused for a commercial break, allowing Powers to come over and get his fist bumps from them.

“Good show, Jetty!”

Bracken scoffed. “What are Niko and I? Chopped liver?”

Powers tilted his head, blue eyes bright with confusion. “Liver? What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s an old saying,” said Cote. “Old like Cap is.”