Page 16 of Breakaway Goals

Practice felt standard enough—at least standard for this tournament, in that Hayes spent ninety percent of his time helplessly rotating around Morgan and the other ten percent staring at him, wishing he was—at least until Thompson called everyone together and said with the Canada game coming up tomorrow, he wanted to practice shootouts.

It wasn’t even remotely farfetched that the US and Canada might go three periods and an overtime, before going to a shootout.

“We’ll do half with Jacob and the other half with Bram,” Thompson said.

Hayes told himself it was fine, that it wasn’t a big deal, but he couldn’t help himself.

Before he could stop, he looked over at Morgan.

He had a blank expression pasted on, a little rough around the edges, not looking at their coach, or at anything at all, tapping his stick against the ice like he needed to do something with his hands or he might explode.

“Hey,” Hayes said, tapping Morgan’s leg with his stick when Coach finished talking and they were setting up for the first run, Jacob skating down to one side of the rink.

Morgan glanced up at him, face still frozen. “What?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Hayes shot him a look that said without him actually vocalizing it, I don’t know, you’re kinda fucked up about Braun .

“I play against him a couple of times a year. I can handle this.”

Hayes wasn’t sure he should say to him, it doesn’t seem like you can , so he didn’t. Besides what was he , Hayes Montgomery, going to say to Morgan Reynolds about a shootout, even against a great goalie like Jacob?

Nothing. That was what he was going to say.

Maybe things had equalized between them a bit recently. Maybe his crush had less hero worship qualities and more just regular worship qualities, but the last thing he was going to do was be dumb enough to give Morgan a hockey lecture.

“Daniels,” Thompson called out, and Danny whooped it up, raising his stick in the air as he made lazy circles around the middle of the rink.

In the goal, Jacob had clearly locked in, assuming his position, gaze intent, as Danny grabbed a puck and began to skate towards him.

Danny wouldn’t have been on Hayes’ list of guys to use in a shootout, but he was probably a good-ish warmup for Jacob. Not a great skater or a particularly brilliant goal-scorer, but crafty, at the best of times.

“Come on,” Morgan called out, “stop fucking around. Put one in on him, Dan.”

Danny slipped to one side, but Jacob had already foreseen the move and easily blocked it.

“Oh well,” Danny retorted, shrugging as he passed Morgan, who was already locked in for his turn.

Hayes didn’t think Coach had even called his number, but clearly Morgan wasn’t waiting any longer for his crack at Braun.

Morgan was skating harder and faster than Hayes had seen him do all tournament.

“He looks like he’s going to will that puck past Braun,” Danny said, skating up to where Hayes was leaning against the boards. “You think he’ll get it in?”

“No,” Hayes said, a second before Morgan tried a fancy dodging move, totally overthinking the whole thing, Jacob easily blocking the shot.

“Jesus,” Danny muttered under his breath.

Morgan swept behind the goal, fury etched on his expression, looking like he was doing a lot more than muttering a few choice obscenities.

“Monty,” Coach barked out. “Show them how it’s done.”

Hayes nodded and picked up his stick. As he skated towards the goal, he skimmed through his memory. Remembering his last few goals against Braun and what he knew of Braun’s weaknesses—a damn short list, honestly—only deciding on what he was going to do a half-second before he did it.

Changing direction suddenly, he leaned hard on his edges and pushed in on one side, aiming the puck between Braun’s leg pads.

It slid just inside.

Hayes skated in the rest of the way, giving Jacob a reassuring shoulder tap with his stick before heading back towards the mingled group at the boards.

“Absolutely fucking sick move, Monty,” Danny crowed.

Morgan didn’t say anything. Just gave Hayes a little nod, eyes narrowed.

Before Coach could say anything, could yell any other name, Morgan took off again, barely waiting until Hayes was back to the group before he was gone, skating hard and mean, leaning way over his stick.

Jacob didn’t even flinch, didn’t even call Morgan out for his repeated turn, even though Hayes could hear Thompson and Blackburn behind him, both yelling at Morgan to cut it out.

But Morgan, unsurprisingly, was not listening.

This time he waited until he was nearly on top of Jacob, practically in the crease before shooting, barely turning himself in time to avoid hitting the guy.

It was a shitty move—compromising the health and safety of both Morgan and Jacob—and Thompson barked out, voice carrying across the ice. “What the fuck are you doing, Reynolds?”

Of course, when Jacob lifted himself up, he had the puck in the cup of his glove and he let it drop to the ice with a pointed look over in Morgan’s direction.

Hayes knew it was going to happen again the moment before it did.

“Oh shit,” Danny murmured next to him.

But the words were barely out of his mouth before Hayes was off, skating as fast as he could, coming to an abrupt stop between a charging Morgan and a defensively postured Jacob.

“Get out of my way,” Morgan grunted.

“No,” Hayes said firmly. Put his hands out. “No fucking way. You’re gonna lose it on anyone? It’s gonna be on me. Not on that guy.”

“I don’t have a problem with you ,” Morgan said between clenched teeth.

“Exactly,” Hayes said.

A moment later, Danny was there, next to him. “Come on, man,” Danny wheedled. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Actually, I kinda do,” Morgan argued.

“No, you really don’t,” Hayes said, frustration inevitably leaking into his voice.

He moved closer to Morgan. Risked putting a hand on his arm.

For a second, he was sure Morgan was going to shuck it off, and he was going to have to pretend that didn’t matter, but to Hayes’ surprise, he didn’t. He tensed but didn’t move.

Morgan didn’t say anything.

And to Hayes’ continued surprise, when Hayes risked wrapping a whole hand around his forearm and then the other around his waist, Morgan let himself be pulled away. All the way across the ice and then off it.

He was silent and easy all the way until they got to the hall outside the locker room. Then suddenly it was like he came to life, and the tables were turning and it was him dragging Hayes farther in, to the hallway they’d visited in the first game.

It was just as empty as it had been then. Emptier, maybe, because this was just practice.

“Seriously, Mo,” Hayes huffed out under his breath. He unbuckled his helmet and pulled it off, letting it dangle from one hand by the strap.

Morgan still didn’t say anything. Just wet his bottom lip with his tongue, and Hayes realized a second later that he was shaking a little, all over. Just straight-up trembling.

“Are you okay?” Hayes asked, leaning in a little closer. He unsnapped Morgan’s helmet and pulled that off too, setting both of them on an equipment bin.

“I’m . . .” Morgan squeezed his eyes shut. “No.”

Well, at least that was something. At least Morgan could see that his reaction had been completely unhinged and out of line.

Okay, so he didn’t like Braun. Hayes couldn’t say he particularly liked Braun either, but he wasn’t going to go charging at him in the net during practice.

“You wanna talk about it?” Hayes asked gently, wrapping his fingers around Morgan’s forearms and squeezing. Like he could somehow leech out by osmosis some of the ugly thoughts he knew Morgan was having.

“You get it—he just— I just—” Morgan broke off, hazel eyes wide and distressed. Then he looked away.

“I know you think he’s got your number,” Hayes said, probably too obvious about how careful he was being.

Morgan, even as spooked as he was, wasn’t going to like being handled with kid gloves. He’d want the unvarnished truth, extra salt rubbed in the wound for good measure.

“You think?” Morgan’s laugh was more a bark than an actual genuine laugh. “He got me twice . And you just slid one by him like it was fucking nothing.”

Hayes winced. “Not like it was nothing. I play against him, too, you know? But I’ve got less .

. .” He didn’t know how to say it without reminding Morgan all over again that at one point, Hayes had made him feel old.

Hayes didn’t have to ask to know that also meant used up, washed-up, finished, done.

“Less what?”

Hayes shot him a look. Morgan knew what he didn’t want to say, and he was going to make him say it anyway. Nevermind the salt. It was more like he was asking—no, begging— for Hayes to pour vodka right on it.

“Pretending it’s not happening doesn’t change anything,” Morgan muttered.

“No, but dwelling on it sure doesn’t fucking change anything either,” Hayes retorted with heat. “And you’re fucking letting him—letting this situation—get to you.”

Hayes gripped his arms harder. Not letting him pull away. Morgan was strong, but Hayes wasn’t nothing. He could hold on. He could make Morgan face this, even though it was the last thing Morgan wanted to see.

“Oh, yeah, so I should just stop then? Why didn’t anyone tell me that before?” Morgan’s voice was as dry as the Sahara.

“Don’t,” Hayes warned sharply.

“What?”

“Don’t do that shit. You’re better than that. I’m better than that. You know I’m there. That I get it.”

“No, you’ll get it in ten fucking years,” Morgan retorted without heat. “Maybe twelve, if you’re really lucky.”

Hayes sighed.

“Jacob Braun isn’t the thing that’s holding you back. There isn’t anyone holding you back. Only this stupid assumption that you’re . . .I don’t know . . .on your last legs. You don’t look on your last legs, not to me.”

“You’re sure that’s not wishful thinking? You lookin’ at me through those rose-colored glasses you like so fucking much?”