Page 2 of Call the Shots (For The Arena #1)

BEAR

BAD NEWS OR WORSE NEWS?

After fishing the golf cart out of the lake, I told June to fuck off because I didn’t want her waterlogging more of my shit. I didn’t care about Marrs, or the amenities on campus, or whatever dumb tour bullshit they had. I wanted to see where I’d spend most of my waking hours.

The Colosseum—nicknamed the Colo.

Elijah was right. They clearly let this puppy go.

The boards around the ice rink were cracked, and broken seats were shoved to the ends of the aisles like prepping for a bonfire. Graffiti lined the walls, lights flickered overhead, and the arena was topped off with a stale lighter fluid smell that made my head swim.

What the hell is this?

Denali Maddox stood by the rink. A center with some of the best scores in the nation, Denali was an uptight, pasty-faced prick.

He had a beard that he left untamed during the season because he liked to tell reporters he had ‘ better stuff to worry about. ’ My old team in North Dakota called him Hairy Asshole but that nickname had to hang up its jersey, now that he was…

My captain.

Just thinking the words made me swear under my breath. I shouldered my bag, moving next to him. “Where’d Olesky go?”

“Ran when he saw this,” Denali said, pleased for some reason. “I have the captain badge now.”

“You really didn’t want to say, ‘I’m the captain now,’ huh?”

“Yep. No Tom Hanks movie here.” He glanced my way. “I heard the rumors.”

“Congratulations.”

“You messed with your team. Burned a lot of bridges.”

“So?”

“If you didn’t send your teammates to the hospital, you’d?—”

“Don’t pretend you’re here for a good reason,” I scoffed, never taking my eyes off of the rink. “Half of Michigan’s team are hockey royalty babies. You were pissing in their shadows. Michigan would’ve rather shot you in the back of the head than make you captain.”

Silence fell while we measured each other up.

He held out his fist. “Bear.”

“What are we, eight fucking years old?” I muttered, bumping his.

We both transferred from the USAC, the top conference for college hockey, and wound up in a state that didn’t even have outdoor rinks.

Texas, USA. I used to ignore calls from the Texas Ice Hockey Collegiate Conference and dodge their scouts at games.

The conference didn’t stretch beyond their singular state.

I never had any interest in taking a professional nosedive for my career.

Now, I didn’t have a choice.

As far as I knew, I was the only player drafted to a pro team, but after the bullshit in North Dakota, that didn't mean anything. The Boston Bulldogs general manager used a two-minute phone call to upend my future, instructing me to play one more year in college. The subtle message was clear. Clean up your act, or you’ll never play for our team.

I couldn’t sign with anyone else because the Bulldogs owned my player rights, and when I reached out to the Boston colleges, they said me being drafted wasn’t a ‘guarantee for ice time,’ no doubt the first time they’d ever spoken those words before.

To them, I was a liability. A black mark on college hockey.

I wasn’t the only one on this team. There were plenty of high-ranking fuckups. Fantastic players who did something stupid, said something wrong, or slept with someone’s daughter and got their ass shipped here. I saw the roster. This was going to be one hell of a season.

Denali was the weird exception. Everybody around Michigan knew he was getting shafted.

He easily outmaneuvered his teammates and was punished for it, I’d seen it firsthand.

I guess he got tired of playing with the dipshits who paraded around the fact that they were related to NHL legends.

The same legends who skipped child support payments and never came to their kids’ games.

Basically, we were both stuck at Marrs with nowhere to go.

I stepped closer to the boards. “Give me the details.”

“Do you want the bad news or the worse news?”

“The Colo is a shit hole?”

“Yep. All their money goes to football. We get the scraps.” Denali crossed his arms over his chest. “More than eighty percent of the team are new transfers, some of the best skates in college hockey, and the rest are the Marrs players who’ve been…struggling.”

“Fantastic.”

“We have Laki Holbrook and Buttons Elway. Sullivan Falkenberg and Charlie Burton. Pickles Starker and Nick Kurosawa?—”

“Are they collecting dogfights? Those guys hate each other.”

“The only worthwhile Marrs player is Elijah Contractor?—”

“The dirtiest player in college hockey.”

“Don’t talk shit about Elijah,” he warned, suddenly serious.

“Don’t tell me you tolerate the guy.” I lifted my brows at his silence. “Wow, you’re the only two people who like each other. Start the friendship bracelet train. Tag me in, Captain. I’ll be sure to hop on.”

He snorted, unperturbed. “Fuck you.”

I shook my head. “None of this matters as long as we can win games.”

“It does matter.” He broke away from studying the rink, turning his attention to me. “If we’re not a real team, we’re done. You know that.”

“Not if we can win.”

“Just because you hated your last team doesn’t mean it’s not important?—”

“Thanks, captain for eleven minutes.”

The animosity wasn’t new. Sportscasters called our rivalry the Alaskan/Canadian Brawl—or the AK Seeyuh Braaaaawl! Denali was actually from Alaska, I only lived in Canada for the first seven years of my life, but the name stuck because the two of us made the games worth watching.

Never did I ever think I’d play with Denali Maddox.

“Are you ready for worse news?” he finally asked.

“What could possibly be worse than this?”

Denali whipped out his phone and dialed a number. It rang a few times, and I caught sight of the name on his phone—Coach Vernon, the Marrs hockey coach. He didn’t pick up the phone. His voicemail did.

I stared. “Is that the Beach Boys?”

“It’s the Muppets cover of Kokomo . He claimed a family emergency but I’m pretty sure he’s in the Bahamas with a bunch of blonde coeds.”

“We don’t have a hockey coach?” I demanded.

“Not even the assistants. They’re saying without him, they won’t show.”

I ground my molars. “What the fuck, Denali?”

“Yep.”

Someone new stepped on the ice, a tall guy in purple gear, our official Gladiator look. He went without his face mask, and his baby cheeks made him instantly recognizable.

I elbowed Denali. “Caleb Montoya?”

“Elijah calls him Kid’s Toy. He’s the youngest player on the roster, seventeen.”

“I thought he was going to the NHL?”

“Since the accident…” Denali cleared his throat. “He can’t…hit.”

“What? Hit what?” At his uncomfortable silence, I tipped my chin to the kid. “Denali, hit what? ”

“Other players. He’s worried about hurting somebody.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Then he can’t play hockey .”

“Watch him. You know how good he is.” We kept our eyes trained on Montoya as he soared across the ice. “He’s a little rough around the edges—but eager.” A couple of figure skaters walked along the rink waving at Montoya. He waved back. “Look how he’s leaning?—”

Still waving, Montoya slammed into the low wall of the rink and flew, crashing into the bench. It crumpled, and a big cloud of dust burst up. No way that’s built to code.

“I’m okay!” Montoya yelled in a high-pitched squeak.

Slowly, I breathed through my nose, trying to remain calm. “ Fuck .”

“Fuck,” Denali agreed.

“His balls haven’t dropped.” I turned around. “That’s the most I’ve seen somebody eat shit and I saw you at the Philly Dome last spring.”

Denali turned, joining me in facing away from the embarrassment of Montoya offering apologies to the giggling figure skaters.

So this was it. The Colo. The Texas Ice Hockey Collegiate Conference. The upgraded Marrs hockey team we were promised during orientation.

Denali and I shared a long look.

“Denali?”

“Yeah?”

I thumbed towards the rink. “What the fuck are we going to do?”