Page 6 of Checking Mr. Wrong (Love in Maple Falls #3)

ASHER

I’ve arrived. Me, Asher Tremblay. I am stepping onto the ice today for the first time as a for-real, one-hundred-percent, true-and-complete NHL player.

This is it. My little-kid self dreamed about this while firing pucks at the garage door until Mom threatened to make me shovel the driveway for the rest of the winter—which, knowing Mom, meant every snowstorm from now until spring thaw in May.

Around me, the usual practice chaos unfolds.

There are hockey sticks clattering, chirps flying, and grown men acting like toddlers in very expensive skates who’ve somehow convinced society to pay them millions to play tag with a rubber disk.

Well, until Carson Crane, Ice Breakers winger and my temporary roommate (emphasis on temporary because this man leaves dirty dishes lying around like he’s marking his territory), slows to a stop in front of me and picks up something only he can see on the ice.

“Whose tooth is this?” he asks in his most sincere Southern drawl, holding up the small, off-white artifact like he’s hosting a very niche episode of Antiques Roadshow: Dental Edition .

Cade Lennox, our right wing, and one of my all-time favorite players ever, skates over, pats his mouth like he’s taking inventory, and shrugs. “Not mine. All accounted for.”

“Well, we can’t just leave it here,” Carson says as he tosses it to me. I’m so used to reacting when I’m near the ice, I catch it on reflex, then immediately hold it away from my body like it might detonate. I scan for something—anything—to put it on. A napkin. A leaf. My last shred of dignity.

So. This is what it’s like to be surrounded by your heroes.

“Why not?” I ask, because I’m apparently the only sane person in this conversation, albeit the one who is also holding onto said tooth now. Also noted is the fact this tooth could have come in handy about an hour earlier when I was riding back from the airport with Mabel, but never mind.

Carson looks at me like I’ve suggested we burn down a hospital. “What if it’s a bad omen?”

“The omen of what, toothless hockey players?”

I stare at them both. These are professional athletes.

These are grown men who get interviewed on television and have their own Wikipedia pages.

And they’re genuinely having a conversation about a random tooth that’s been discovered.

I’m not sure if I’ve found the family I didn’t know I needed or if I’ve been tricked by the Universe. I guess we’ll see soon enough.

The first day of practice on a new team can be compared to the first day of school in my opinion, and for my OCD.

Did I spend a half hour last night arranging and then rearranging my new room?

I did. I also had an early morning check-in with my therapist to talk about the new shared space of a locker room.

It’s something that seems so minute to the average guy, but to me it’s a place where I don’t know the things I need to know: who cleans it and how often, has my locker been cleansed, and should I wear my flip-flops when I’m taking a shower, like my mom used to make me do when I went away to camp?

“Asher,” Carson says, “you manage to get your gear from the airport this morning?”

“I did,” I say, pumping a fist in the air. “Which is good because I did not want to be the guy showing up on his first day without his stuff.”

“Hey, Jamie,” Carson calls out to one of the guys on the ice. “Have you met Asher yet?”

My head would have to be in the sand to not know who Jamie Hayes is. Besides our captain, he’s had a long career and is another one of my idols. He doesn’t need to know I’m pretty much fangirling as he glides over to the side of the rink, nodding at me as he stops.

“Tremblay. Nice to meet you,” he says as he takes off his glove and thrusts his hand my way. “Glad you could join us.”

“Thanks,” I say, seeing my chance and tossing the lone tooth to the side and shaking his hand. “It’s an honor, really.”

Jamie chuckles at my eager response. I know I’m a nerd, and an excited one. He turns to the ice where a few more players have appeared and are getting warmed up. “Lucian. Weston. Get over here. I’ve got another defenseman to add to your group.”

“You say that like we’re a boy band,” Weston says, rolling his eyes. “If it’s them versus us, who would we be anyway—N’Sync or Backstreet Boys?”

“Please,” Lucian says, skating backward as he holds his stick in the air. “Like it’s a contest. Backstreet Boys. All. Day. Long!”

Beside me Carson grunts. “You guys, Coach Hauser said we need to…”

“What?” a voice calls out. I don’t have to look to know it belongs to Coach Dale Hauser.

Besides meeting him when they brought me on board, he’s someone I’ve grown up listening to on various sports talk shows over the years.

Talk about a career in hockey. This man was born and bred into the sport.

His whole family played, and I’m pretty sure that our team captain was one of his finest players when he was coaching the New York Blades back in the day. “What did I say you need to do?”

Carson clears his throat, his eyes darting around our crew as if he was looking for backup. “You said last night for us to start our drills as soon as we hit the ice today. ”

“Yes, I did.” Coach Hauser cocks his head to the side and lets his gaze land on each of us individually as he moves in a circle with us. “If it’s what I asked you to do, then why do I have all of these pairs of eyes staring at me? Get out on the ice and get started.”

Everyone scatters like a group of rats on Monday morning in New York City.

I know, it’s not a nice thought, but rats are part of New York.

I’m beginning to go down a rabbit hole of stats in regards to rodents in cities as I start to hit the ice and follow suit, only to have Coach hold up a hand to stop me.

“Welcome to the team, Asher.” He shakes my hand firmly and pats my shoulder. “You get settled in okay?”

“Sure did, thank you, sir,” I say, maybe a little too fast.

“You’ve been practicing, right?” he asks, his tone light but with an edge that suggests he’s already forming expectations.

“Yes, sir. The only days I’ve not been on the ice in months were while I was in transit.” I glance around the arena, my new home. It’s still sinking in—the size of the place, the way the lights bounce off the fresh sheet of ice, the faint hum of machinery keeping everything cold and perfect.

Coach nods, his eyes scanning me like he’s sizing me up. “Good. We need you sharp. Our D-line’s been struggling and I’m counting on you to help anchor it.”

“Yes, sir,” I say again, a little too clipped this time. My fingers twitch at my side, and before I realize it, I’m tapping them against the edge of my thigh. Thumb to index, middle, ring. Pinky. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

“Relax, kid,” Coach says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s practice, not playoffs.”

I laugh, but it comes out awkward, like I’ve been caught in the act. “Right. Just excited to be here.”

Before Coach can say more, Cade skates over, his sharp stop sending a spray of ice chips toward our feet. “Everything good?” he asks, his grin wide and unapologetic.

“Just giving Asher the rundown. See you two out here,” Coach says, clapping me on the shoulder before skating off.

Cade nods at me, his gaze flickering to my hand. I’ve started tapping my stick, the rhythm steadying me. If Cade notices, he doesn’t say anything. He smirks like he’s in on a joke I don’t get.

“So, Asher, I heard you’re a dancer.” His tone is casual, but the glint in his eye says he’s expecting a reaction.

“You heard right.” I stop tapping and grin. “You’ve got a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just didn’t peg you as the pirouette type.”

“My mom put me in dance when I was younger.” I chuckle and lean on my stick. “Who knew that all of the balance, agility, and footwork I learned in dance would help me be lighter and faster on my skates, while also helping me skate sharp turns and dodge checks with precision?”

“Huh. Never thought of it that way.” Cade tilts his head, considering. “So, what are we talking about here? Ballroom? Jazz hands? Tap?”

“Mostly ballet when I was a kid,” I say with a smirk. “And tap, yeah. Broadway was a dream once.”

Cade chuckles. “Far cry from this arena.”

“Yeah, my mom felt the same,” I say with a snicker. “She said if I was going to be obsessed with hockey, I had to do something that would at the very least keep me off my butt when I hit the ice.”

“Well, it’s working,” he says with a laugh. “You’re out there moving like you’ve got skates made of air. I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve got cement blocks strapped to mine half the time.”

“Then maybe you should take a few lessons,” I shoot back, tapping my stick on the ice. “Might save you from face-planting during drills.”

He barks out a laugh, skating backward to join the others for our drill. “I think I’ll leave the cha-cha to you, twinkle toes.”

“You do that,” I call after him, shaking my head with a gri n

The guys are already chirping each other mid-drill. Weston is jawing at Lucian about his questionable shot accuracy, while Lucian fires back about Weston’s tendency to treat the puck like it’s allergic to the net.

I’m into it as fast I can be, my focus zeroing in as soon as the puck hits my stick. This is where I’m at my best—sharp, fast, in control. My passes land clean, my shots rip the net.

Then someone yells, “Heads up!”

I barely duck in time as a stray puck flies past my helmet, slamming into the boards behind me.

“Sorry, that was me!” Carson calls, holding his stick aloft like it’s a weapon of mass destruction.

“Nice aim,” I shout back. “You trying to take me out before my first game?”

“No way, it’s not my style…well, not anymore,” he says, grinning. “Seriously, total accident. My bad.”

I laugh, shaking my head, and the rest of practice flies by in a blur of drills, smack talk, and a couple of bruises I’m sure I’ll feel tomorrow.

As we wrap up, Coach blows his whistle. “Good work, boys. Now hit the showers before you stink up the place.”

I skate off with the rest of the team, but Cade catches my arm before I can head to the locker room.

There’s a look in his eyes. It’s calm and steady, the kind that says this isn’t just a casual chat. “Hey, I’ve got a quick question,” he asks.

“What’s up?” I tug my helmet off and run a hand through my hair.

He doesn’t answer right away, just waits for the others to pass us before leaning on his stick. “Saw you out there, tapping your fingers during drills. You always do that?”

I freeze for a second, then shake my head with a laugh that’s all nerves. “Nah, man. It’s a habit or something. You know, adrenaline.”

Cade raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “Right. And when you were counting in your last few games? Saw a couple of clips when Coach said we might bring you on. Noticed it then, too. It’s part of your routine, isn’t it?”

“I have OCD.” My gut tightens, and I glance around to make sure no one else is listening. My voice comes out lower than I mean it to. “Comes and goes, but with the move and everything, it’s been acting up.”

He nods like I just told him I have a gluten allergy. No judgment, no pity. “Makes sense. Moving’s a lot. New team, new town. It would be hard not to feel off balance.”

I exhale, relieved he’s not pushing harder. “It’s not a big deal. I handle it. Always have.”

“Sure you do,” Cade says, his tone easy, but there’s something knowing in it.

“And now, you’ve got a team behind you. We’ve all got our stuff, man.

Injuries, mental blocks, superstitions—heck, you probably know by now Carson won’t even tie his skates until his left one feels ‘just right.’” He grins, but it’s not teasing.

“You’re part of this family now. You don’t have to carry it solo. ”

I blink at him, unsure what to say, but Cade claps me on the shoulder before I can figure it out. “Something to keep in mind. See you in the locker room.”

He skates off without waiting for a reply, leaving me standing there with my stick in one hand and my helmet in the other.

I glance around the rink, the boards still echoing with the scrape of skates from a few moments before. It hits me all at once—this place, this team, this town. It’s not just hockey. It’s Maple Falls, Mabel, Cade, and something that feels a lot like home.

Welcome to the NHL, Asher.