Page 53

Grant

The locker room buzzes around me with pre-practice energy—my teammates talking shit, equipment bags unzipping, the snap of tape being wrapped around sticks—but I filter most of it out, methodically prepping my gear the same way I always do. I’ve been doing this same routine for so long that it’s pure muscle memory at this point, and I don’t let my mind wander.

Routine means control. Control means success.

“Come on, man, that was totally your fault.” Theo’s voice rises up above the background noise as he tugs his jersey over his head. “You left the passing lane wide open. Might as well have rolled out a red carpet for that winger.”

Reese grunts, lacing up his skates with quick, practiced movements. “My fault? Where the hell were you, Camden? Taking a nap? You were supposed to be covering him.”

“I was too busy bailing your ass out, as usual,” Theo shoots back, his grin taking any real sting out of his words. “Someone has to keep you in line.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Reese laughs as he straightens up. “Your memory is as bad as your backcheck. If that puck had eyes, it would’ve been looking right at your sorry ass failing to cover your man.”

“Big talk from a guy who was a minus-two the other night,” Theo counters.

“Minus-one,” Reese corrects him immediately, tossing a roll of athletic tape back into his bag. “And that second goal was because Sawyer couldn’t keep the puck in at the blue line.”

“Don’t drag me into your pissing contest,” Sawyer calls from across the room, barely even looking up as he tightens his shoulder pads.

I adjust the straps on my leg pads, checking the tension with practiced precision. Three fingers should fit between the strap and my leg. No more, no less.

“Hey, did you see Declan’s interview in Sports Monthly ?” Maxim asks from his locker. “They’re calling him the future of hockey.”

The man in question keeps his head down, focused on taping his stick, but I catch the flush creeping up his neck.

“Future of hockey?” Theo snorts. “More like future of hair product modeling.”

“Fuck off,” Declan mutters, although there’s a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

“Our rookie’s gone big time on us.” Noah chuckles, nudging Declan’s shoulder. “Don’t forget us little people when you’re accepting your Vezina Trophy.”

“I play defense, dickhead,” Declan shoots back, finally looking up with a reluctant grin. “At least read the damn article before you start giving me shit about it.”

More laughter erupts in the locker room as the buzz of conversation continues, the easy camaraderie of men who trust each other implicitly, both on the ice and off it.

“I still can’t believe that save you made in the third during our last game,” Reese tells Declan, tossing a chest protector in his direction. “Even Parker couldn’t have stopped that one.”

His aim is off—way off. The pad sails wide, missing its intended target and smacking me in the back of the head before dropping to the floor. The locker room goes momentarily quiet, a few players glancing my way.

But I don’t let it break my rhythm or my focus. I stoop quickly to pick up the pad, hand it back to Reese, and then continue stretching my shoulders and rolling out my neck.

“Holy shit, the man doesn’t even flinch.” Theo shakes his head in amusement. “He got hit with a projectile and barely even noticed.”

“I swear, Parker isn’t human,” Maxim adds, checking his laces. “Has anyone here ever seen him blink? I haven’t. Not once all season.”

Declan tilts his head, studying me with mock seriousness. “Maybe he’s an android. Or a cyborg. That would explain the reflexes. The height. The complete lack of normal human emotions.”

“And the personality,” Owen Ashford, another one of our defensemen, adds with a snort. “Programmed for maximum save percentage and minimum social interaction.”

Their friendly teasing doesn’t bother me, but I can’t resist a dig of my own. “If you put as much energy into your defense as you do into your jokes, we might not let in so many shots.”

“He speaks!” Owen clutches his chest in fake amazement. “Alert the media! The Parker 3000 has been upgraded with speech capabilities!”

“His model number is actually 6700,” Noah deadpans. “Get it right.”

I finish adjusting my gear and then straighten up, my six-foot-seven frame towering over most of my teammates. “You guys gonna talk all day, or are we playing hockey?”

They laugh again, but I don’t mind. It’s comfortable, this dynamic. They’re good guys, and the fact that they’re all a bit amused by my intense focus doesn’t bother me. I’ve got a reputation as the team grump, but they know I’ve got their backs when it counts.

The chill air in the arena surrounds me as we step onto the ice, a welcome shock to the system that instantly sharpens my focus. This is the moment I live for. The clean, precise scrape of blades against fresh ice. The weight of the pads, the mask hanging from my hand, the simple clarity of purpose. Everything narrows to this single focus.

Coach Dunaway stands at center ice, his whistle hanging from his neck and the overhead light gleaming off his bald head as he glances down at the clipboard in his hand. When everyone has gathered, he clears his throat and surveys all of us.

“Alright, gentlemen,” he says, his deep voice bouncing off the ice. “We had a solid game the other night, but there are still plenty of things for us to tighten up.”

I listen intently as he calls out the areas we need to work on as a team, mentally adding his points to my own running list of improvements. It’s a list that grows longer after every game, regardless of whether we win or lose. These little details matter. Small adjustments are what separate good players from great ones, and I refuse to be merely good.

“The power play in the second period was sloppy,” Dunaway says, tapping his clipboard. “Too many missed connections. Our penalty kill needs to be more aggressive on the forecheck.” He points to specific players as he goes through the rest of his notes. “Sutton, backcheck was late getting into position during their rush. You’ve got to close that gap faster. Grant, excellent positioning on the breakaways, but we need to tighten up the rebounds.”

I nod once, mentally reviewing the three rebounds I gave up during our last game. Two of them turned into goals, both on my right side. The Prowlers game tape showed me leaning slightly, telegraphing my weight shift. That’s fixable, but I’ll have to put in the work to do it.

“Let’s run some odd-man rushes,” Dunaway calls out. “Then we’ll move into power play setups.”

As we break into drill formation, I slide into the crease, tapping my stick against the post three times in my usual habit before settling into my stance.

The drill begins, and everything else fades away. Each shot becomes a puzzle, something for me to solve as I analyze the angle and velocity of the puck or the player’s stance as it telegraphs the direction of their shot. My body moves by instinct, years of muscle memory taking over as I drop low, my glove flashing out to snag a shot headed for the top corner.

The next few shots come in at predictable angles. I stop them easily, redirecting pucks to the corners and eliminating rebounds. As we keep going, I’m vaguely aware of movement in the stands of the practice arena as Margo Blake, one of our PR people and Noah’s wife, sets up her camera equipment.

She’s here for most of our practices, documenting our work for the team’s social media, so I barely register her presence. She’s just another thing in my peripheral vision, like the scoreboard or the banners hanging from the rafters.

Noah fires a wrist shot that I deflect with my blocker, and Reese follows up with a one-timer that I catch cleanly. But just as Theo cuts across the slot, lining up to shoot, a soft, musical laugh floats down from the stands.

Despite myself, my eyes flick toward the sound. Margo has been joined by another woman—slightly shorter, with honey-blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun. It’s her sister, Heather.

She’s leaning toward Margo as they speak in low voices, her face animated in a way that makes her delicate features light up. When she laughs again, there’s something about it that cuts through the sounds of skates scraping ice and sticks hitting pucks.

For one inexplicable second, I can’t look away from her.

“Heads up, Parker!”

I snap back to attention a fraction too late. The puck that Theo just hit sails past my outstretched glove, smacking into the back of the net with a sound that might as well be a foghorn announcing my failure.

Bradley Price, one of our assistant coaches, blows his whistle to call an end to the drill. I straighten, frustrated by my momentary lapse in concentration. That should’ve been a simple save, the kind I can usually make in my sleep.

Theo skates to a stop beside me, showering my pads with ice. “Holy shit, did the terminator just miss an easy one?” He slaps me on the back. “I thought you were a machine, Parker. What happened?”

I snort, shaking off his hand. “Lucky shot.”

But as I reset for the next drill, I find myself wondering the same thing.

What the hell did just happen?

Goal Line Hearts , a single mother/goalie, grumpy/sunshine romance, is coming soon!

Not ready to say goodbye to Hannah and Declan yet? For another glimpse into their future, grab this sexy and sweet BONUS SCENE !

And if you’re curious about how Margo and Noah fell in love, check out their book, Offside Hearts.