Page 2 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)

TWO

TOBIAS

Now

T he Vipers' practice facility smells like fresh ice and old sweat, familiar and grounding. First day of training camp, and my pulse is thudding like I'm eighteen again instead of twenty-eight, heart racing with a mix of anticipation and dread that I can't quite separate.

I've worn a lot of jerseys in my career. Miami. New York. Boston. Las Vegas. Las Vegas lasted the longest, but none of them ever felt like mine. Just temporary shelters, places to play but never to belong. The crest always felt borrowed against my chest.

I want Seattle to be different. Need it to be, honestly. This might be my last real shot at finding somewhere that sticks. I don't want my entire hockey career to consist of hits and misses.

Across the room, Derrick Shaw hovers near the entrance, his nerves are all over his face.

Looks like a guy trying not to pass out.

He’s a new goalie, clearly trying to blend in while standing out in all the worst ways.

With everything he's been through in these past few months, my heart goes out to him.

I remember watching the Stanley Cup Final from my apartment in Las Vegas, beer halfway to my lips when it happened.

Derrick was standing in the crease one second and unconscious the next, crumpling to the ice in a way that made the whole arena go silent.

I faced my own potential career-ending injury in Boston a few years ago.

A groin pull that almost cost me everything.

I know the anxiety of getting back on the ice for the first time. I see it in his eyes now.

I catch Sebastian Bergeron talking him down gently near his stall, voice low, presence steady. One hand on Derrick's shoulder, rubbing gentle circles. The kid's spine loosens just a little. There's something intimate in the way Bast leans in, protective in a way that makes me wonder.

It's a good team. Tight-knit. Championship pedigree. The kind of brotherhood I've watched from the outside my whole career.

I'm lucky to be here. I want to be here. The opportunity fell into my lap when I least expected it, and I grabbed on with both hands.

I start pulling on gear like its armor, not stopping until I'm suited up and taped tight.

Brand-new nameplate over my stall. Fresh Vipers jersey, number 55.

My whole life, reduced to a few bits of furniture, a duffle bag of clothes, and a lease on a home next door to a woman I can't stop thinking about.

A woman with eyes that see too much and a baby girl who makes me remember what it's like to believe in something.

I've been watching my next door neighbor like a stalker since the day I met her a few weeks ago.

Unfortunately, it is also where he is.

Devan Scott walks into the room like he owns the place, which, judging by the reactions around him, he kind of does.

He's sunshine wrapped in muscle, laughing loud, chirping Tor Bailey, tossing energy around like candy.

Everyone's leaning into it, soaking up his warmth like they've been waiting for it.

He's the glue here, the heartbeat. Some things never change.

Just like that, my carefully rehearsed emotional neutrality goes to hell, dissolving like sugar in hot coffee. Suddenly, I’m back in Lia’s living room weeks ago, pretending there was nothing between us but a mere acquaintance. Like now, it’s damn near impossible to hide my emotions.

Eight years. Eight years, and he still looks like the best and worst decision I ever made. His smile still hits me in the chest like a crosscheck. His voice still finds the cracks in my resolve.

His eyes sweep the room, taking inventory of his kingdom, then land on me.

He freezes.

For a second, it's like no one else exists. Just him, me, and all the words we never said. All the shit I never got to scream. All the pieces I never got to put back together after he walked away without a backward glance.

He blinks. Swallows. The smile drops and then rebuilds, softer this time. More tentative.

"Toby—" He catches himself. "Tobias. You ready for camp?"

I pretend I don't hear the stutter. The slip into the nickname only he ever used. "Always ready." My glove hits the bench harder than I meant it to, betraying the calm I'm trying to project. "The real question is, are you excited I'm here or just surprised I showed up?"

He frowns. "What do you want me to say?"

Something. Anything.

Like, I missed you through every empty arena, every silent hotel room, every victory celebration where I'd turn instinctively to find your face and remember you weren't there.

Like, I'm sorry I disappeared into the darkness of my own making, bundling up our secret like contraband, swallowing your name so it couldn't escape my lips during sleepless nights.

Like, I think about that night and every night we shared before you walked out of my life without leaving so much as a crack in the door for me to follow through.

I know better now. So, I smirk, low and bitter. "Don't worry about it. I'm not planning on bouncing. Unlike some people."

He flinches. That cracks his smile for real, the mask slipping just enough to show the man underneath, the one I used to know.

His lips part, but before he can respond, Coach Lennox barrels in like a storm cloud with a clipboard, all business and barely contained energy. "Let's go, boys! On the ice in five. Let's make this camp count!"

Conversation over.

Devan slides back into his hype-man persona without missing a beat, riling up Ridley, throwing jabs at Tor, encouraging Derrick with a back slap, grinning like my words didn't land.

They did. I know they did. I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, the way his laugh doesn't quite reach them anymore.

I tug my helmet down and stare straight ahead. I didn't come here for closure. I came to earn a permanent spot on a team that actually wins. That gives a damn. That might finally feel like home.

As we file out onto the ice, I feel him beside me, too close, too loud, too familiar. The scent of his soap hasn't changed in eight years.

"Ready to show them what you've got, Groves?" he mutters, soft and private, just for me.

Groves.

So, we're doing the formal thing now.

I snort. "Try to keep up, Scott."

Then I push off and leave him behind, blades carving into clean, championship ice, trying to outskate the ghosts that followed me to Seattle.

I take the ice like I own it, but truth is, my pulse is rattling my ribcage. There's an ugliness boiling in me that I need to burn off. Lennox blows his whistle and we break into drills. My body falls into the familiar rhythm, crossovers, tight turns, sprints that burn my lungs in the best way.

The first time Devan passes me the puck, it's perfect. Like he still remembers exactly where I like it, just a little ahead so I can catch it in stride. Our chemistry hasn't died. It's just been dormant. Waiting.

Fucking infuriating.

"Nice hands, Groves!" he calls out after I deke past Ridley in a three-on-two drill.

I pretend not to hear him. I'm not here for his approval.

Lennox pairs us for the scrimmage, Devan and me on the same line. Of course he does. The hockey gods love their little jokes.

During a water break, Sebastian sidles up beside me. "You good?" he asks, voice quiet beneath the noise of twenty other guys catching their breath.

I glance over, surprised. His expression is neutral but his eyes are sharp. Assessing.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" I ask raising a brow.

He shrugs one massive shoulder. "Just checking. This team is close. We look out for each other."

There's something in his tone, not a warning exactly, but a statement of fact. These guys are family. I'm the outsider.

"Appreciate the concern," I say, wiping sweat from my forehead. "But I'm just here to play hockey."

His mouth quirks. "Sure you are." He pushes off the boards. "By the way, nice skating. You'll fit in here."

The scrimmage is brutal. Lennox wants to see what we're made of, so he lets us go full contact. I'm matched against Tor's line, and the captain isn't holding back. He slams me into the boards, not quite hard enough to be dirty, but enough to remind me where I stand in the hierarchy.

I give it right back the next shift.

When Devan and I connect for a goal, a blind pass from him that somehow finds my tape there's a moment of pure elation before I remember I'm supposed to be keeping my distance. I tap his helmet with my glove instead of the celebration we used to do.

He notices. Of course he does.

After practice, my muscles scream as I strip out of sweat-soaked gear. The locker room buzzes with energy, guys planning dinner as they nag each other about summer weight gain. Normal team stuff. I'm quiet, keeping to myself, but I catch Devan watching me from across the room.

"First team dinner tonight at Ridley's," Tor announces, voice carrying over the chatter. "Mandatory for new guys. Rest of you lazy fucks can decide if you want to grace us with your presence."

Great. Just what I need, forced socialization when all I want is a hot shower and some time to process the fact that I just spent two hours on the ice with the man who broke my heart and didn't have the decency to explain why.

"Groves," Maxwell calls from his stall, voice tentative. "You want to maybe carpool? Not sure if you know where anything is yet."

His eyes are hopeful, a little uncertain, like a kid asking if he can join a playground game.

I know I need to try to make connections with these men—they're my team now.

This is Jamie trying to do that, extending an olive branch.

He was new to the team just last year, so this is his way of paying it forward, creating the welcome he probably wished he'd had.

There's something genuine in his expression that makes it hard to shut him down, despite my desire to retreat into solitude.

I can't say no to that without looking like a complete asshole.