Page 11 of Full Body Hit, Part 1 (Alpha Omega Hockey #5)

CHASE

C hase peered at the end of the tunnel, where the light reflecting off the ice was leaking through. The roar of the crowd could be heard above, the rush of the arena’s blood. The typical Spirits’ jazzy intro interspersed with ghost sounds echoed like a heartbeat, making Chase pulse.

It was his first real NHL game. Everything he’d worked for had been leading to this.

Chase’s jaw ached from clenching it, every muscle tensed in anticipation.

This was it. He’d had his rookie lap during warmups, the crowd calling out for him, welcoming him to the world of the New Orleans Spirits. He was part of the family, now—at least, until they sent him down again.

A booming voice announced each player. Chase could barely swallow, throat closed up, his head thrumming and filled with static.

“Okay, you’re up next,” a tech assistant said, and then there was his name called by the announcer, drawn out in celebration.

“And debuting in his first NHL game, Chase Spalding .”

Chase jumped onto the ice as green and blue and orange spotlights ran across the surface like phantoms, a bright white light focused on him.

He managed to make it to the line where his teammates stood without tripping. He took a deep breath of the cold air, soaking the moment in, letting it saturate every pore.

He’d made it. He was in the NHL.

Chase was on the third line, which wasn’t too shabby, considering how he’d been playing at camp.

Coach had told him he was going to get his minutes, that the first two lines weren’t going to completely dominate.

He’d be able to settle his legs and show them what he was about.

It was a relief—everybody had heard of the cases of young players having stunted development because they were relegated to bottom lines and barely got to play.

Chase needed to be on the ice. If he wasn’t, he couldn’t make an impact, and he’d never get anywhere.

Only problem was, he was completely and utterly invisible out there.

He’d gotten his minutes. Gotten a taste of what a real NHL game was like—fast and brutal. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t known what to do, or that he’d made any glaring mistakes—he’d kept his head down and played as hard as he could.

He just hadn’t made a single difference.

By the end of the game, his line had neither scored a goal nor let a goal in from the opposition. They’d been purely neutral, keeping the play steady so that others could score.

The Spirits managed to win, a convincing 3-1 result, although that included an empty-net goal at the end of play. The locker room was loud with talk and music, stinky with sweat. Chase could only imagine what it smelt like to a normal nose, pheromones ballooning in the small space.

“Good game, rook,” Noah said from behind, giving Chase a few playfully hearty slaps on the back.

Chase wondered if every goddamn person on the team—except Auston—was lying to his face. “Yeah, thanks.” If he sounded weird, Noah didn’t pick up on it, bouncing to the next person happily.

Sammy was equally as enthusiastic, ribbing Chase the whole time. Chase’s linemates seemed happy, too, unbothered by the poor performance.

Chase sat on the bench in his stall, staring at his teammates, the degrees of separation so stark that it was as though he were in a different realm, peering through a looking glass at something he didn’t quite understand.

He knew exactly what his mom would say if she were there—what she would say the moment she called him.

What was the point of being on the ice if he couldn’t score? Was this all he was capable of? Being a filler on the third line all his life, a footnote on the story of other great players?

Chase swallowed roughly, undressing himself with rough hands. He was glad everybody was saving the celebrations for another time—they had an early practice the next day, the coaches not wanting them to get comfortable even if they won.

Chase was dragging his soul behind him as he got home. Every single atom of his body was exhausted.

He managed to choke down a protein shake, desperate to just crawl into bed and forget the day, but was too jittery to even imagine himself getting into bed on his own.

It was stupid, but he wished he’d been invited over to Sammy’s. Maybe the other Omega would offer him a soft blanket again. Maybe even a few pillows he could burrow into.

He wandered around his apartment, opening and closing cupboards, searching the linen closet. He pulled out the extra sheets and a few towels. They were scratchy, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t deserve something soft.

He paused at the edge of his bedroom door. Putting the stuff on his bed would be too much. Too weak. He went to the living room instead, arranging the material as best he could on the couch.

He felt marginally better when he burrowed in. The structure needed to be stronger. Higher. Plusher. But that was silly—that was reserved for heats.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he opened Twitter, searching for his name. Apart from the announcement of his debut, there was literally nothing.

He might as well have not even played.

There was plenty about Auston, though. He’d had a great debut, with a primary assist and a good play that had led to a power-play goal.

He’d been strong on the forecheck, the pundits said, showing no sign of injury.

He was slower than in his prime, obviously, but his intelligent play made up for it.

Years of idolising Auston had conditioned him to feel a glow of pride in his chest, but the sensation soured quickly, shrinking, mouth turning bitter.

He’ll be a good veteran presence in the locker room for a young team , one tweet said.

Chase snorted. Yeah, right. If they only knew what a surly asshole the so-called veteran was.

Chase shut his screen off, putting his phone on the floor—he didn’t even have a coffee table—and then settled into his makeshift nest.

It was cold and silent in the apartment.

Chase closed his eyes.

***

Time walked right by Chase.

Hockey had always been the most natural thing in the world for him. Even when everything else was difficult. Even when he lost track of himself—of who he was supposed to be, there was always hockey.

Until now.

If he were better at lying, he’d put it down to the fact that he was playing in the NHL.

Every single rookie had a learning curve to climb.

It was normal that he hadn’t gotten a goal yet.

That his assists were less than a handful.

He was getting used to the pace, to the pressure, to being surrounded by players who had been in the game so much longer than him.

But…that wasn’t the problem. Or not the entirety of it.

He was hesitating . Hockey was a fast game—you had a single instant to make a play—and that was the thing he’d always been best at. Finding the hole in the opposition. Being one step ahead of others.

Now, it wasn’t just that other players were better than him…he was worse.

There was a difference.

Every game, he was more desperate to score, and it was disintegrating his play.

He sat on the bench, staring out over the ice. The whistle had just sounded—hand pass—and his teammates were setting up for a faceoff. Auston was taking it, bending at the waist, feet far apart. They were home, so he could rest his stick down first.

The official dropped the puck. There was a little fumbling, the opposing player trying to stick his leg in, but Auston was too quick, swiping it back, Noah going after it easily.

They made it into the defensive zone without having to dump the puck in and chase after it—Auston was good enough to stickhandle past the defensemen, even if they converged on him before he could make it in too deep.

He dropped the puck to Sammy, who was already being tagged by one of the DC Eagles, so he rimmed it across the boards to Noah, who loved battling close to the boards, big body more than able to fight for it.

They kept the pressure on for a good while, getting a few shots in, but the Eagles got it out eventually.

The coach tapped Chase on the shoulder. The first line was returning, and Chase hopped the boards with his.

The Eagles had also changed lines, so they were hanging back in their zone with the puck, regrouping.

Chase’s fellow forwards hovered over the Eagles blue line, trying to cut the passing lanes and stifle the neutral zone.

The Eagles got through them anyway, corralling them in the defensive zone. Chase went after the guy with the puck, making him throw it behind the net for his teammate, but Jimmy was there, scrambling for it.

Chase hovered close, just to the right, waiting for Jimmy to get it. He did, and Chase was there, swooping in. An Eagle almost got in his way, but Chase managed to avoid him, sending the puck across the zone to Grigory—

An Eagle appeared from nowhere. Or he’d been there all along, and Chase had just been too blind to see it. He scooped the puck up right in front of the goalie.

The Eagle barely had to do anything, shooting the puck into the net.

Chase’s stomach shrunk as the Eagles cheered, coalescing into a celly.

Fuck .

That was the dumbest turnover Chase had ever caused.

His heart was pounding as he made it to the bench. Noah tapped him on the helmet as he sat down, but Chase didn’t react. He didn’t dare look at the coach.

Look at Auston.

His minutes were cut to almost nothing for the rest of the game.

The goal Chase had caused turned out to be the game-winning goal for the Eagles.

Game- losing goal for the Spirits.

No one said anything to him in the room about the turnover. No one was cold to him or told him off. Auston didn’t even glance at him—which was better than the alternative.

Probably.

It just made the guilt worse.

He showered and changed quickly, thanking his lucky stars he hadn’t be chosen for media, Sammy jumping in instead.

Chase would have to thank him later.

He was just finishing up when his phone started ringing.