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Chapter one

Holt

“Dinner tonight?” Wes, one of my best friends, asks as he pulls off his practice jersey.

“Can’t.” I shake my head as I plop down onto the bench next to him.

“Kat?”

He leans down and pulls off first one skate and then the other.

I grunt, leaning down to untie my own skates.

Wes blows out a breath. “Yeah. No problem, man.”

I look up just in time to see the hurt flicker in his eyes. I’m such a fucking liar. A terrible friend. I should come clean. Tell him Kat broke up with me months ago. I know I should. I just can’t make myself admit to my friends that I failed that relationship.

Add being a shitty friend to the long list of things I’m excelling at right now, like being a useless goalie. Might as well.

Hunter, one of our alternate captains and another of my best friends, walks over, his half brother, Elias, trailing behind him.

“Everything okay?” Hunter asks, glancing between Wes and me as he tugs his jersey off and sits next to me.

What a loaded question.

In more ways than one.

No, everything is not okay.

Not with me.

Not with the team .

It’s a few weeks into the season, and we’ve lost more games than we’ve won.

Thanks to my lackluster performance in the net.

I know it. Coach knows it. The guys know it.

My mind isn’t in the game. And that’s a big problem for the guy who is the starting goalie for the Orlando Storm.

It shocks the shit out of me every game that Coach puts me back in.

I keep waiting for the day he tells me they’re shipping me to Upstate New York to our AHL team, the Mustangs.

Before either of us can answer, the door to our locker room opens, and Dr. Walt, our team physician, sticks his head in. “Are you boys decent? I want to introduce you to our new team physical therapist. She’s excited to meet you.”

The guys nod and call out that they’re dressed.

He pushes the door open and ushers a woman in ahead of him.

She’s at least a head shorter than me, dressed in navy scrubs, her dark hair piled on the top of her head.

She glances around the locker room. Taking it all in, I guess, or she’s trying to figure out who needs PT.

Dr. Montgomery, our previous physical therapist, could always tell who was in pain and needed PT just by looking at us.

I wonder what this new doctor thinks of us. If she’s worked for another professional team before or if this is her first time working with athletes.

I run a hand through my hair.

Why do I care?

“Gentleman,” Dr. Walt says, and everyone walks over to where they’re standing. “Meet Dr. Rebecca Jansen. Dr. Jansen, the floor is yours.”

She tucks a strand of hair that’s fallen out of her bun behind her ear, a flash of something—nerves maybe—crossing her face before she schools her features, stands up straighter, and says, “Hello Team.”

She waves awkwardly. The old Holt would have been amused by her greeting, but the current me stays silent, crossing my arms over my chest. Some guys mutter a greeting in response, so at least it isn’t too uncomfortable.

“Nice to meet you all. I’m sure we’ll get along swimmingly.

I’m excited to be here and help you all stay in shape this season.

” She pauses, shifting on her feet, her gaze dancing around the room before she meets my eyes, and I’m lost in a sea of chocolate brown.

Something akin to electricity crackles between us.

Nope.

None of that.

I’m broken.

Even the good doctor can’t fix what’s wrong with me.

I force myself to break eye contact with her.

“Well, go Storm. I’ll let you get back to your after-practice routines.” She chuckles before spinning on her heel and heading toward the door.

“Be nice to her,” Dr. Walt says, giving us all a pointed look before turning and following her out of the room.

“She’s pretty,” Sebastian, one of the defenders we acquired over the summer, says, leaning closer to us. “Don’t you think, Abbott?” he asks in his thick British accent.

I grunt and turn back to my locker to finish undressing.

I take an extra-long shower, mostly so I can avoid the chit chat and so my friends don’t try to guilt-trip me into agreeing to hang out or do something with them.

When I finally get out of the shower, the only one left in the locker room is our backup goalie, and he’s as talkative as I am.

I wish the other guys understood what he does—I don’t want to talk.

Twenty minutes later, I’m letting myself into my apartment, tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter, and heading over to the fridge to grab something to drink.

I take my glass of water into the living room and sink down onto my worn dark-brown leather couch, the one Kat hated and tried to get rid of countless times.

The one piece of furniture I fought her on changing.

A fight I luckily won. Propping my feet up on the coffee table in front of me, I survey the room.

I really need to get rid of the boxes stacked in the corner filled with all the shit Kat bought for my apartment because she said it was “boring” and needed some character.

I make a mental note to put them in my truck and take them somewhere to donate so I don’t have to see them anymore.

“Character my ass,” I mutter as I turn the television on and resume the James Bond movie I was watching last night.

The locker room is silent. Frustration radiates off everyone, myself included, at how badly we played tonight against the Ravens.

No one is talking and joking the way they normally do.

A few grumbles and sighs are all that’s audible.

I’m sitting on the bench, pulling off my gear, when Coach Weaver walks in.

“What the fuck happened out there tonight?” he barks, looking around the room. “You weren’t playing like a fucking team. You were playing like a bunch of guys who’d never spent a day on the ice together.”

I heave out a breath and stare at the ground.

He’s right. Last season was rough after Brody, our top scoring forward, and Aleksi, our starting goalie, retired, but we did alright.

We picked up Elias from the Nashville Fury to fill Brody’s spot, and I stepped up as the starting goalie.

We didn’t make it to the finals, but we at least made it to the second round of the playoffs.

This past off-season, Caleb, our captain and another star forward, retired, and our team just isn’t the same.

Last week our other alternate captain got injured and is out for the season.

Shots that would normally be easy for me to block, aren’t. I’ve let in so many stupid goals, like the two in the last five minutes of the second period of the game we just played. It’s as if my brain and body aren’t in sync anymore.

Things are falling to shit.

We’re on a five-game losing streak, and we’re sitting dead last in our division. We’ve got plenty of time to turn the sinking ship around since it’s only October, but still. If we can’t figure things out soon, we’ll keep falling further and further behind .

No one speaks, and Coach says, “get some rest tonight. I’ll see you at morning skate.” He turns and stalks out of the locker room to do press.

The room is even more silent after he leaves, if that’s even possible. Guys quickly undress.

“What are we going to do?” Hunter finally asks.

I lift a shoulder in a half shrug. How the hell should I know what to do? I’ve got my own problems to contend with. It’s not like I’m much help right now.

“Having no captain isn’t helping,” Elias says from the other side of Hunter.

“Yeah,” Hunter agrees, pulling off his jersey and pads. “I don’t understand why they haven’t named one. It would definitely help at least with team morale.”

“We may not have anyone wearing the C on their sweater, but we need someone to step up and lead.” Elias stares pointedly at his brother.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Hunter asks, turning to Elias. “It was your idea. You were an alternate captain for the Fury. All you, E.” He tips his chin at him.

Elias shakes his head. “It’s your team, Hunt. The guys know and respect you more than me. Right, Wes? Right, Holt?”

Hunter focuses his attention on Wes for a second before turning to me.

I study my friend, noting the fear in his eyes, but I know that deep down he wants this.

He might never say it out loud, but I know Hunter.

I know it would mean the world to him to be the next captain of the Storm.

He doesn’t think they’ll ever give it to him—he still sees himself as the rookie who isn’t sure if he belongs in the NHL.

Even with a Stanley Cup under his belt. But I see it.

I peek over at Elias, and based on the face he’s making, I think he sees it too.

Before I can answer the question, Wes pipes up. “I agree with E. We need a leader. Caleb was the glue of this team, and without him, we’re falling apart. ”

Hunter huffs out a breath. “Don’t you think it’ll seem like favoritism if they give it to me?”

“So what if you’re married to Coach’s daughter? Everyone here knows you. If anyone deserves the captain’s C, it’s you. They made you an alternate captain for a reason,” Wes says.

I nod my agreement.

“Hey, listen up.” Elias gets to his feet. The locker room goes silent as everyone turns toward us. “All yours,” he whispers to Hunter.

“Fucker,” Hunter mutters before clearing his throat and addressing the room.

“Listen, I know we’re off to a rocky start, and we’ve had a lot of, err .

. . changes this season, including our captain retiring.

And we’re not doing so hot. Actually, we’re playing like shit.

” He pauses, and laughter breaks out. “But we’re the Storm.

We can do anything. There’s still a lot of the season left, and we’re not giving up until the last game.

Let’s get some rest tonight and turn this around.

Let’s break this losing streak.” Hunter surveys the room.

Guys mutter their agreement.

“Great speech, Cap,” Wes says, smacking him on the back when he sits down.

Elias was right. Hunter’s our next captain. And if Coach and the rest of the front office don’t see it, then there’s something wrong with them.

“Not the captain,” Hunter mutters with a shake of his head.

“Yet,” Wes says with a smug grin.

I simply give him a tight-lipped smile. Maybe not yet, but I agree with Wes and Elias.

Soon.

Silence descends on the locker room as we all finish getting dressed.