Page 19
LIAM
A week later
What was going on?
Liam stood on the edge of the bench, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared out onto the ice, trying to piece together what he was seeing.
The roar of the crowd faded into the background as his focus narrowed on the scene unfolding in front of him.
His team—the one he had just given the most fired-up, impassioned locker room speech of his life—looked anything but focused.
His eyes darted from one player to the next.
Acton was grinning like an idiot, bent over with laughter, nearly dropping his stick as he guffawed like he’d just heard the best joke of his life.
Coeur looked like he’d wandered into the wrong rink, his brow furrowed in deep confusion.
Boucher’s face was drawn tight in a frown, lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line.
And Salas—oh, Salas—he was staring at Acton like he’d officially lost his last functioning brain cell, which, frankly, wasn’t out of the question.
But what made Liam’s stomach knot was the re action from the opposing team. They weren’t focused either—not on the puck, not on the game—but doubled over in laughter, gripping each other’s shoulders like they were trying to stay upright. One even fell to his knees, howling with glee.
“… Spain.”
That word drifted across the ice, completely unrelated to anything game-worthy.
Liam’s brow furrowed. He leaned closer, trying to catch more of what was being said. “Are they talking about vacations?” he asked, voice cracking with disbelief as he whipped his head toward Coach Starnes.
Horror tightened in his chest, because this—whatever this was—was happening on his watch. He was the captain. His team was the one unraveling like a bunch of clowns.
Coach Starnes didn’t answer with words. He just glared at Liam, mouth flattened, the kind of frown that carried the weight of disappointment only a seasoned coach could wield.
“It’s your team, rein them in.”
Liam didn’t hesitate.
“FOCUS!” he bellowed, his voice echoing across the rink like a crack of thunder.
His hands clenched into fists, his heart pounding with frustration.
The players scrambled into their positions, but the undercurrent of chaos hadn’t left.
They were still whispering. Still snickering.
Still glancing at each other like mischievous kids in homeroom.
And then it happened.
A voice rang out—too loud, too proud.
“We’re focused and got this, Captain Pimples !”
Liam blinked. His head jerked to the side, scanning the players. “Is he talking about me?” he asked, appalled, stunned into immobility for a split second. His hand lifted to his chin. “Do I have a pimple? ”
Coach Starnes didn’t answer—just dragged his palm down his face in despair. His thick fingers spread wide like a sci-fi monster from Alien , covering his features as if that might shield him from the catastrophe unspooling in front of him.
“Oh my gosh, this is gonna be so bad…” the coach muttered under his breath, the defeated words punching through the awkward silence. He threw his clipboard to the ground with a sharp clatter. “Heaven help me – that man might not be worth the money after all.”
The puck dropped.
And so did half the opposing team, literally—tripping, collapsing, laughing until tears rolled down their cheeks.
From somewhere near the net, Liam heard Larsson, his goalie, cackling uncontrollably. Coeur, Boucher, and Salas weren’t far behind, practically doubled over, sticks slipping from their gloves as they gasped for air between fits of laughter.
Fragments of their conversation floated across the ice like leaves in the wind—nonsense and madness—and Liam stood frozen on the bench, the sinking feeling in his chest growing deeper with every second.
“What’d he say?”
“No, he didn’t…”
“He called his captain… Captain Pimples?”
“Why is he calling me Captain Pimples?” Liam blurted out, his voice sharp with confusion, his mind spinning wildly as the words rang in his ears.
And then—just like that—it clicked.
“It’s Pamplona , you idiot – not pimples…” Salas grunted from somewhere behind him, the words muttered low but loud enough to slice through the din of the rink. Liam could almost hear the eye roll in his teammate’s tone .
Pamplona.
Not pimples.
Of course…
The Barcalona crack in the locker room when he’d been giving his speech. Acton stood up and decided to add his two-cents worth, and it was backfiring in Liam’s face. He felt his stomach drop as the realization hit like a slap of cold wind through his gear.
It wasn’t just a random nickname or a careless jab. No, it was intentional. Strategic . A psychological dig wrapped in juvenile mockery. The kind that got under your skin and stayed there festering.
He’d been played - publicly – and for good reason.
Jett Acton’s arrogant smirks and casual trash talk weren’t the product of some boneheaded jock with a big mouth.
They were the weapons of a man who knew exactly how to needle people—how to manipulate a situation to his favor.
How to twist a moment, a word, a weakness, and flip it into control.
Liam had mistaken arrogance for idiocy, swagger for recklessness – and it was far from any of that.
This wasn’t just a game anymore.
It was a disaster.
His disaster.
And he was the captain of it—Captain Pimples ?
His cheeks flamed with shame. He could feel the heat pulsing under his helmet, his pride unraveling with every heartbeat. What kind of leader let himself get toyed with like that?
“Craaap, Acton! We’ve barely started the game, you crazy nitwit!
” Liam shouted, his voice breaking as fury bubbled up from somewhere deep and betrayed inside of him.
He couldn’t hold it back anymore—the surge of anger, disbelief, and hurt colliding in one sharp burst. His rage wasn ’t just for the man across the ice—it was for himself, too, for not seeing through it.
For thinking that moment at practice had meant something.
He thought they'd connected somehow. Maybe not bonded exactly, but there was camaraderie in their rough edges clashing. A scuffle, a laugh, a shared sense of grit. It felt real at the time. He’d even gone home with that rare glow of something good—picked up roses for Ashley on the way back, feeling like things were shifting.
But now? That entire exchange felt like a setup.
Acton hadn’t been calling him ‘Barcelona’ after all of that pep-talk in the locker room before this game. He hadn’t been joking around in some weird inside-joke way. No, he was winding him up, setting the trap. And Liam had walked right into it, dragging his title and dignity behind him.
It was stupid.
Immature.
And it had worked .
Because the insult wasn’t just about a name—it was a reflection. A twenty-eight-year-old man reduced to playground jabs. The other team was rattled. So was he.
And Jett Acton?
That guy was straight-up unhinged.
He had to be, right? The crazy ones always knew exactly what they were doing – and as Liam watched, he was more convinced that Acton might be the smartest guy on the team or literally insane.
“Puck?” Jett replied simply – one word – just as the referee dropped the black disc, and thank heaven for Boucher. The man shot forward like a missile, slinging the puck with precision into the net, right between the goalie’s legs.
The first score of the game .
“Whoop! Whoop!” Jett crowed, skating past the boards and blowing Liam a kiss. “Captain Pimples for the win; aren’t you glad I’m here? Watch me tear it up, Cap, I got you. Much love, bruh – much love,” the man continued and then made a heart with his hands that set the crowd to laughing once again.
Liam cursed, putting his own hand on his face in disbelief, causing the coach to react. He leaned forward, slapped Liam on the shoulder, and gave him a look. “That’s your boy, your mess. You keep him in line. I don’t care what he calls you so long as we win, got me, Captain Pimple s?”
“Coach… not you too.”
“Seriously, look at them?” Coach Starnes pointed, and Liam’s eyes followed. Sure enough, Jett was skating and weaving between the other players, heckling and chirping with enthusiasm that was causing a boisterous riot on the ice, and Salas scored in the midst of it all.
“Ex-Squeeze me,” Jett was saying loudly, singing it. “Ice it, dice it, splice it, and then slap a Band-Aid on that big blond, overgrown ‘boo-boo’ on your greasy faces… and what do you get? Cap-tain Pimp-les!” he crowed, enunciating the new nickname.
Liam cursed again, wincing, and then saw his face on the big monitor, hearing the announcer’s voice.
#50 – Captain Pimples, Liam Savage - Wolverines
‘Perhaps there is something there, Dave? Maybe Savage is smarter than the rest of us and going for endorsements with skincare?
‘Could be. Goodness knows the ladies like him…’
‘They sure do, Dave. They sure do!’
The announcers were having a field day – at his expense.
“Hey! Hey!” Acton skated by with that signature grin plaste red across his face, eyes dancing with mischief and triumph. “You’re famous, Cap…”
Liam exhaled slowly, trying not to let the mortification show too clearly.
His cheeks were hot beneath his helmet, and his ears were definitely burning.
The nickname. The chaos. The sheer absurdity of it.
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” he asked, still trying to find steady footing beneath the wave of disbelief.
Three points in the first five minutes. That was the stuff of legends. Or lunatics. And Jett Acton was somewhere squarely in between.
“Mebbe…?” Acton purred, coming to a smooth stop in front of Liam, grinning like the darn Cheshire cat.
He leaned casually against the boards, elbow propped up, lashes fluttering dramatically like some lovesick cartoon character.
His arrogant charm could've irritated Liam if it weren’t so utterly infectious. “Do you still love me?”
Liam let out a disbelieving laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. How could anyone stay mad at this guy? He was a human hurricane of chaos wrapped in a jersey.
“Oh my gosh,” Liam muttered, shaking his head with a mix of exasperation and camaraderie. “Can you just go score a point?”
“Say, please?” Acton teased, his voice sing-songy.
“PLEASE?” Liam shot back with no hesitation. He was still laughing. At this point, what else could he do?
“Just for you, buddy,” Acton replied. “I gotchu, bruh… watch this.”
And then he was gone, tearing down the ice like a man on a mission.
Liam stood there, caught between awe and complete disbelief.
The guy was chaos on skates—but it worked.
Every move was precise like the ice answered only to him.
He moved with such intensity it was like watching a storm build and break in real-time.
He couldn’t look away. With one fluid motion, Acton sliced his stick between Salas and another defenseman mid-fight over the puck, snatched it like it had always belonged to him, and launched it down the ice with a clean, brutal slap that sent the puck flying like a comet.
It hit the net with a satisfying snap.
The crowd roared.
Liam didn’t move, just watched—heart thudding—not just because it was a goal, but because it was for the team .
A player who hid brilliance behind showmanship, chaos, and endless jokes.
That wasn’t an easy move, yet Acton looked practically slippery as he squeezed between everyone, darting into places, and it took nerve.
Guts.
Aggression.
And Jett Acton had it all in spades.
I’m so glad he’s on my team because it could be so much worse…
Then, the voice rang out over the noise of the arena.
“I’m in love with my wife,” Acton yelled, unapologetically loud, arms raised like a victorious gladiator, working the crowd once again. The declaration cut through the air like a flare, bold and proud. “And she wants my baby. We’re gonna have the cutest baby with an adorable butt.”
The crowd lost it.
Even Coeur, skating past Liam in the box, was laughing at Acton’s antics. “You’re weird, dude,” he said, his voice warm with amusement.
Liam stood there, watching his team, the scoreboard, the grinning fans, and the man who’d just made a mockery of his ca ptain in the best way possible.
It hit him right then. The nickname didn’t matter.
The banter didn’t matter. What mattered was the bond—this brotherhood, this wild, tangled mess of loyalty and friendship.
The way they made each other better, pulled greatness from chaos and somehow found joy in the insanity of it all.
The coach was right. This was his team.
And just like that, Acton was back for praise from him—again.
“Did you see that?” he asked, practically vibrating with energy, eyes bright with triumph. “You still mad, bruh? It’s all for the team, for the fellas…”
Liam shook his head, feeling something loosen in his chest. The pressure, the weight of leading—it was still there, but lighter. “Nope,” he replied, grinning as he pointed down the rink. “Now, go do that again – and again.”
“On it, Cap,” Acton crowed in sheer excitement. “This game is for my wife – and my boy, Captain Pimples! ”
Liam laughed as he raised both arms in exaggerated surrender, raising the roof while the fans screamed their approval. The arena was electric, their team was on fire, and the nickname— well, maybe it wouldn’t sting so much after a win like this.
This was his family.