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LIAM

I gun it all the way to the Ice Palace, the Nebraska Knights practice facility and arena across town as if I’m trying to outrun my new normal—sleeping on the floor, waking up with a kid staring at me, and doing the chicken dance at the break of dawn.

Being a father.

The thought squeezes my brain and my chest.

Having blazed through every scenario in my mind about how this happened, and why Pam, who hardly qualifies as my ex, thought it was a good idea not to tell me that we had a kid, I repeatedly find myself at a dead end. She’s taken herself out of the picture, so it’s not like I can give him back.

I’ve considered detouring and finding someone else to take care of him. His nose is constantly running—he refuses to learn how to blow it. There’s the sleeping issue. Plus, he refuses to talk.

I’m not totally stone-hearted and imagine he’s had a tough time. But what am I going to do? I can’t turn my back on him. However, I can’t square the circle that is my hockey career and this new responsibility that I didn’t know existed.

To say I’m in a belabored state of shock is an understatement.

I’ve already broken a sweat by the time I reach the locker room, drop my gear, and get to the gym. I find my name on the roster posted on the wall. Today I’m in Group C, highlighting my recent demotion.

“Hey, look who is back,” crows Grimaldi, third-string wing.

Great, I’m with the benders and bench warmers.

Grady claps me on the back as he exits the weight room with Group B.

I’ve played for two other teams in my career and every coach, assistant coach, trainer, and everyone in between has a different way of doing things. Coach Tom Badaszek is the most hardcore of them all, which is why it shouldn’t surprise me to find him in the gym.

But it does.

I’d expect him to be in the rink with Group A right now.

Grimaldi says, “So how was the time-out chair?”

I grunt.

“Was the naughty step really that bad?”

I tighten the laces on my trainers and get in line for the equipment rotation.

Crouched, I sense a figure looming over me. If Grimaldi is trying to assert himself in the pecking order—seriously, what is it with the chicken stuff today?—he has another thing coming.

When I glance up, Badaszek gives me a nod. Rising to my feet, I stand several solid inches taller than him and am not easily intimidated, except by arguably one of the greatest coaches that has ever lived—and fatherhood. That has me running like a chicken with its head cut off.

Giving my head a little shake, I dismiss those foolish thoughts and lengthen my spine. “Morning, sir.”

He nods mildly. “During your hiatus, did you get everything sorted out?”

“Everything?” I ask dumbly.

His tone is firm when he replies, “Yes. Everything.”

I blink a few times, much like the kid looking at me wide-eyed this morning. I got nothing sorted out.

The recent stress, impairing my judgment, may have been what got me temporarily put in a time-out.

Wait. Badaszek can’t know about the kid, can he?

“Sir, nothing like what happened during the game against the Titans will happen again.”

His gaze penetrates me for one long moment as if he’s measuring the truth in my words.

I can assure him that my laughter was a one-time-only event. Nothing in my life is remotely funny right now—wasn’t then either, but I may have had a hysterical break from reality for thirty seconds that resulted in me laughing at the coach in front of the entire team.

Not my finest hour, never mind the fact that I never laugh at anything. Ever.

Badaszek says, “You signed up for this knowing full well how things work.”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

Unlike some teams, the Nebraska Knights are not party boys. We’re men built for a gladiator sport and are expected to show up for practice and games prepared not just to give one hundred percent. No, Badaszek requires two hundred percent. I bring three hundred.

That’s not to say we don’t have fun, but you won’t find any of our guys “playing the field.” Puck bunnies aren’t welcome. The general debauchery sometimes found among high-paid athletes is not tolerated.

Or else.

I won’t lie and say I haven’t had a few flirtations in the past—the kid being a prime example of that. However, I can promise I won’t be having that kind of fun in the future. The results of Pam’s burning me, means I don’t want or plan on having so much as a fling or a relationship. The end.

“Glad that we’re on the same page,” Badaszek says and walks to the front of the room, where he addresses the team in an uncharacteristically cheerful voice.

As he scans Group C, he pauses on me, making me feel jumpy inside—a rarity. If I were to describe myself in a few words, it would be “Rock Solid.” If someone asked my brother Hendrix, he’d call me the golden boy. Ingrid, our sister, would say I’m Mr. Muddy Boots and to skate faster. As if.

Usually, nothing rattles me.

But I’ve been shaken—like a snow globe—on this chilly winter day and I can’t figure out which way is up. Right now, I feel like I’m sliding down a slippery chute like in the popular board game. Would the kid like that? Is he old enough to play or would he chew on the pieces?

Too bad he didn’t come with a manual. My mother would know these things, but then she’d also have to know she’s a grandmother and that makes me feel like the ice is cracking beneath my feet.

Badaszek demands my attention when he continues, “Glad you all joined us today. As you know, I’m in the business of making not just a good team, but a great one. Exceptional. Stanley Cup winners.”

The guys cheer.

“Someone in your life gave you the, ‘You’ll never make it to the NHL’ talk, or maybe it was a voice in your head casting doubt. Yet here you are. In five, ten, fifteen years, when you’re retired, don’t be stuck with coulda, shoulda, woulda’s. Be like a hockey puck. Hard, fast, and dangerous if you hit someone in the face.”

His gaze flits toward me again, the enforcer, my brute strength unleashed during extenuating circumstances like a game against the Storm, who’re known for unnecessary roughness.

“Whether pressure is coming from people in your life or you’re putting it on yourself, remember you have nothing to lose, except for a few teeth … and everything to gain if you give your all.”

Grimaldi elbows me. “And a time out.”

Badaszek’s eyes narrow. “After a brief leave of absence, that I trust gave Ellis some time to reset and realign his priorities, I’m pleased to announce that he’s our new captain.”

I don’t know the technicalities of how sound travels or how the ear works, for that matter, but like when in the shower this morning, I must be hearing things.

Grimaldi grumbles, “If that’s the case, I’m going to get the whistle more often and start wearing my time in the penalty box with a badge of honor.”

Assistant Coach Vohn Brandt all but growls at him in warning.

“Congratulations, Ellis,” Coach says, confirming what I heard.

All eyes are on me, some approving, others filled with the same question I have.

Why?

I fight the urge to sit on the floor and put my head between my legs and breathe into a paper bag. Instead, I tell them to do their job and walk to the front of the room. Maybe I strut. I can’t be sure. Never mind my arm, my entire body feels numb.

Coach extends his hand for me to shake. His grip is firm. Mine is too. But my grasp on reality feels slippery.

“Sir, this means a lot, but I couldn’t possibly be team captain.” I try not to glance around the room at the third-string players. Wouldn’t he announce this to the whole team, or at the very least, have me practice with the A-list? Or pick someone from that group?

Then I realize. This is a joke. On me.

Appointing me team captain after I laughed in Coach Badaszek’s face during the Titans game is ludicrous.

He’s using me as an example, showing the players whose egos might be bloated enough to think they can get away with mischief that they will be remanded to hockey joke jail.

I can’t see my expression, but I’m not the slightest bit amused. Except for that one lapse in judgment, I’ve been nothing but an asset to this organization. I work hard and show up early—until recently.

Meanwhile, my phone has been vibrating in my pocket. I worry that it’s Mrs. Kirby, meaning I probably won’t get away with staying late. She told me to be back at four and not a second later.

Vohn, who rivals me in surliness—at least that’s what I’ve been told—asks, “Done?”

Badaszek rubs his hands together. “No, we’re just getting started.”

“I mean with Ellis. I need to go over the code of conduct and expectations with our new captain. Cara has some papers for him to sign, too.” Vohn barely disguises the roll of his eyes.

I never knew being captain was so formal, but this can’t be real.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Sir, with all due respect, I sincerely apologize for what happened during the game, but I cannot?—”

Badaszek gives a short nod. “Yes, I read your letter.”

A few of the guys snicker.

Yeah, I wrote the coach a letter of apology. When the incident happened, I was running on less than two hours of sleep and handfuls of Goldfish Crackers and Gummy Bears—I’m convinced they’re both kid-crack. Not that I admitted any of that to him. More like I took responsibility for being a disrespectful idiot.

“I cannot accept this position.”

He claps me on the back, hard. Either that or an earthquake struck Nebraska and jostled me. “Time to man up. Step into a leadership role.”

My mouth opens and closes as my coach scrutinizes me, practically dares me with his eyes.

He leans in and says, “We’re a team. No one wins alone. Focus, prepare, and expect the best from yourself and the guys.” He pauses before adding, “The key is knowing when to press and when to ask for help .”

In my dictionary, help is a dirty word.

Then again, I’m not sure I’ve heard right because the guys are clapping, realizing now that this isn’t a joke. They congratulate me as I make my way to the door to join Vohn.

Yesterday, I was an underdog. Now I’m the top dog.

It hardly seems fair.

This also means that Redd must’ve turned in the “C.” He has a few rugrats and I think his wife is pregnant again, so being captain was probably too much with his schedule.

The reality that it’s going to be impossible for me stops me in my tracks. Vohn notices I’m not beside him and stops. “Is there a problem?”

Yes. No. Both.

I grunt, which is admittedly, my response to most things.

Keeping pace with Brandt through the hall, he’s quiet, but that’s no surprise.

Outside Coach Badaszek’s office door, he says, “If you’re wondering whether you deserve this, you don’t.”

“I’m well aware.”

So why did Coach give me this honor and responsibility?

For the second time in about three weeks, I’ve been blindsided. First, when a toddler that I didn’t know existed appeared in the lobby of the Old Mill building with a note taped to his shirt from his mother—my ancient history ex.

Now this.

Vohn tips his head, indicating I enter the office where Cara Arsenault, one of Badaszek’s triplet daughters and his assistant, will get my paperwork squared away.

“I’m missing training,” I say, trying to delay this.

“You missed two weeks of training.”

“I hit the gym.” Sort of. I mostly had the kid sit on my back while I did push-ups. Bringing him to the building’s new workout room was too risky.

“Why did you walk me to the office like a child?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He snorts. “Because I refused to believe Badaszek named you captain until I saw it with my own eyes.”

Ignoring what sounds like a rude comment, I nod in agreement. Vohn and I are more alike than not, shooting from the hip.

“If you think someone else would do a better job …”

“Still so cocky even after getting benched.” He shakes his head and starts to walk away.

But that’s not how I meant it. More like he should nominate someone else. Anyone but me. I can’t handle this right now. Not that I’d ever admit it.

Entering Cara’s office, I expect to catch a whiff of failure, because that’s what this feels like, or more accurately, failing upward. Instead, a candle burns with a label that reads Egg Nog on Ice by Candlegram . Must’ve been a holdover from Christmas.

I practically stumble. It’s eleven months away, but does Santa visit the kid? Do I have to wrap gifts? Put up a tree? I brush my hand across my forehead.

“Good morning, Captain,” Cara says, saluting me with a cheerful smile.

I grunt.

“That kind of day, huh?” she says, reading me.

More like that kind of month.

She types on the computer and then passes me a digital tablet with the Knights logo on top. “A few quick forms for you to sign, confirming your commitment as team captain.”

My phone beeps in my pocket again. I skim the first form and add my signature with the stylus. The screen freezes on the next one and while Cara wrestles with technology, my phone continues to beep.

Even though this is a more formal process than I thought, I take a peek at my device, praying the kid didn’t set the building on fire or shave Elizabeth—the Maltese. Who names their dog that? Then again, the kid’s birth certificate was a surprise.

The messages are a bunch of Monday morning meme nonsense from my sibling group chat, a reminder for my haircut appointment, and nine missed calls from Mrs. Kirby. I tell myself that she’s just reminding me to be on time. But sweat beads on my upper lip.

“Are you okay?” Cara asks.

I nod longer than is customary as if trying to convince myself that I’m all right. My phone, still in my hand, vibrates.

“Do you need to get that?” she asks.

I shake my head, also longer than necessary as if trying to convince myself that my reply to Cara’s question is true. Yes, I’m okay . Debatable.

“Being the Knights team captain comes with a lot of extra responsibilities. Dadaszek must really respect and admire your leadership skills,” she says offhandedly all the while presenting me with the last digital form to sign.

Meanwhile, my phone buzzes like an alarm clock. Maybe I need to wake up from a bad dream. But it’s just Mrs. Kirby, reminding me not to be late.