Page 34

Alex

“O ’Conner!” Coach Pelfrey yells, blowing his whistle as I push off the boards that I was slammed into during a basic drill. “What the hell was that? You were five seconds behind that play. You should have been able to pass that easily to Clarkson before Nelson and Moskins got to you.”

I clench my eyes closed and nod once gingerly. He’s right. I’ve executed that play plenty of times before, but I was too slow passing the puck to our captain.

One of the guys pushes me back into the boards with a laugh and skates off, making me grind my teeth down. When I see my reflection in the glass, I can’t help but remember a time not so long ago when Sebastian Henderson was the one pinning me there.

“What the fuck did I say?” Henderson growls from behind me, his arm pressing me against the boards.

Coach blows his whistle. “Henderson! Get off O’Conner before I bench your ass for the game. You can’t afford that right now.”

Henderson slams into me again before backing off. “Stay the fuck away from my sister, dickhead. I saw you talking to her earlier.”

I flash him a grin from over my shoulder. “Since when is talking illegal? I said hi in passing to be a gentleman. Is that so wrong?”

Just as he rushes for me again, someone grabs his arm. “He’s not worth it,” Able tells him.

Chuckling at our teammate, I taunt the overprotective big brother. “Yeah, Henderson. I’m not worth it. Don’t worry about me or your sister. You’ve got people to impress.”

Able sighs, shaking his head. “You’re really going to instigate when I’m trying to help you?”

When Sebastian shows his emotions so clearly, it’s impossible not to do. “He’s acting like I whipped my dick out in front of his sister.”

Henderson all but growls at me as someone else comes and pulls him away.

Able takes Sebastian’s spot in front of me. “I don’t know what is going on with you but leave his sister out of it.”

I roll my eyes. “I said hi to her. That was it!”

As he skates away, I shake my head.

Now that they’re both telling me not to, I’m even more tempted to cross the line he drew.

Because fuck Sebastian and everybody else who tells me I can’t do something.

“Henderson,” Pelfrey calls out again, snapping me back to reality. “Head in the game.”

“Sorry, Coach,” I call out, blowing out a frustrated breath.

I’ve been on edge since I woke up to a call from Logan’s Hospital.

The message didn’t seem urgent, but I could tell it was something I needed to deal with before I came to practice.

By the time I finally got ahold of my mother’s nurse to hear about her latest outburst that nearly hurt one of the aides, I was already running late.

Coach chewed me out, which only intensified my foul mood when I was told Mom’s visitation privileges would be delayed by another two weeks.

Paul Berkley, one of the team’s defense, silently pats my back and skates over to the others.

He’s one of the few players who doesn’t seem to find me completely unimpressive.

Maybe because he’s not that much older than me—barely two years.

The age gaps and experience differences between me and the rest of the players seem to make it harder to connect with them.

I know I can be an evasive asshole sometimes, but I usually find some common ground with the people I play with after this long.

It was never difficult in Lindon, but it’s damn near impossible to get more than a few bleak stares or raised eyebrows from a majority of the guys.

Even after helping Moskins get his shit together after Clarkson’s party, he’s siding with the others who’ve decided to ice me out again this preseason. Do I suck that goddamn badly?

Rolling my tight shoulders, I skate over to where the others are.

When Coach Pelfrey comes over, his eyes are hard as they meet mine.

“I need all my guys to be on top of their game whether they’re new or not.

O’Conner, you’re going to work drills with Clarkson for two hours after we’re done here until you can catch up.

You clearly need the extra help if you can’t execute a simple play like that.

We don’t need a repeat of the last game if we’re going to make it to championships. ”

A few of the guys whistle under their breaths at the coach’s sharp tone. He’s right, though. I suck today. I’m tired as hell. Stressed. It’s clearly distracting me.

I know without looking at our captain that Clarkson isn’t keen on staying behind later than he needs to. I’m sure he’s got better places to be than here with me. He’s been kicking ass all day without even trying and could probably do each play Coach calls out in his sleep.

Clarkson hefts a sigh. “Got it, Coach.”

“Got it,” I murmur.

We do one more play, this time without me fucking it all up, before Coach dismisses the rest of the team to go about the rest of their days. Ice baths. Hot showers. Rest.

Berkley nudges me once in passing, and a few others—Smith Miller, and our other defensemen, Isaac Nelson—give terse nods as they disappear from the rink.

When it’s just me and the captain, I tug off my helmet and slick back my sweaty hair. I’m due for a cut but I’ve been too busy to schedule it in. “Sorry you’re stuck with me.”

Clarkson hasn’t been a very talkative guy lately, which means something must have gone down with Belle. I’ve learned by now that he clams up when they get into fights. Even the guys have commented on his bitchy mood whenever they get into it about something stupid.

He hasn’t bad mouthed me or praised me today, so it’s hard to read him.

Usually, I can get him to grunt in acknowledgement or dip his head in greeting, but his facial expression has been stoic at best since he arrived at the arena.

The most he’s done is stifle a smile on the rare occasion one of us cracks a joke, and it’s obvious he’s not fully paying attention when he does react.

“It isn’t a big deal. Working on a few of your weaker plays will help us in the long run,” he finally says.

“You need to build up your speed a little more. I can give you a cardio training routine that seems to work for some of the other guys. My trainer put it together for us for the off season to keep us in shape.”

I go for a run almost every morning so long as the weather cooperates and spend a lot of time in the weight room at the gym located in the basement of my apartment complex.

They have a nice private facility that’s usually not too crowded and only available for residents’ use.

I’d be lying if I said I’ve cemented a routine.

Lately, my mind has been elsewhere. Mom.

Olive. It’s making it harder to focus on what’s in front of me.

“I never used to suck this bad,” I feel the need to tell him.

He saw me last season. I was decent. Definitely no expert on the ice, but better than this.

God only knows what he thinks of my performance.

During game days I’m usually hyper focused on one thing only.

Winning. I know where to look, where not to, and how to drown out the noise and taunts from the opposing team and the fans that come to see us.

Practice prepping for the preseason games has been different. I’ve been slower than everybody else, messing up simple maneuvers, and I have nobody to blame but myself.

He lifts a shoulder. “None of us were necessarily top of our game when we were new.” He must see the dejected look on my face when he adds, “For what it’s worth, you’re a good player. And I’m not the only one who thinks that. The guys may not act like it, but they don’t mind you.”

Them liking me seems a bit like a stretch, so I murmur, “I appreciate the lie.”

A smile threatens to lift his lips. “Look, I’ll let you in on a secret.

When you’ve got shit on your mind, no matter how small, it’s going to mess up your game.

You can’t go out on the ice with any type of stress on your shoulders.

It’s going to distract you and slow you down.

I’ve seen your tapes with Coach before. I’ve seen it firsthand on the ice.

You’re good. You know it. I know it. Coach knows it.

You’re better than you’re showing out here. ”

The truth grates on me. “I don’t know how not to be stressed.

This opportunity is huge.” He has no idea what’s riding on this, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him.

But what will that do? Pity gets me nowhere.

Practice will. And the harder he pushes me out here on the ice, the better I’ll get. “We get one shot to make it.”

Clarkson shakes his head. “That’s not true.

We have as many shots as we need to make it work.

Look at me. I didn’t start on the Penguins.

I definitely never thought I’d come here to play when I got drafted.

But just because it didn’t work out in Chicago doesn’t mean I haven’t built something good here.

Our standings are a hell of a lot better than my old teams are right now, and I probably never would have made captain if I hadn’t left.

Sometimes shit happens and we have to make the best of it. ”

I nod absentmindedly, knowing there’s a lot of truth in that.

Any team could have asked me to be part of the minor league and work my way up when they thought I was ready.

But I’d had big offers from the national teams instantly.

They wanted me for a reason—knew I was ready for everything that would come.

“Coach is a hard ass but a good man. He’s going to beat you up a little verbally, but it’s for good reasons. He wouldn’t have fought for you to be on this team otherwise.”

I meet his eyes and see the genuine nature of the words spoken between us. “I needed that,” I tell him quietly, shaking my head and glancing around the empty rink. “I don’t want to mess up, Clarkson. I can’t.”