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Evan

We need a win tonight.

It doesn’t matter that my head is pounding and my thigh muscles already burn like Mount Vesuvius because the first two periods of the game were brutal. My team is on a four-game skid. We’re in danger of becoming a laughingstock in the league.

We need a fucking win tonight.

My skate blades bite into the fresh ice as I circle center, waiting for the face-off. The familiar scent of the arena fills my lungs, that sharp mix of refrigeration and sweat, with undertones of popcorn and beer wafting down from the stands. Coach called a timeout with two minutes left in the third, and my body is humming with adrenaline. We’re up 3-2 against the Bay City Blazers, and my nemesis on the other team, Davidson, has been out for blood all night.

I glance at the bench where our rookie, Torres, is leaning against the boards, towel pressed to his mouth while the trainer finishes closing a cut. He’s already telling Coach he’s ready to go. Our rookie defenseman took a nasty elbow from Davidson in the second period, a cheap shot that, of course, the refs missed. The kid’s tough though. He hasn’t complained once. That’s the kind of player we need on the Ice Hawks, especially with playoffs on the line.

“Time to earn that C on your chest, Riley.” Davidson skates up to the face-off dot, tapping his stick against my shin guard with a hollow clack that grates on my nerves. “Or are you gonna choke like last season’s playoffs?”

The ref doesn’t say a word about his taunting, he’s heard worse. But the memory of that moment makes my gut clench: game seven, overtime, my shot going wide. We missed the playoffs by a single point. I’ve replayed that moment in my head at least a thousand times since.

Fuck you, Davidson, for reminding me of it.

“You know what I love about you, dude?” I adjust my grip on my stick, feeling the familiar ridges of tape under my gloves. “You’re never petty. Oh, wait. Yeah, you are. You’re the pettiest asshole out here on the ice, Slash.”

His eyes narrow at the nickname. James “Slash” Davidson. A name earned through years of dirty plays and “accidental” high sticks. “I ain’t petty.”

“Bullshit. You gave Torres a fat lip because you were pissed at me for blocking your shot earlier.” Davidson has been in the league three years longer than me, and I’ve never seen him drop his gloves against anyone his own size.

His smirk is clear even through his visor. “That was an accident.”

“Sure it was,” I mutter.

The ref hovers over us, puck in hand. Around us, fifteen thousand fans in Seabrooke Arena hold their breath. The constant hum of the cooling system seems louder than usual in this moment of anticipation. Up in the stands, I catch a glimpse of my older brother Matt in his usual seat behind our bench. He hasn’t missed a home game since I made captain three years ago. But knowing Matt, he’ll take off after the game without saying hi. He’s just like that since his time in the Marines. He drives the hour it takes from his city to mine to watch my games and then high-tails it out of the parking lot without as much as a “Howdy, bro.”

“If you’re so worried about Torres, tell that shrimp to stay out of my way,” Davidson mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. “It would be a terrible shame if his first season ended early because of an injury.”

My blood boils, making me clench my jaw so hard it hurts all the way up to my skull. “Careful, Slash. You go after him again, and it’s me you’ll need to worry about.”

He snorts a laugh, and the puck drops.

Thank God I win the draw clean, one quick snap that sends the puck back to Mills at the blue line. Davidson would’ve gloated all game if he’d won the face-off. Still, it’s not like he’s giving up just because he lost. He tries to clip me as I push past him, but I’m already gone, my skates cutting sharp grooves into the fresh ice as I accelerate toward the offensive zone. The cold air burns my lungs with each breath, but I barely notice it anymore. Sixteen years of hockey will do that to you.

Mills holds the puck just long enough to draw their forward out of position, then feeds me a perfect pass. I can feel the vibration of it hitting my stick blade even through my gloves. Davidson is on my tail, cursing loud enough for the angels to hear. I spot Torres back on the ice, breaking toward the net on my right, and Davidson’s head snaps toward him. I know what’s coming.

“Torres, head up,” I shout, but Davidson’s already changing direction, zeroing in on our rookie like a shark smelling blood.

Asshole.

I cut hard left, throwing my weight into a direction change that sends a spray of ice into the air. The move I’m attempting is risky, if I lose an edge at this speed, I’ll crash hard enough to feel it for a week. But Davidson reads the play wrong, thinking I’m going to pass to Torres. Instead, I pull the puck back, watching his eyes go wide as he realizes his mistake. He’s out of position now, scrambling to recover.

The goalie, Macey, a veteran who’s stonewalled us more times than I can count, drops into his butterfly stance as I approach. Top shelf is open on his glove side and he’s cheating right, expecting me to pass. The sound of my skates digging into ice echoes in my ears as I load up for the shot.

Davidson slashes at my hands, living up to his nickname, but I’m ready for it. I lift my stick at the last second, letting his blade whoosh harmlessly under mine. The crowd’s roar builds as I release the shot, a wrister that flies past Macey’s glove and pings off the crossbar before hitting the back of the net.

The arena explodes.

The goal horn blares as my teammates mob me, their excitement vibrating through my body as we crash together in celebration. Over Mills’s shoulder, I see Davidson smash his stick against the boards, and I can’t help but grin. That’s game over. 4-2 Ice Hawks.

“Fucking golden boy got lucky again,” Davidson growls as he skates past us toward his bench. “Better watch your back, Riley. Season’s not over yet.”

I ignore him, focusing instead on Torres, who’s beaming despite his swollen lip. “Nice decoy route, kid,” I tell him, bumping his helmet with my glove. “You pulled their D-man right where we wanted him.”

“Learned from the best, Cap.” Torres grins, then winces as it pulls at his sore lip.

The final buzzer sounds moments later. As we line up for handshakes, I catch sight of Deck Murphy, our veteran enforcer, having what looks like a very intense conversation with Davidson at center ice. Deck’s been in the league longer than anyone else on our team, and he takes his role as protector seriously. Whatever he’s saying has Davidson looking a shade paler.

Most of the Bay City players are professional about the handshake line, quick clasps and mumbled “good games.” Their captain, Alex Chen, even pulls me aside for a real handshake. “Hell of a game, Riley. That last goal was beautiful.”

“Thanks. You guys didn’t make it easy on us.” I’ve always respected Chen. He’s tried more than once to rein in Davidson’s worse impulses, but there’s only so much a captain can do with a player like that.

When Davidson comes over to “pretend congratulate” me, of course, he can’t just be normal. He grips my hand too tight, yanking me close. “This isn’t over,” he says through gritted teeth. “Tell your rookie I’ll be looking for him next time we play.”

I meet his eyes, not pulling away. “Threaten my team again, and you’ll have bigger problems than a four-game losing streak.”

He curls his lip. “You were in the same boat, Riley. You got lucky this game, that’s all.”

“Bullshit, pussy. Your team is getting dragged down by your crappy play.” I smile, even though it feels like my face is about to crack off.

“Oh, yeah?” Davidson snarls, moving toward me threateningly.

The hovering refs separate us before it can escalate further. I have no desire to get a post-game penalty, so I skate away. I’m not letting Davidson ruin my high. As I skate toward the tunnel, the roar of the crowd washing over me, something makes me glance up at the owner’s box. We haven’t had an owner present at games since Thompson sold the team two months ago. We have no idea who purchased the team. It’s been kept very hush-hush. The empty box has been a constant reminder of our uncertain future.

But tonight, there’s someone up there. A man in a dark suit stands at the glass, his presence commanding attention even from this distance. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. His gaze is almost predatory. He doesn’t wave or attempt any friendly gestures. He just stares.

“Yo, Cap.” Noah’s voice breaks through my thoughts. He’s waiting for me at the tunnel entrance, dark face split in a wide grin. “You coming to celebrate or what? First round’s on Deck.”

I shake off thoughts of the mystery man in the owner’s box. Right now, all I want is a shower and to celebrate this win with my team. We’re only three points out of a playoff spot, and with twenty games left in the season, anything can happen.

The locker room is electric when I walk in. Torres is already recounting the game-winning play to anyone who’ll listen, while Deck gives an extremely colorful play-by-play of whatever he said to Davidson. Noah’s singing a Taylor Swift song off-key as he strips off his gear, and our equipment manager, Jerry, is cursing under his breath as he collects broken sticks. Coach will come in later to give us a pep talk, I’m sure of it.

These guys are like family. We live and breathe hockey, and games like the one we just won are what we live for. These moments, the victory celebrations, the shared pain of losses, the inside jokes that only make sense after countless hours together on buses, planes, and in identical hotel rooms across the country. This is what it’s all about.

Feeling happy, I unlace my skates and go to take a quick shower. As the hot water washes the sweat from the game off of me, I’m already thinking about the film review we’ll do tomorrow. We’ve got the Chicago Wolves coming to town next Thursday, and there are definitely some defensive breakdowns from tonight’s game that we need to clean up before that game.

Once I’m done showering, I return to the buzzing locker room. Sure enough, Coach is there and he sits us down to talk about what we did right and what we can improve on. He’ll be more detailed and more critical during our meetup tomorrow. For now, he wants to keep the good vibes flowing along with the champagne.

I was so distracted celebrating with the guys, I’m only wearing my underwear when our PR manager, Sofia, pokes her head into the locker room. “Captain?” she calls out.

I grab my jeans and quickly tug them on as the guys do their obligatory whooping and hollering at the presence of a woman in the locker room. She rolls her eyes and ignores them, striding toward me.

“The new owner wants to meet with you, Cap,” she says. Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders, and her heels clack on the tile floor.

“He wants to meet with just me?” I wave toward the other guys. “Why not meet the whole team?”

She shrugs. “At the moment, he just wants to meet with you.”

My stomach drops as I remember that intense gaze from the man in the owner’s box. The idea of being alone with that guy is intimidating. I know nothing about him, yet instinctively know I don’t want to be alone with him.

“Aww, come on, man,” I grumble. Why the hell would he want that? That’ll be ten times more awkward than if the whole team were there.

She shrugs. “Not my call.”

“Is Coach or the GM gonna be there?” I ask hopefully.

“Nope. He wanted a one-on-one with you, Cap.” She smirks. “He was very clear about that.”

“Must be that amazing play you made at the end,” Noah heckles. “Who wouldn’t want to talk to the hero of the game?”

I grimace. “Hero? Hardly.” I return my gaze to Sofia. “Can’t I just meet the guy tomorrow? I want to celebrate with the guys.”

“Sorry.” Sofia’s expression is tense. “He was very… insistent that he meet you tonight. He doesn’t strike me as the type who likes to be kept waiting either, so hurry up and get dressed.” Something in her tone makes me take notice. Sofia’s been handling PR for the Ice Hawks for five years. I’ve seen her stare down angry reporters, manage social media disasters, and go toe-to-toe with league officials. I’ve never seen her look so uneasy.

“What do you think of him?” I ask. “The new owner. Is he legitimately into our team or do you think he’ll just sell us again in a few months?”

She hesitates. “I don’t think he has any intention of selling. I get the impression he’s a man who knows what he wants. He wouldn’t have purchased the team if he didn’t want to. He’s no pushover. Says he has big plans.”

“God. He’s gonna be a pain in the ass, isn’t he?” I groan, slipping into my white dress shirt. “This is bullshit. I don’t want to meet with a suit right now. I just want to get drunk and maybe get laid by some adoring fan.”

Sofia cracks a smile. “Sorry. I’d get you out of it if I thought I could. The sexy fanboys will just have to wait until next time.”

“You’re sure this meeting can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m sure.” She checks her phone when it buzzes. “Oh, I need to take this. Hurry up and don’t keep him waiting. I’ll be outside. I can escort you and make the introductions.” She leaves the locker room, phone plastered to her ear.

I finish dressing, trying to stuff down my irritation. Maybe I should be flattered that the new owner wants to meet me before anyone else. It’s a compliment, right? Still, despite trying to psyche myself up for the meet and greet, I’m bummed. I’m tired and in no mood to shmooze the new guy. Owners can be so needy. They want their ass kissed non-stop, and right now, I was hoping to just let loose and let some horny fan kiss my ass.

Instead, I get to go pump up the ego of our new team owner.

Yay me?

I think about the way the guy watched me from the private box. His unwavering stare was unsettling, though I still can’t quite put my finger on why. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m standing on the edge of something, and that tomorrow, I’ll look back on this moment and realize everything has changed.

I let out an uneasy laugh. I’m acting like the Devil himself invited me for drinks. Maybe I should chill the fuck out and just go meet the guy. I’m stuck. I don’t have a choice. I’ll just suck it up and go.

With any luck, he’ll get bored of me fast, and I can still catch up with the guys later.