Page 7

Caleb

My boys are killing it out there, and the stadium is on fire. The other team’s getting chippy and chirpy. Drake’s fuming, and Lucky successfully talks him down, which is good for the team because we don’t want him in the sin bin.

King comes back from his shift, whips off his helmet, and shakes out his braids as sweat trickles down his brown skin. “If their taunts were more creative than a middle schooler’s, maybe they’d play like adults.”

Huh. King is the epitome of reserve and a cool head. He’s not easily rattled and lets insults roll off him like rainwater. They’re getting personal because, for King, his statement is the same as someone else swearing.

Now isn’t the time for questions. Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter if it’s one idiot or the entire team. It ain’t cool.

My team is textbook amazing. We’re up by two, and my guys are getting slashed every play. Lucky has spent half the game shoved against the boards. Drake miraculously keeps his temper in check.

Liska has been snowed three times in this period, and I can tell from his aura he’s furious.

There’s nothing worse than being trapped between the pipes and forced to endure the snow shower from the opposing team’s skates.

It’s a sign of disrespect, and the refs have done nothing.

Where’s the hometown help? The New York refs should’ve called it after the second time.

A little snow here and there is one thing, but Liska’s gotten showered by them.

The first line comes in for a break, and Lucky pushes Drake to the bench and sits on him, speaking in his ear.

An overwhelming sense of dread hits me.

“Mercy, I’m playing tonight.” There’s no doubt in my mind. Something will happen, and I’ll be thrown into the mayhem. Leo makes his way over to me as I stretch.

“Are you good?” he asks, and I nod but don’t speak.

I close my eyes and clear my mind, visualizing a fire burning up all the negative energy.

But my vision turns to a fireball, and I switch images.

I picture myself in a boat on a pond with water so calm it’s clear as glass.

Nothing and no one can touch me here. My energy resets itself, and I mentally prepare to play.

“You’re meditating? Did Coach say you’re playing?” Leo asks as I hum.

“You’re messing with my routine.” There isn’t enough space for me to step away from him. I wish I’d chosen a stronger crystal for the game, but bench warming doesn’t require agility and clarity.

“But—” Leo cuts himself off as Mason’s slammed into the boards and lands on his back. He’s slow to get up, and I hear Leo’s booming intake of breath and his large hand settles on my shoulder. The heat of it seeps past my pads, and I imagine it on my skin.

Mason shakes his head as he gets up and skates on unsteady legs toward the play.

The puck crosses center ice, and Leo mutters, “Come on. Get off the ice.” Leo doesn’t know his son very well. Mason won’t leave the ice unless it’s necessary.

He hangs back in a great position when King strips the puck and passes it to him. Mason’s not as fast as usual, but he outpaces the defender and dishes it to King, who scores again.

King takes a late hit, and Mason jumps in. The refs separate them before it turns into a brawl and sends the opposing defender to the sin bin.

Once Mason has exited the ice, Leo regains his senses and removes his hand from my shoulder. My body reels at the loss of touch.

Our third line barely hangs on against their first, even though we’ve got an extra player. Ordinarily, Coach sends the first line in for a power play, but he’s avoiding injuries and penalties. Coach talks to Drake while Lucky continues to sit on him.

I have one eye on the game and the other on Coach, who’s beet red. There’s only ten minutes left in the game and that should bring me relief, but unease pools in my gut and spreads as quickly as poison.

To cut it off, I brace my arms on the wall and drop my head, whispering a chant from my childhood. The guys can hear me, but the alternative is a mess in my head. Chanting is way better than letting goals in.

Leo places himself between me and the other players to give me privacy because I told him it’s easier when I’m by myself.

My head pops up at the collective gasp and roar of angry fans.

Liska’s in a fight, and I watch the replay on the big screen.

The right wing barrels toward Liska, sprays him with an avalanche of snow, and passes the puck to the center, who taps it in because Liska’s blinded by the snow covering his face shield.

But it’s what happens afterward that makes Liska react. He kneels on the ice as the right wing stands over him, talking. Whatever he says incites Liska to punch him.

Every ref rushes over to break it up, and Coach screams at us to stay off the ice.

Then I see it.

Blood.

There’s blood gushing from Liska’s nose, and everything stops until the ice is cleared.

Coach storms over and grabs the front of my jersey. “Benz, you’re in.” Spit flies from his mouth as he speaks.

“Ready, Coach.”

Leo’s looking at me like I prophesied the future, and he’s not sure if he’s impressed or terrified, but he slaps my shoulder pads in encouragement. It’s my gift and curse. I’m all instinct.

I tap each side of the goal with my stick and ask my pipes for their help. They’ve saved some fast-flying pucks for me.

Both teams are tired, which gives me an advantage. Their legs are broadcasting their intent, and I easily save their shots.

The left wing snows me, and Drake screams at the ref.

In the chaos, their left wing taps my leg pad.

“You gonna be a pussy like number 30?” I tune out the rest of his insults because they’re trash.

Liska is pussy strong because dicks can’t take a flick of pain, and any guy who thinks otherwise is delulu.

But I, as a professional, keep my opinions to myself.

Drake sends their left wing into the boards without a backward glance. He’s got fire in his eyes, and if he had his way, he’d level every one of these dicks.

Lucky throws an elbow and knocks their right wing down. The ref doesn’t seem to see it, so it’s one thing on our side. As I see it, it’s preemptive self-defense.

The game clock ticks down, and each second lasts an entire period. The mental stress of staying focused when I can hear the chirps is exhausting. Liska deserves a medal for his performance. Three periods are a marathon in this game.

Their center crashes into me, and the goal is knocked loose, disallowing their score. I don’t think he cares. He’s trying to either hurt or intimidate me.

Lucky scores on the power play.

Two minutes left and we’re ahead four to two.

They know they can’t win, and the ref would need to put all their players in the penalty box if they called everything. The last ninety seconds are the Wild West. High sticks, hooking, slashing, shoving, and we end up icing to keep things moving.

Thirty seconds and I’m under a pile of hockey players waiting for the ref to dig me out while they knee and elbow me. The pads lessen the impact, but I’ll have bruises.

We only need to hang on. Their team gets a misconduct penalty, but we still have to play.

Our third-line right wing finds the back of the net, and the crowd goes wild. We try to play keep away to wind the clock down, but they’re not having it.

With two seconds on the clock, I’m spread-eagle after an aggressive hit. It will make the highlight reel instead of my saves. Dang it.

The game’s over and we won, but the team celebration is minimal. The other team continues to trash-talk as they leave the rink.

I’m slow to leave the ice. After two takedowns, my net offers a safe place for mentally cataloging my aches and pains to ensure nothing is seriously hurt. I test for injuries by removing my helmet, setting it down, and bending sideways.

As I’m declaring myself fit, Leo gracefully walks over to me.

“Mason is with Grayson, and I think you should see him next.” He sounds concerned, which confuses me since we’re on questionable terms.

“Nah, I’m good. Nothing’s hurt.” I shrug, and he scoops up my helmet before I can grab it.

Afraid of sounding too aggressive or too grateful, I hold my hand out for it, and he sighs, handing it over.

We both glance up when we hear my name from the crowd exiting their seats. “Benz better get his shit together if he’s going to replace Liska. He was doing a snow angel in the goal.”

“Liska’s not going anywhere, and the kid has time.”

“Mark my words, Liska’s days are numbered, and Benz can’t be a kid or they’ll trade his ass faster than you slip on the ice.” The man cuffs his friend’s shoulder.

They’re wrong. Liska has years left in him. He’s playing incredible hockey—All-Star-level hockey. He’s not going anywhere, and I’m not…I’m not replacing him. Sure, I can jump in when needed, but I’m not the guy. He’s the man, and I’m his backup.

Liska and I are a great duo. He’s the superhero, and I’m his sidekick.

Someday I’ll be the guy, but that’s not for years. I’ll continue learning, getting better, and I’ll be ready when Liska retires.

But life never works out how we plan.

If something happens to Liska, the team will need me to step up—permanently.

I can’t do that.

I’m not ready.

I’m not at Liska’s level.

I’ll let everyone down.

The team will be counting on me.

I could disappoint everyone.

Oh noooooooo.

The ringing in my ears is so loud I can’t make myself move.

“Benz, breathe,” Leo commands. We’re alone in the tunnel, the last ones off the ice.

I mimic him, but the air freezes on its way in and I can’t get it to my lungs.

He exhales, fanning his leather and cedarwood scent over me. I inhale again in an attempt to ingest it in my body. I hate how much I need it. But he’s the calm pond extinguishing the fire threatening me.

“You’re doing good.” He smiles, and it crinkles his eyes.

He doesn’t smile enough. “Benz.” His voice turns demanding, and staring into his amber eyes, I’m ready to do whatever he asks.

“You played a great game and did everything the team asked of you. Your reaction time was stellar, and your reflexes lightning fast.”

He’s in my brain, reading my fear of letting the team down and demolishing it.

“Good, inhale into your belly and exhale all the air in your lungs,” he says with authority.

My insides heat to a thousand degrees. All the clenched muscles unlock and, in their liquid state, do exactly as he asks. Every cell in my body is chanting, Yes, sir .

“Let’s get you in the locker room so no one else sees your stress.” I’m taller than him in my blades, but his hand steers me by the back of the neck, not an easy feat with my pads.

In the hallway, Finn, our PR director, stops us. “I hate to do this to you, honeybun, but you’re needed in the pressroom.”

“No,” Leo barks.

Finn manages to look down his nose at Leo, giving him a slow up and down with his eyes. “And who am I sending in there? Liska, Drake, and Lucky are all out. Your son is with the trainer, leaving me King and Benz. Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“I can do it.” I inhale, standing tall even though my insides are jelly. The media will point out every mistake I made, and I’ll have to defend myself. I’m afraid they’ll ask if I deserve my position.

I’m a raw nerve already exposed from the fans’ comments, susceptible to self-doubt.

“Give us a minute?” Leo asks.

“I’ll give you two.” Finn flounces down the hall.

Leo sets my helmet, the one I didn’t realize he was holding, on the floor and uses both hands on my shoulders to press me into the wall. Holy mother of the universe, Leo’s concern for me is unexpected.

Mason appears in my peripheral vision. “Dad, I know what to do when he gets like this.” Mason grips my arm, but he’s not my anchor, and my eyes stay on Leo.

I’m a terrible friend. The worst.

“Give me sixty seconds, and he’s all yours,” Leo says sharply.

They’re going to fight about me, and I can’t let that happen. I can’t be the reason.

Mason huffs, but my eyes are closed, concentrating on breathing and Leo’s touch.

Leo’s hand closes around my throat. “Look at me.” His amber eyes glow, ensnaring me. “I’m right here with you.”

His hand obstructs my nod, but I gurgle assent. My lungs automatically breathe with him like we’ve done this a thousand times before and not just once.

“You’re doing a great job. Come back to me,” he says, and I want to obey him. Do exactly what he tells me. “You can say no. Coach or an assistant can take questions. You’ve given your all today. It’s your right to stand up for yourself.” His thumbs stroke my neck, calming my racing pulse.

Leo’s actions and words provide protection against the nagging negative thoughts of not being able to deliver what the team needs.

“I won’t do that. Finn needs me.” His hands feel far too good.

He scoffs. “You should have Gray check you over first. You could have a concussion.”

His concern derails my anxiety spiral. No one other than the trainer or a coach ever worries if I have a concussion.

He smiles, turning his shrewd lion eyes into a friendly house cat’s.

“Good job.” He squeezes me. “Should I let go?”

“Not yet,” I whisper.

We stay chest to chest, breathing each other’s air, and I continue taking in his rich scent. It slows my brain and my heart rate. My vision funnels down to the black flecks in his eyes, and my pulse is thrumming under his hand as if it belongs there. Like this is what we both need.

His thumb dips into the hollow of my neck. No one told me that’s an erogenous zone.

I’m so turned on, and with my adrenaline flowing from the game, my body doesn’t know if it should fight him or submit. Submission is winning. But he still acted like a dick the other day. And what an incredible dick.

He sighs, and being a weakling, I swallow it. My head and body are in different solar systems when it comes to Leo Griffin.

Sugar-cakes. This is not helping.

“Please, let me go,” I whisper, and his hand drops as he puts a few inches of space between us.

“Time’s up,” Finn sing-songs loudly, but I can’t see beyond Leo’s handsome face and large body.

“Benz, you’re a future All-Star. I didn’t give you credit for your playing. I’m sorry for what I said in practice. Go change. You’ll do great in the pressroom.”

“Will you be there?” Kill me now. I’m a child needing emotional support. But his apology lifts my confidence higher than saving goals. It’s something I never expected to receive, and I soak it in.

“I won’t leave you.” Leo tugs me off the wall, gripping the nape of my neck again. Stupidly, I believe him.