Page 25 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter eighteen

Evan

T he whiteboard marker squeaked against the surface like fingernails on a chalkboard, but I kept writing anyway.

Carter-Murphy. Carter-Kowalczyk. Carter-literally anyone who wouldn't leave me hanging out to dry during a two-on-one.

I erased Murphy's name for the third time and tried Kowalczyk again, even though he'd been about as reliable as a leaky teapot during Tuesday's practice.

The marker left streaky blue residue no matter how hard I pressed, and my handwriting—usually precise enough to make penmanship teachers weep with joy—looked like I'd been taking notes during an earthquake.

"Spreadsheet, you're gonna wear a hole in that board."

Hog's voice carried across the empty locker room. Practice didn't start for another twenty minutes, but I'd been at the Barn since seven, playing chess with myself against the lines and losing.

I responded to Hog but didn't turn around. "Working out some kinks in the system."

"Kinks." Hog snorted. "That's what we're calling it?"

The truth was uglier than kinks—three straight losses since Jake left. Kids learning hockey from motivational quotes on the back of a cereal box would have played better than we did.

"You know what the problem is?" Hog settled onto the bench behind me.

I didn't answer, but that had never stopped Hog from dispensing wisdom like a hockey-playing Buddha.

"We're playing scared. Tight. Like we're waiting for something bad to happen instead of making something good happen." He paused, and I heard the familiar rustle of him digging through his bag. "Kid had a gift for making people believe they could pull off the impossible."

Jake. He meant Jake, but neither of us would say his name. That would make it real and make it hurt in a way that acknowledging the obvious always did.

"He's been gone through three games," I said. "We should be adjusting by now."

"Should be, but should-be and reality play in different leagues, don't they?"

It was time for a walk, and I decided to circle the arena and take a few deep breaths. I tried to think about my career future instead of—but I couldn't.

When I returned to the locker room, someone had erased my scribbling on the whiteboard. Someone—probably Hog—had written a single line in block letters: "STORM 4 LYFE."

It was stupid. Sentimental. It would've made me roll my eyes a month ago.

I picked up the marker and added underneath: "Let's fucking go."

Pickle whooped from across the room. "That's what I'm talking about! Poetry in motion!"

Two days later, we were on the road, and the Sudbury arena smelled like stale popcorn, perfect for the trajectory of our game.

We were down two goals midway through the second period. I picked up the puck behind our net, scanning for options. Kowalczyk was covered. Murphy was nowhere useful. Pickle was flying down the left wing, but I'd need to thread the pass through traffic.

The Sudbury forward—some meat-head named Kellner, a bruiser big enough to bench-press school buses for fun—bore down on me with a predatory focus that meant trouble.

I faked left, went right, and threaded a pass up the boards that somehow found Pickle's stick. Clean. Simple. The kind of play that didn't make highlight reels but kept the game moving.

Kellner didn't get the memo about the play being over.

The hit came from my blind side two seconds after I'd released the puck. Shoulder to ribs, driving me into the boards with enough force to rattle the glass and every tooth in my head.

The air left my lungs in a rush, and the world went white around the edges for a split second. I hit the ice face-first, helmet bouncing off the surface with a hollow crack that echoed through my skull.

"You fucking piece of shit!"

Hog's voice cut through the ringing in my ears. I turned my head—slowly, because everything hurt—and saw him dropping his gloves and charging toward Kellner, a freight train with anger management issues.

The benches emptied. Kellner tried to skate away, hands up in mock innocence, but Hog was already on him, massive fists windmilling in a way that would've been comical if it weren't so terrifying.

I pushed myself up to my knees, then to my feet, holding up one hand to wave off the trainer already skating toward me.

The referee sorted through the mess of bodies and flying fists, trying to separate Hog from Kellner while avoiding becoming collateral damage.

"Carter!" Coach's voice boomed from the bench. "You good to go?"

I gave him a thumbs up that looked more convincing than it felt.

The locker room after a loss was always a special kind of hell, but losing while playing like garbage was worse. I sat in front of my stall, carefully peeling off my jersey. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain radiating from my ribs.

"Fucking Kellner," Murphy said from across the room. "That hit was at least three seconds late."

"Should've been five and a game," Kowalczyk agreed. "Refs were blind as usual."

I nodded along, but I waited until most of the guys had headed for the showers before carefully lifting the hem of my undershirt and pulling it over my head. The motion sent a sharp spike of pain through my left side that made me see stars for a second.

In the mirror across from my stall, I saw the damage. A bruise was already forming along my ribs, dark purple spreading across my pale skin like spilled ink.

"You need help with that?"

I looked up to find Hog standing in the doorway to the shower area, towel wrapped around his massive frame, and concern written across his face.

"I'm good."

"Bullshit. That was a dirty hit, and you've been moving like a broken mannequin ever since."

"Just sore. Nothing serious."

Hog studied my face for a long moment, then headed back toward the showers, leaving me alone with my gear and a persistent ache in my ribs, a physical reminder of everything wrong with my world.

I sat there for another few minutes, listening to the shower water run and the muffled voices of a few remaining teammates discussing the game, the refs, and what they planned to do when we got back to Thunder Bay.

None of them mentioned Jake. None of them talked about the hole his absence left in our lineup, or how different everything was without his chaotic energy bouncing off the walls.

I felt it. In every failed play, every missed opportunity, every moment when we needed someone to step up and make something happen out of nothing.

He wasn't coming back. Not tonight, probably not ever. And I was going to have to figure out how to be okay with that and play through the pain of missing someone who'd only been in my life for a month but had somehow become essential to its rhythm.

I finished packing my gear and headed for the bus, ribs aching with every step.

It was an overnight ride back to Thunder Bay. I blinked at the sun as we piled out into the Fort William Barn parking lot. I fumbled with my car keys, trying to find the unlock button while simultaneously trying not to move my left side, when Pickle appeared beside me.

"Cereal! My man! Just the tight-ass I was looking for!"

I nearly dropped my keys. "Damn, Pickle. Where'd you come from?"

"The shadows. I'm very stealthy when I need to be." He bounced on his toes. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't." I finally found the unlock button and pressed it, savoring the small victory of functioning technology. "I need to go home, ice my everything, and pretend last night never happened."

"See, that's the problem." Pickle stepped between me and my car door. "You're gonna go home, sit in your perfectly organized apartment, and brood like some kind of hockey Batman until you drive yourself completely insane."

"I don't brood."

"You absolutely brood. You brood like it's an Olympic sport and you're going for the gold." He crossed his arms, trying to look stern. "Which is why we're going to The Drop tonight."

"I'm exhausted."

"So?"

"I'm hurt."

"So?" Pickle's expression softened slightly. "Look, I know you took a shot from a Neanderthal. I saw you moving like a rusty robot for the last period. But sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself isn't gonna fix your ribs or our record."

The kid had a point, which was irritating.

"What exactly are you proposing?"

Pickle's grin could've powered the entire downtown core. "Beer. Bad decisions. Karaoke if we're feeling especially self-destructive." He paused, studying my face. "When's the last time you did something just because it was fun?"

I opened my mouth to answer and realized I couldn't. When was the last time I'd done something purely for enjoyment?

"That's what I thought. I'll pick you up at eight. It's gonna be a shitshow, but it's gonna be our shitshow."

"I don't really do shitshows."

"Maybe that's the problem."

I slept most of the day, and by evening, I could move a few inches without sending pain radiating through my side. The Drop was packed when I arrived with Pickle at my side. I surveyed the sticky floors and neon beer signs with half the letters burned out.

My teammates clustered around a table near the back. Hog dominated one end of the table, gesturing wildly with a beer bottle. Murphy was slumped in his chair, nodding like Hog was delivering the secrets of the universe.

Juno Park held court near the bar, her blue hair catching the colored lights from the ancient disco ball someone had installed ironically. She'd traded her usual combat boots for sneakers. Did that mean she planned to dance later? God help us all.

"There they are!" Kowalczyk spotted us first, raising his beer in a salute that sloshed foam onto the table. "The wounded warrior and his loyal squire!"

"I'm nobody's squire," Pickle protested, a grin spreading across his face.

Hog's massive head turned toward us. "Spreadsheet! How you feeling, kid?"

"Like I got hit by a freight train driven by an angry moose."

"That's the spirit!" Murphy raised his beer in salute. "To getting our asses kicked with dignity!"