Page 16

Stone

Six days later…

T here’s nothing quite like the roar of a sold-out home crowd on opening night.

The arena thrums with energy as I glide onto the freshly polished ice for warm-ups, the stands a sea of Badger blue and white. Fans pound the glass, kids press their faces against the barrier, and the die-hards in the front row—the ones who’ve been here through the lean times and our near-miss at the cup last year—shout encouragement as we circle the rink.

This is our year. We can all feel it.

It’s the kind of electric, season-opener hockey players dream about. The only thing that could make it better would be knowing Bossy’s up there in the team box, cheering us on.

But she’s here in spirit and hopefully, by tomorrow morning, we’ll be celebrating her kick ass interview and our first victory of the year over fancy French breakfast. I booked brunch reservations for my favorite place in Seattle for ten. I fly out at eight a.m. and she’s picking me up at nine, so the timing should be perfect.

“This crowd is on fire tonight,” Tank says as he skates up beside me, bumping his shoulder pad against mine. “You ready to give them what they came for?”

“Born ready,” I assure him with a grin. “How’s the shoulder? Saw you in the ice bath on my way home from practice last night.”

“Good.” He grunts. “Good enough, anyway. And Shane’s ready to step in early if it starts acting up.” We both glance over to where Shane’s limbering up across the ice. “I wasn’t sure I’d be into the tandem goalie thing, but if it goes half as well during games as it has in scrimmage, I think we’re going to keep the net locked tight this season.”

“I think so,” I agree. “And it makes sense. You’re both too good to waste as a backup. I’m glad Shane’s back this year. He’s a good kid.”

Tank’s lips quirk. “He’s not a kid anymore. We’re just old.”

“Speak for yourself, man,” I say. “I’m feeling like a spring chicken tonight. I can’t wait to destroy these Midwestern mama’s boys. Look at ‘em over there, looking all corn fed and soft.”

“Speaking of corn fed, Steph wanted me to invite you and Remy over for dinner on Sunday.” Tank’s gaze moves up to the family section, where Stephanie sits, wearing a Badgers jersey with Tank’s number stretched across the front. He lifts a hand as we skate by, his face going mushy as he adds, “Her grandma’s in town. They’re planning to spend all day cooking Jamaican food, so there will be plenty to share.”

“I’d love to, but I don’t know if we’ll be back in time,” I say. “I’m not sure when Remy wants to leave Seattle. I’m flying up to meet her tomorrow morning, but we’re driving back in her car.”

“Three-hour drive, huh?” Tank arches a brow. “That’s some full-fledged couple shit.”

Taking a quick glance around to ensure no one’s listening, I remind him, “That’s because we’re a full-fledged couple now. We say the ‘L’ word and everything.”

His eyes widen. “Wow. That is full-fledged.” He glances toward the tunnel, where Coach is currently pacing the entrance, dictating notes to tonight’s assistant. “I guess that means you two are breaking the news to Lauder soon?”

I exhale. “Yep. Next week. We were just waiting until the big interview was over, so Remy could relax about it.” I nod toward the rest of the forwards, currently lining up for practice shots. “I’d better get to it. Have a good game, brother, and I’ll let you know about Sunday, okay?”

“Sounds good,” he says, bumping a glove into mine. “Let’s fuck up some Nebraska boys.”

“Going to make them wish they’d never touched down on the west coast,” I assure him, before skating off toward the shooting drills.

As I join the line, my gaze drifts to the opposite end of the ice, where the Nebraska Hucksters are running through their own warm-up routine. And there he is, the only guy in the league I genuinely can’t stand.

Adrian “Tiny” Shields. Six-foot-four, two-twenty, built like a refrigerator with legs, and possessing all the grace of a concussed penguin.

Looks like he still tapes his stick with that stupid neon green tape, too, the same way he did when we were both rookies together in the Columbus system. Some things never change, I guess, like his terrible tape job and permanently “pissed off, but too dumb to know why” facial expression.

“No way, not Shields. What the fuck?” Nowicki says, sliding in behind me in line. “I thought he got sent down to the minors after that hit on Cruise last season.”

“He spent the summer in the AHL,” I confirm. “But I guess the Hucksters were desperate enough to call him back up. Nebraska’s not exactly a destination team.”

Nowicki huffs. “No kidding. I hate that guy.”

“At least you didn’t have to come up with him,” I say, as Shields takes a slap shot that flies three feet wide, making us both cringe. “I played thirty games with that numbskull before I got called up. Shields stayed down for another year and a half.”

“And he’s hated your guts ever since,” Grammercy adds, joining our conversation. “My big brother played for the Hucksters before he transferred to Milwaukee this year,” he explains in response to my startled expression. “Said the guy talked shit about you like you stole his girlfriend and his bible.”

I laugh. “Really? Awesome. Nice to know I live rent free in that big stupid head.”

“So stupid,” Grammercy agrees in an almost pitying tone. “My brother Grant said Shields wasn’t sure what fleece was. And didn’t know what animal bacon came from. Guy’s like a different species.”

“True, but you should still watch your back around him,” I warn. “He’s not smart, but he’s massive, and he doesn’t care who he hurts as long as he makes an impact. Keep your head up around him, rookie.”

“Got it. Will do,” Grammercy says, accepting the warning with a solemn nod.

He’s such a sweet rookie. So eager to learn and listen. If they were all like that, maybe I would have mentored more of them.

Nowicki starts to add something, but Coach’s whistle pierces the air, cutting him off and signaling the end of warm-ups. We gather at the bench for final instructions and a quick wave at the fans before heading back to the locker room to engage in our various pre-game rituals.

Some guys retreat into their headphones, others swap out already sweat-soaked base layers, and still others circle the locker room three times backward, throwing salt over their shoulders, or shimmying into repulsively unwashed “lucky” underwear.

Personally, I’ve always landed somewhere in between when it comes to personal performance superstitions—not too rigid, not too loose.

First, I take off my skates, rolling my feet on two foam rollers as I retape my stick, the familiar rhythm always a balm to the soul. Left to right, overlapping precisely by half. A lifetime in hockey, and I still find Zen in this simple task. It settles any remaining pre-game nerves, connecting me to that calm, efficient place deep inside.

As I finish, Justin walks past, tapping my shin pads twice with his stick—our silent pre-game acknowledgment since I joined the Badgers. He’s a good one, our captain, and I’m going to miss him. Though it’s obviously too soon to think about that now, when we’re just getting started.

“Stone,” Coach calls from the doorway. “A word.”

I follow him into the hall, curious. Coach Lauder isn’t one for last-minute pep talks or strategy changes.

“I noticed Shields is back,” he says without preamble. “He nearly took Cruise out for the season last year. Make sure you have his back out there, okay? That big bastard plays a dirty game.”

I nod. “Will do, Coach. I used to play with Shields in the minors. I’m familiar with his bullshit.”

Coach nods, looking as disgusted as I feel. Lauder is a militant man, but an honorable one, with zero patience for a lack of integrity. “He’s had three suspension-worthy hits in the last seven games he played in the league. He’s a liability out there. Someone’s going to get seriously hurt if he’s not dealt with. He shouldn’t be on the ice.”

“Agreed,” I say. “I’ll keep an eye on him and our people.”

“You always do,” he says. “You’re a good leader, Stone. If you’d been with the team longer, I would have pegged you for captain over Cruise. Thanks for showing the rookies how a grown man conducts himself on and off the ice.”

Coming from Coach Lauder, this is practically a declaration of love. A sonnet, if you will. I’m flabbergasted, but deeply flattered. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”

Hopefully, he’ll still think I’m a good one when he realizes I’ve been fucking his daughter like it’s my mission on earth…

As I return to the locker room, the thought of Remy sends me to my phone.

I read her latest text, letting it fill my fighting well— You’ve got this, babe. Sending you all the winning vibes. I’ll be watching from the sports bar across the street from our hotel and cheering loud enough for you to hear me in Portland.

Grinning because my girl is the best girl, I text back— Headed out to the ice now. Love you, Bossy, and see you soon.

Then, I put my cell away, banish my goofy smile, and focus on the utter annihilation of the men of Nebraska.

By the time the buzzer sounds, calling us back to the ice for introductions, I’m in the zone. Completely locked in, heartbeat steady, mind clear. This is what fifteen years of professional hockey has given me—the ability to push everything else aside and focus only on the next sixty minutes of play.

The arena lights dim as we line up along the blue line. The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing each player to thunderous applause. When my name is called, the roar intensifies, a wave of sound that washes over me, familiar and electrifying.

What can I say? I’m adorable and the Portland fans love me.

The feeling is mutual, of course. I can’t imagine a better place to end my career than in this quirky town full of passionate people who dance to the beat of their own drum and never turn their backs on a hometown team.

The national anthem singer delivers a crisp, clear rendition without too much wobbling around at the end—always a plus—and the house lights come back up. Then, the officials take their positions, and we’re moments away from the first puck drop of the season.

Across the face-off circle, I spot Shields eyeing me with his typical dumb-and-angry expression. I meet his gaze evenly, offering a warm smile that I know will get under his skin far more than any glare.

“Don’t know what you have to smile about dumbass,” he mutters.

I exhale a soft, patronizing chuckle, keeping my stance relaxed. “Just glad you’re back, Shields. Heard you were sent down. Again. But look at you now! All grown up and playing with the big boys. Is your mommy proud? I bet she is. I sure am. Good job, buddy.”

His nostrils flare as his face flushes bright red.

Poor Shields.

He really does make it almost too easy.

The ref skates to center ice, puck in hand. The crowd noise peaks, and I focus on the black disc, body coiled and ready.

The puck drops, and just like that, my last season begins.

The first period flies by in a blur of fast breaks and crisp passes. Grammercy and I find an early rhythm, connecting for a beautiful sequence that nearly puts us up 1-0 five minutes in. Their goalie makes a ridiculous save, but it still feels like a win. Our team is a well-oiled machine, and it’s only a matter of time before we grind them to dust beneath our relentless onslaught of excellence.

“Fire, rookie. You’re on fire,” I encourage as we skate back to the bench. “Next one’s going in.”

Grammercy grins, nodding. “Fuck yeah, it is.”

Coach paces behind the bench, barking instructions that blend into the cacophony of crowd noise and skate blades slicing through ice. We take the lead halfway through the first on a power play goal from Justin, assisted by Nowicki after a beautiful zone entry.

But being up 1-0 makes Nebraska more aggressive. Shields leads the charge, throwing elbows and shoulders like the Kool-Aid man trying to burst through a wall.

Second period starts with Nebraska pushing hard. They’re determined to tie things up, throwing everything they have at first Shane, then Tank, who stands like a brick wall between the pipes. Shot after shot is deflected away, but the corn-fed motherfuckers actually seem to be building momentum.

Meanwhile, Shields gets more stupidly aggressive with every shift. During a scramble in front of our net, he crosschecks Grammercy from behind, sending him face-first into the post.

The refs miss it, but I don’t.

“Keep your stick down, dickhead,” I bark as we skate past each other.

“Or what?” He sneers, deliberately bumping my shoulder. “Gonna cry to the refs, pretty boy?”

“Nah, I’ll let the scoreboard do the talking,” I reply with a wink that makes his face contort with rage. “But thanks for the compliment. Always great to have another man confirm just how foxy I am, Shields. But I’m taken, okay? So don’t get any ideas.”

I skate away as his face flushes a shade of magenta that definitely isn’t healthy.

I’ve really poked the bear this time, no doubt about it, a fact Shields proves the next time we’re on the ice together. He’s practically hunting me. I can feel his beady eyes tracking my movements, sense him drifting inexorably toward wherever I am on the ice.

But that’s fine by me.

The more he focuses on getting a piece of my ass, the less he’s playing actual hockey or fucking with the rest of my team.

I keep my head on a swivel, staying just out of his reach while connecting passes and maintaining possession. It’s a delicate dance, but that’s one of the benefits of being an old-timer. I’m good at the dance by now.

When Shields finally commits to an attempt to crush me against boards, I deftly sidestep and spin away, leaving him to crash into the plexiglass alone.

“Gotta be quicker than that, big guy,” I taunt as he spins around, murder in his eyes.

He trips over his own feet as he tries to come after me, earning a roar of cheers—and laughter—from the fans watching it all play out in high def on the jumbotron, adding to Shields’ No Good Very Bad Night.

By the third period, we’re up 3-1, and Nebraska’s frustration is boiling over. The game gets chippier—slashes after the whistle, extra shoves in scrums, the kind of shit that often goes down when a team knows they’re being outplayed.

With about seven minutes left, Grammercy picks up the puck and accelerates through the neutral zone, a one-man breakout that catches Nebraska flat-footed. He’s got a step on their defensemen, a clear lane to the net opening…right up until Shields cuts across the ice like a heat-seeking missile.

For a split second, everything slows down. I can see it all unfolding—Grammercy with his head down, focused on the puck; Shields coming in on his blind side, his elbow already raised to head level; the refs caught behind the play, with no angle to see what’s coming.

I don’t think. I just move.

Three hard strides, and I’m between them, bracing for impact as Grammercy dishes the puck to Cruise on the wing. Shields crashes into me instead, the full force of his two-hundred-forty-pound frame connecting with my knee in a collision that sends us both sprawling.

Pain explodes through my leg, white-hot and immediate. I roll onto the ice, clutching my knee with a groan as the play continues down the other end. Through a fog of agony, I hear the crowd roar.

Cruise must have scored, putting us up 4-1.

The celebration is short-lived, however, as the team notices me still down. Tank is the first to reach me, dropping to one knee beside me on the ice.

“Don’t move,” he says, his voice tight as Cruise and the other Badgers gather around, forming a protective circle. “Medic’s coming.”

“Thanks,” I grunt out, fighting the urge to groan again.

Coach’s face appears above me a beat later, his perpetual scowl replaced with something that looks a lot like worry. Uh-oh, that’s not good. “Where’s the pain?” he demands.

“Knee,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Left one.”

The medical team rushes out, carefully examining the injury. The Badgers move back to give them room, but both teams hover nearby. Even Shields looks vaguely uncomfortable, though not remotely apologetic.

“We need to get him to the medical room,” our head trainer, Hitch, says after a brief assessment. “Can you put weight on it, Stone?”

I shake my head, already knowing better than to try. “Probably not much, no. But if a couple of people help me skate to the tunnel, I can probably limp the rest of the way.”

Tank nods to the trainer. “I’ll help. On three?”

They position themselves on either side of me, hauling me back onto my skates. A fresh wave of pain shoots up my leg to explode in my head, but I keep my expression as neutral as possible. I refuse to give Shields the satisfaction of seeing how bad this hurts.

Tank and Hitch support my weight as I push off with my good leg, gliding slowly toward the exit. The crowd gives me a standing ovation, the thunderous applause washing over me as I raise a hand in acknowledgment.

At least I’m going out as a hero to the cause.

I just hope this isn’t “out” for good.

I’m a “bright side” kind of guy, but I’m also a realist, and I know just how serious knee injuries can be.

“Hang in there, brother,” Tank says, giving me a quick hug before heading back to the ice.

A hug. From Tank.

I must really be in bad shape…

In the medical room, Dr. Peterson, the team doctor, confirms what I already suspect. “Looks like an MCL sprain. We’ll need an MRI to determine the grade, but there’s definite instability.”

“How long will I be benched?” I ask, bracing for the worst.

“If it’s a Grade 1, maybe a week or two. Grade 2, more like three to four weeks.” He continues probing the joint, cataloging my winces. “Grade 3 would be longer, but this doesn’t feel that severe to me.”

A month. Possibly more.

I close my eyes, wincing as the reality sinks in.

“But let’s get you to the hospital for some imaging before we worry too much,” Dr. Peterson says with his usual compassion before calling over his shoulder, “Go ahead and call the ambulance, Hitch. It’ll be the fastest way to get him the care he needs.”

“My phone,” I say suddenly. “I need my phone. It’s in my gear bag in my locker. It should be open. I didn’t lock it before I went out.”

One of the trainers digs my cell out of my gear bag, handing it to me as Hitch calls for transport.

My fingers tremble as I pull up my messages with Remy.

As I suspected, there’s already a new one from her waiting for me— I’m going to murder that piece of shit! If he isn’t suspended for that, no one on that ice has eyes. Are you okay, babe? You’re going to be okay. I know this is scary, but you’re strong and in fantastic shape. Just let the doctors take care of you and try not to freak out, okay? And call me when you can. Love you so much, and I’m so sorry.

I’m about to respond when Coach walks in, his expression grim, but controlled.

I tuck my phone screen to my thigh. “Hey, Coach.”

“How’s it look?” he asks the doctor.

“MCL sprain, likely Grade 2, but could be Grade 3,” Peterson says. “We’ll know more after imaging.”

Coach nods, then turns to me. “Stupid move, Stone. Noble, but stupid. I hope you know I didn’t expect you to throw yourself on the grenade out there.”

“I know, but Grammercy would have been destroyed,” I say. “Shields is too much for a rookie.”

Something that might be compassion, or even admiration, flickers across his face. “Well, you’ll be glad to know the team really came together after your hit. That might have been the best third period I’ve ever seen from the Badgers. Grammercy scored again to win 5-1.”

Despite the pain, my heart lifts. “Hell, yeah. That’s how we roll.”

“We need to get him downstairs, Coach Lauder,” the doctor interrupts. “The ambulance is already here.”

As they prepare to move me, Coach asks, “Do you need us to take care of anything for you while you’re getting checked out?”

I think of Remy, alone in Seattle tomorrow for what should have been our first mini-vacation together. There’s no way I’m making that trip now, but I can’t very well ask him to send apology flowers to his daughter for me. “Nah, I’m good thanks.” Barb is already with my neighbor, Sophie, who watches her when I’m away. I took her over earlier this afternoon so I wouldn’t have to bother Sophie late tonight or at the ass crack of dawn tomorrow.

Coach studies me for a moment. “All right. Hang in there, Stone. Focus on getting back on the ice, and I’ll check in on you soon.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

As they wheel me out to the waiting ambulance, my phone buzzes with another text from Remy— The internet is already exploding with Shields hate. Even the Nebraska fans hate him. But they love you. You’re a hero, babe, and I’m so proud of you. (But you’d better not do anything like that again because you almost gave me a heart attack.)

Despite everything, I find myself smiling. My girlfriend loves me and is proud of me and is already sending along screenshots of people shit-talking Shields.

At least something’s going right tonight.

The ambulance doors close, and a very nice older woman with a gray ponytail offers me something for the pain. Deciding I’m done being a hero—for now—I gratefully accept an injection in the side of my ass.

As the medication starts to take effect, I drift into a hazier head space, one that numbs the pain and the fear that my career might be over sooner than expected.