Page 27 of Right Pucking Daddy (Daddies of the League #7)

TWENTY-ONE

SASHA

“This is it! This is our year! Are you ready?”

Cries erupted from the team as Malachek hyped them up.

The roar of the crowd joined the team chant and turned into shouts of encouragement and backslapping from all the guys but Mercer. He stood stoic and silent. Focused.

“Introducing your Manchester University Maulers!”

“Let’s go!” The guys yelled before running out of the tunnel and bursting through the gate.

The crunch of their skates hitting the ice brought back memories, and my heart accelerated. The last seven years faded away, and I felt like I should be out there. But since I couldn’t be, I took a deep breath, held it, then slowly exhaled.

“I’d say it gets easier, but that would be a lie.”

Will’s words washed over me, but my eyes were on the team, the puck tightly gripped in the ref’s hand as he prepared to drop it. I couldn’t look away. I wanted nothing more than to join them out there, even though I knew I couldn’t be.

My arms crossed over my chest, and I stepped behind the bench. An ache set in, one in my heart and the other in my jaw. I pushed it away. Shoved the fucking pain of it all into a box, stuffed it back in the corner of my mind, giving it a couple of kicks for good measure.

That shit had no place here. There was no fucking room on this team for my bullshit regrets.

Mercer lined up at center ice, his twig clutched in his hands, flanked by Ethan Rugger and Trey Malachek.

Riordan flexed and stretched in front of the net.

The Huston twin terrors stood like mirror images of the description of a coach’s dream defensemen team.

They were ready to tag team whatever came their way.

The arena stilled—a collective holding of every breath in the area, sucking the air and sound from the cavernous space, all of us waiting.

The puck dropped.

My breath rushed out, then right back in.

I wasn’t fucking worried. Well, not much. It seemed the worry I carried into a game as a player was alive and well. It churned in my guts and danced on my nerves. I pulled out a pack of gum, shoving a piece into my mouth, chomping at it until my teeth and jaw ached.

The crowd roared as Mercer took the biscuit from the Grizzlies’ center forward. The kid Mercer faced off against was damn good. He had an AHL contract in his future. As did several of his teammates .

But I wasn’t worried.

Aiden… Mercer was better. I’d watched film for both teams. The other team had significantly more time on the ice together, more time to gel and bond, but all my guys were good. Fucking fantastic. They’d worked their asses off leading up to today.

As a center forward, Aiden became a beast on the ice.

He played and controlled the game as if he could see the future, anticipating both offensive and defensive moves.

Our wingers, Trey and Ethan, could find the net when I would’ve sworn it wasn’t possible.

And Ryan Riordan turned into a wall of fucking spray foam. He filled the fucking net.

Mercer, Malachek, and Rugger skated down the ice, flipping the puck back and forth between them, deking around opposing players, heading straight for the net.

“C’mon,” I murmured, doing everything I could to stay focused and coach-like when I felt anything but.

Trey moved in to take the shot, but it wasn’t there.

He didn’t have it. I bit my tongue, letting them do what they needed to do.

Ethan and Aiden yelled, but what they said I couldn’t hear for the pandemonium in the building, but Trey must’ve heard them.

The puck sailed between his skates behind him to Ethan.

He smacked it across the rink to Aiden, who stood ready, his stick pulled back.

Waiting.

Ready.

Time slowed to a crawl. The Grizzlies yelled, scrambling and pointing. They moved around the goal.

Aiden’s stick fell .

The puck blurred, sailing toward the goal.

Cheers and groans filled the air.

“He’s found the back of the net. Mercer scores! Aiden Mercer scores in his first game as a Mauler!” The announcer’s voice screamed from the speakers.

Noise levels skyrocketed—the alarm on the goal pealing, fans screaming, and beating the acrylic shields on top of the boards.

“Yes!” My arms shot into the air. I needed to be stoic like all the coaches in my life, but fuck that nonsense. My boy just scored his first goal in his first game… in my first game as a coach.

Scoring first in the game made it yours to lose. I learned that here at The U, and seeing the team’s celly after their drive proved the mindset still existed.

The period continued as it started. Didn’t matter what line we had on the ice, the team did exactly what they’d shown us in practice.

They moved together like water in the ocean; when one pushed, the others followed.

When one fell back, the others followed suit.

They danced over the ice, turning feral whenever necessary.

All of it made the crowd go wild. The atmosphere went from buzzing to electrified, until it vibrated in your chest. Will nudged me with his shoulder.

“Fucking never gets old, no matter what side of the boards you’re on, am I right?”

I nodded, still overwhelmed by it all, but I didn’t know if I agreed with him.

I knew I missed the sport, but being here, feeling the energy, stuck behind the bench, not on the ice made me miss playing all the more.

Then Aiden’s face came into view as he and the other guys carved up the ice when they sped past, and I smiled.

I’d never get over being forced to leave the ice, but, yeah… I could get used to this.

I think.

Chaos and pandemonium shook the locker room between the first and second periods. When the period ended, they carried that energy out of the room with them, exploding through the gate as they took the ice by storm.

But the Grizzlies were on the defensive, hungry for the W. You could see it in their eyes and in the way they moved. Our guys tried, but couldn’t get the biscuit in the basket. They defended well, though, so we were still up one-nothing when the third period started.

The Maulers carved up the ice, pushing and driving only to be denied. I don’t know what Alexi Ivanoff said to his team between periods, but the Grizzlies attacked and attacked and attacked. They never let up, an unending wave.

And then disaster struck.

Third period.

Five minutes left in the game.

Maulers up by one.

The puck careened around the boards, past all the Maulers and several Grizzlies, to one lone player.

The Grizzlies centerman scooped up the puck, racing down the ice on a breakaway. The thunks of his stick drowned out everything as it bounced on the ice around the puck.

“Fuck he’s fast,” Joey said, and I nodded .

So fucking fast. And from out of nowhere. All the film on the kid, number twenty, showed some speed, but nothing explosive like this.

“What’s his name?”

“Eisen. Jordan Eisen,” Will said.

Eisen drove toward the goal. Our first line chased after him.

Mercer, the fastest Mauler on the ice, closed in, but the kid had the jump on everyone.

The only thing between him and the tying goal was Ryan Riordan.

All I could do was stand and watch, praying that Riordan did what he does best: fill the net and stop the puck.

As if in slow motion, the lead the team worked so hard to maintain swirled down the fucking tubes. Eisen took the shot, the biscuit found the back of the basket as if Riordan wasn’t even in the building, much less the ice.

That goal turned the tide. The team rallied, but it was clear to see that the will to win was gone. The Grizzlies took control, and two more of their shots lit the lamp before the buzzer sounded.