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mad dog

Early November

I raced to the parking garage entrance, rolled down the window, and jabbed at the keypad like my life depended on it. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Not exactly the impression I wanted to make on my first day with the Warriors, rolling in late because of an accident on the highway. I grabbed my phone and scrolled frantically through emails, my pulse hammering in my ears. There it was, but goddammit —I’d been punching in the wrong code.

After another round of curses, I entered the correct one, and—boom—the gate opened like magic. I whipped into a spot in the players’ section, killed the engine, and reached for my coffee. Lukewarm, of course. Forty-five minutes sitting in a traffic jam had turned it into a sad, tepid excuse for caffeine. It would have to do because I didn’t know if I could survive practice without it.

I jumped out, took my gear bag from the trunk, and booked it toward the entrance. Five minutes until practice. I hadn’t met anyone yet, had no clue where I was going, and was about to burst into my first NHL locker room looking like an absolute tool. This was not how I pictured my big-league debut.

Through dumb luck, I found the players’ entrance and asked the security guard where to go.

He pointed to the left. “Down the hall and around the corner.”

I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and took off. The weight of my gear dragged me down on one side, but I powered through, picking up speed as I rounded the corner. Voices echoed ahead, and I hustled toward the locker room like a man on a mission—because I was.

I barreled in like a car taking a turn without hitting the brakes, then slammed into a brick wall. Except walls don’t usually grunt like they’ve been gut-punched and yell, “The fuck? Shit, look what you did.”

I stumbled back, coffee sloshing wildly. The guy I’d body-checked reeled too, swiping at his now-stained white jersey. My stomach dropped.

“Shit, sorry,” I said as my brain scrambled to place him. Brown hair, sharp hazel eyes, solid build, and a neatly trimmed beard… Holcomb. Second-line center. Fuck.

I dropped my gear bag and dug into my pocket for the napkins I’d grabbed at the coffee shop. “Let me…” Like an overwound toy, I dabbed at his chest as if I could erase my clumsiness through sheer determination. But the damage was done; the coffee had already soaked in.

Laughter broke out as a few guys wandered over to check out the chaos, and my face went up in flames. Fucking perfect. One foot in the door, and I was already the locker room punchline. For an instant, I considered turning around, running to my car, and driving back to Syracuse. Maybe the Soldiers—the Warriors’ farm team—would take me back. At least my old teammates would get a laugh out of how fast I managed to screw up.

“Stop it. Just fucking stop.” Holcomb’s hands clamped over mine, pinning them before I could smear the mess around any more.

“I’m sorry.” My voice shook like I was afraid of my own shadow. I didn’t need to make enemies, but I didn’t want to look like a pushover either. “I didn’t mean to… You’re Holcomb, right?”

He scowled down at his jersey. “First you spill coffee all over me, and then you go to town on my chest like I’m a goddamn stain-resistant couch.” He raised his head. “What the hell do you?—”

He stopped mid-rant. His mouth was still open, but no more words came out. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and looked at me suspiciously.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “I’m Holcomb.” He still didn’t sound friendly, but at least he wasn’t yelling anymore. “You’re the new guy, huh?”

His calmer tone cut through my panic, and I remembered who the hell I was. I was Mad Dog, not some scrawny kid who curled up and died the minute someone got pissy. What was up with him, anyway, acting like I’d ruined his life over a little spilled coffee? Please. Screw going back to Syracuse because he was the one who looked like an idiot, standing there with his pouty red face and soaked jersey, acting like someone canceled Christmas. The Warriors probably had dozens of jerseys in a storage room, and it would take Holcomb all of thirty seconds to change.

I straightened, met his eyes—big, shiny gold-and-green eyes—and smirked. “Yeah, I’m the new guy, and I just marked my territory.”

Holcomb blinked and then, against all odds, laughed, a deep, rough sound that cut through the tension like a skate blade through ice. I let out a laugh of my own, and the guys chuckled too. They returned to their stalls since the drama was over. I gave Holcomb an upward nod and stuck out my hand. “Chuck Madison,” I said, “but call me Mad Dog. Everyone does.”

His mouth twitched as we shook. “Mad Dog? Now that’s a name to live up to.” He held my gaze as a half-baked smile worked its way across his lips. “I’m Nate Holcomb, but call me Holky.” Snickering, he added, “Everyone does.”

“Get out of the way, Nate. Let him in.”

Holky held up his fist, and we bumped before he walked away.

The new arrival picked up my gear bag, then nodded at me. “I’m the equipment manager, and I’ll take care of this for you. We have a practice jersey and other things ready in your stall.”

He left before I could say thanks, and another man walked toward me—young and instantly familiar because of his messy dark hair and sharp jawline, not to mention the easy swagger of someone who’d made his name in every NHL arena in the country.

Holy shit. Harper Blanton.

Seeing him in person was surreal. He was a legit legend, and not only because of his highlight-reel goals. Not long after the Warriors traded for Harper, they went from ho-hum team to Stanley Cup champs. He’d changed everything, and now, with Jax Wyatt retired, Harper wore the C.

He stopped in front of me and offered a hand. “Hey, Chuck.” His grin was wide and friendly, his baby face completely at odds with his take-no-prisoners playing style. After we shook, he said, “Welcome to the Warriors. I’m Harper. You have any trouble getting to town?”

I stammered, sounding like a brainless fanboy. “Not at all, and I know who you are. You graduated from Mohegan the spring before my first year there.”

He placed a hand on my back and guided me into the room. “That’s right, but I’ve heard about you. You’re friends with Eckie, and he and I are good buddies. We were road roomies when I played for the Barracudas.”

“Love Eckie,” I said. “He was my first friend at Mohegan. A couple of days ago, he called to congratulate me on the call-up.”

“We’re all happy you’re here. With Carson out for the rest of the year, we’re hurting for another good winger.” We stopped in front of a stall with my name and number already on it. “This is you.”

It hit me all at once. The massive oval room was polished to a shine, and the Warriors’ logo glowed overhead like a beacon hung by the hockey gods themselves. The air was thick with the familiar mix of sweat and damp gear, and voices bounced off the walls. Everywhere I looked were faces I’d grown up watching on TV. Logan Grayson finished lacing his skates, then glanced over and gave me an upward nod. Holy fuck. In high school, I had his poster taped to my bedroom wall.

I’d spent my entire life dreaming of this moment, and the emotions surged so fast my eyes stung. Hell no. I blinked hard and clamped my jaw, willing the lump in my throat to go down. The last thing I needed was to be the rookie who cried on his first day.

Harper was watching me, so I swallowed and rasped out, “I’m thrilled to be here.”

His eyes softened. “Take it easy and find time to enjoy yourself. We’ve all had our first days in the league, and it’s something you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”

I took a deep breath, glad he understood. “Thanks, Harper.”

“Call me Harpy,” he said, “and Eckie says you go by Mad Dog.”

“Yup, that’s me.”

He nodded, then looked around and bellowed, “Warriors! Listen up.”

The din of voices quieted, and a guy called out, “Who’s your friend, Harpy?”

I looked over, and it was Gabe Donovan, the Warriors’ starting goalie. Fuck, he signed a program for me once.

Harpy spoke to everyone. “Boys, this is Mad Dog. He’s come from the Soldiers to save our asses, so let’s give him a welcome he won’t forget.”

Everyone clapped once, sharp as a gunshot, then unleashed a blood-curdling scream so loud it practically ripped the air in half. My stomach lurched, and a shiver ran up my spine.

When the echo faded, the silence left in its wake was just as intense. Harpy turned back to me. “That’s our battle cry. You’ll get used to it.”

I wasn’t so sure. My pulse was still drumming in my ears, but damn if it wasn’t the most badass welcome I’d ever had.

“Out of the way, Harpy. Let us get to him.”

It was Logan, and I barely had time to wonder what he would do when he “got to me” before he was shaking my hand and pounding me on the back. One by one, guys came over and said a quick hello.

After my introduction, the men headed for the ice. I hadn’t even put on my practice gear, and a quick glance at my watch confirmed it was already past starting time.

Harpy nodded toward my stall. “You should get changed. Coach had a last-minute meeting, so he pushed practice back half an hour. Get into your gear, and we’ll go warm up.”

He stuck around while I got dressed, making sure I had what I needed and keeping the conversation easy. We talked about Mohegan and then about Eckie. Harpy asked about my time in Syracuse, and I managed to string a few coherent thoughts together. He had a steady, nothing-rattles-me presence, and somehow, he kept me from crawling out of my skin. When we left for the ice, my heart was still racing, but it was more from excitement than nerves. No wonder they made him captain.

Coach Criswell barely spared me a glance before tossing out a gruff, “Welcome, Madison,” and getting down to business. No warm speeches, no unnecessary introductions—just right into the drills. Good. That, I could handle. But then he called for a scrimmage and put me in Carson’s old spot—left wing on the first line, with Harpy at center and Richie Mason on Harpy’s right. I got sweaty before we even lined up.

Way to put me on the spot, Coach.

The first few shifts were messy because Harpy, Richie, and I weren’t reading each other yet. Passes didn’t land clean, and I wasn’t sure whether to push in deep or hold back for coverage. I knew how to play the game, but instincts were different with every line, and my timing was half a second off. Harpy and Richie were the complete opposite. Fast and smart, they talked, adjusted, and filled the gaps without hesitation. They pulled me into their rhythm, making it seem easy. Soon, I was skating like I’d actually been on ice before, and the puck found my blade without me having to reach for it.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I registered what I saw in Harpy’s game: here and there were flashes of Benny Caldwell’s influence. Caldwell was the coach at Mohegan, so Harpy had Caldwell’s precision layered over his own style.

By the time Criswell called for the second period, our line wasn’t merely clicking; we were flying. The game slowed, the way it does when everything’s right. Ten minutes in, we were stringing together plays like we’d been doing it all year, and I was playing the best hockey of my life. I had no illusions about staying on the first line because I was sure Criswell was testing things out. It didn’t matter, though. I belonged out there, and I wanted him to see it.

Holky centered the second line, so we didn’t play together, but I caught him watching. He even shot me a sharp-edged grin, almost like he’d decided I wasn’t the worst thing to happen in his life.

When the scrimmage was over, Criswell barked out a perfunctory, “Well done, men,” and dismissed us.

Buzzing with excitement, I fell into line, heading for the locker room. Before I made it more than a few strides, Criswell called out again. “Madison, Harpy, Richie—a word, please.”

My pulse kicked as I turned toward him. I didn’t know what to make of his style yet, but the man had a long, legendary career. He made his name as a hard-nosed defenseman for the New York Condors, then coached Detroit for five years before taking over in Buffalo. That had to be at least fifteen years ago because he’d been with the Warriors as long as I could remember. He’d steered them through the leanest seasons of their history and then, last spring, to a Stanley Cup victory.

Harpy clapped me on the back. “Incredible, Mad Dog. You crushed it out there.”

“Fucking right,” Richie said with a grin. “You can play with me anytime.”

Criswell’s narrowed gaze shut us up. “What’s the verdict, boys? How’d it go?”

“Like you don’t know,” Harpy said, laughing. “It felt like we’ve been playing together for years. You were a genius bringing Mad Dog in.”

“ Mad Dog? ” Criswell repeated, his lips twisting like they wanted to form an actual smile. “Is that what we’re supposed to call you?”

The stress got to me, and I laughed—then coughed, trying to rein it in. “Most people do, Coach.”

Criswell glanced at Richie. “What do you think?”

“Mad Dog’s an awesome name.”

Criswell finally let a speck of amusement slip into his voice. “About the scrimmage , Richie.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, Coach.” Richie seemed totally unbothered. “That was the most fun I’ve had since Carson left. Mad Dog’s got the gift, if you ask me.”

Criswell let that settle for a beat before looking at me. “Mad Dog?” His lips almost— almost —tipped into a genuine smile. “Anything to say for yourself?”

I shrugged, still buzzing. “Did my best, Coach. Playing with these guys was kickass.”

Criswell eyed each of us, then nodded. “I concur. I’m leaving you on the first line for Saturday night’s game, Mad Dog.”

First line? Saturday? A game?

“Against Chicago?” I asked, swallowing hard.

“It’s the only game we’re playing this weekend, son.” Criswell raised a single brow. “You looked good out there. Don’t make me regret this.”

I snapped to attention. “Yes, Coach. I’ll give it everything I’ve got.”

Richie whooped, Harpy beamed, and Criswell—against all odds—broke into a full-fledged, one-hundred-percent genuine smile. As the three of us turned to go, he called my name. Harpy and Richie left me with him.

“We’ve got somewhere for you to stay until you find your own place,” Criswell said. “Have you met Holcomb?”

“Yes, but the team already has me in a hotel.”

He waved me off. “Hotels are for shit. We stay in enough of those on the road, and you’ll do better with someone to show you around town. Anyway, Holky’s playing host. See him before you leave and work out the details.”

Fuck me. Does Holky know about this? My stomach clenched as I headed for the locker room. I hoped this wasn’t about to turn into a tricky day.