Page 5 of Slap Shot (Blades Hockey #5)

Weston

A few days after my blow up with Daisy, and the boys are giving me a wide berth while we get ready for our game against New York.

Everyoneˇs at their stalls, shedding their game day suits and donning their gear. Usually, the dressing room is a hub of activity and chatter, some guys kicking around a hacky sack to get the blood flowing while others choose stillness, taping and re-taping their sticks with meditative precision. Tonight, the room is as silent as a morgue.

It feels like a bad omen.

Seated on the bench in front of my stall, I try to block out the eerie silence by hunching my big frame over to pull on my left skate and then my right one. As my fingers tangle in the laces, someone across the room from me sneezes and gets shushed by one of the rookies.

Shushed .

Like heˇs a toddler screaming in a library.

Before I can change my mind, Iˇm peeling off my skates and striding across the room in my hockey socks. A few of my teammates turn to warily glance my way. Kammer, on the other hand, looks like heˇs about two seconds away from trotting over to me, golden retriever smile firmly in place, only for Hunt to swat the back of the rookieˇs head, wordlessly telling him to leave me alone.

I donˇt need to be left alone.

Itˇs not one of my pre-game rituals.

What I need is music blasting over the speakers. I need the guys to not treat me like Iˇm a ticking time bomb theyˇre worried about setting off. I need to pull on my gear, from left to right, and then I need to tape my stick, make the same stupid joke with Beaumont that I did last season before we won game seven in the final round of playoffs, and when all thatˇs said and done, I need to head out onto the ice, stick held in my left hand even though Iˇm a righty.

The second that Journeyˇs ¨Donˇt Stop Believinˇ〃 comes on, itˇs like I can finally breathe again. Although as far as music goes, Iˇm not exactly a fan of

¨Aw, you love me, donˇt you, Cain.〃

I flash our new starting goalie, Tommy Kase, the middle finger. ¨This song is trash, Kasey, and you know it.〃

The banter is enough to break the tension, thank fuck. Half the team starts blundering their way through the lyrics, singing at the top of their lungs, while the rest groan good-naturedly and hurl balled-up socks at me as I head back to my stall with my arms raised up by my head to ward off the attack. The too-tight feeling in my chest loosens.

There we go. A little bite of chaos to keep thing moving along. Exactly how I like it.

After I sit back down, I start from the top again.

Left skate. Right skate.

Left laces. Right laces.

Then the door to the dressing room swings open and Sam Hall storms inside with Jackson Carter and the other assistant coaches trailing a few steps behind them. Coach signals for someone to turn off the music. Just like that, weˇre back to being a morgue again.

¨Fuck,〃 I mutter under my breath, slumping back on the bench.

¨Gather around, boys,〃 Coach booms loudly. Iˇve known him since my UConn days and not much has changed in the last ten yearsless hair, maybe, and heˇs grown a little rounder in the middle, but otherwise heˇs the same Sam Hall known for making grown men cry with just a single, laser-eyed glare. He pulls a toothpick from his shirt pocket and sticks it into his mouth, talking nimbly around the thin strip of wood. ¨Iˇm sure youˇve all heard the news.〃

No one asks him to elaborate.

I fold one hand over my opposite wrist, pressing my thumb against my rabbiting pulse. And I keep my gaze fixed on Coach, who drops his hands to his belted waist. His suit jacket is missing, which is how I know heˇs more flustered than heˇs letting on. Sam Hall is always pulled together; I used to think that he slept in his game day suits.

¨Seems weˇve got a journalist in our midst, and for once, Iˇm not talking about Charlie Denton.〃 At the mention of Duke Harrisonˇs new bride, there are a few awkward chuckles as if no oneˇs really sure whether the comment was meant to be a joke. Coach clears his throat. ¨Thereˇll be a team meeting later this week to discuss Confessions of a Puck Bunny. You got concerns, bring them up then. Iˇm only mentioning it now because Morleyˇs spent his entire afternoon making a fuss online. Heˇs going to be a fucking menace on the ice tonight, and I want all of you prepared if he tries to start anything.〃

Joe Morley plays on New Yorkˇs second line.

There were rumblings a few years ago that he was cheating on his wife; rumblings that cracked wide open when Bunnyfuck, correction, when Daisy exposed his infidelity on social media. Turns out that Mrs. Morley spilled the beans to Daisy, but Iˇm guessing Joe doesnˇt really care to dwell on the specifics. Mrs. Morley is now the former Mrs. Morley, and Joe never bothered to sign a prenup. On top of losing half of everything in the divorce, heˇs been playing like shit the last few seasons, so Iˇm not surprised that heˇs out for blood. Heˇs a desperate man clinging to whatˇs left of a dying career.

Canˇt relate.

¨This is how itˇs going to go,〃 Coach says as he meets the gaze of every player. When he skips right over me, I press harder on my quickened pulse point until I can feel the reverberation of my measured breathing all the way down to my toes. ¨Youˇre going to play clean. Youˇre going to ignore any and all trash talk〃

¨Oh, cˇmon, Coach. Thatˇs the best part of hockey!〃

Rolling his eyes at Kammer, Coach continues, ¨And youˇre going to go out there and remind New York who won the Cup less than six months ago. You hear me?〃

The dressing room erupts with raucous cheering.

¨Great. Now finish upyouˇve got twenty minutes.〃 Coach shifts the toothpick to the opposite corner of his mouth before finding my gaze amidst a sea of hockey players. ¨Cain? A quick word.〃

Fuck.

Thankfully, he makes his way toward me instead of the other way around. Despite my friendship with Daisy, I wouldnˇt go so far as to say that I consider Sam Hall to be a second father. We get along just fine. Iˇve spent holidays camped out at his dining table and more nights than I can count washing his dinner plate in the sink. Weˇre close, friendly, even, but careful about not crossing boundaries. At the end of the day, I donˇt owe him my lifeI would have gotten here with or without his helpbut I still owe him a lot, and that includes showing professional deference as one of his veteran players.

Shifting to the side, I offer him room on the bench.

His bones audibly creak as he lowers down beside me, his shiny black dress shoes catching the florescent lighting as he plants them hip-width apart on the floor. Without preamble, he announces, ¨Iˇm considering keeping you off the ice tonight.〃

My stomach pitches uneasily. ¨All right.〃

Lacing his fingers together, Coach rests his elbows on his spread knees and lowers his head. To be honest, he looks like shitlike whatever comes after even the fumes heˇs been running on have gone dust-dry. With a rough sigh, he shoves a hand through his thinning white hair. ¨Look here, kid, this isnˇt about punishing you.〃

Heˇs been calling me ¨kid〃 since my freshman year at UConn.

Itˇs a nickname that heˇs reserved for Daisy, too.

I remind myself that me and Sam Hall, weˇve got ironclad boundaries. Coach. Player. At the end of the day, it doesnˇt matter that his daughter is my favorite person in the world. In this buildingon the ice, especiallyall that matters is hockey. Plus, Iˇve never been one to kiss ass to net me more playing time, and Iˇm not about to start now. Iˇve more than earned my place on this team.

¨Didnˇt think it was about punishing me.〃 I nod toward the others with a small lift of my chin. ¨If youˇre wanting to give the rookies more ice-time, I get it. Honestly, Bjorn could use〃

¨Itˇs not about the rookies.〃

Tension binds my muscles into stiff knots. ¨Then I donˇt understand.〃

Because if itˇs not about the rookies, then itˇs about me , and Iˇve never given anyone in management a reason to put me on the bench. Unlike Beaumont, who wears hockey player tears on his knuckles like diamond rings, I rarely end up in the sin bin after getting physical. Thatˇs not my style. I can do more for my team on the ice than I can from behind a sheet of Plexiglas.

My confusion must be apparent because Coach tilts his head just enough to swing his gaze up to meet mine. ¨Youˇre my girlˇs best friend, arenˇt you?〃

¨You already know the answer to that.〃

¨Maybe I want to hear you say it out loud.〃

Because heˇs doubting it all of a sudden? Ignoring the lingering tension in my shoulders, I lean back and grab my stick from my stall, lowering its familiar weight across my thighs. From what he said, heˇs thinking about keeping me off the ice, which isnˇt the same as youˇre benched . If thereˇs any hope in me having a good game, then I need to finish getting ready. I pluck a roll of cloth tape from my duffel bag.

¨There isnˇt anything I wouldnˇt do for your daughter, Coach.〃 I keep my focus centered on the well-practiced, fluid motion of my hands. ¨Told her yesterday that Iˇd bury a body for her, if thatˇs what she needed.〃

¨Would you fight a player over her?〃

¨Generally speaking, I leave the fighting to Beaumont.〃

¨Generally speaking, my daughter hasnˇt personally lit a fuse under Joe Morleyˇs ass.〃

¨Iˇm not gonna lose my temper just because the guy canˇt keep his mouth shut.〃 Over the years, Iˇve learned to mentally disengage from whatˇs said in the heat of the game. Most of the time, Iˇm so focused on the puck that trash talk just skates right past meno pun intended. ¨Iˇm not worried about it.〃

From the corner of my eye, I watch Coach closely, taking stock of his perfectly neutral expression. But a quick tick of movement in my periphery snaps my gaze downward, to where Coachˇs knee is bouncing anxiously. The moment he realizes that Iˇve noticed, he jumps to his feet and busies himself with plucking another toothpick from his shirt pocket. ¨Any other day, Iˇd be happy to watch you defend my daughterˇs honor, but not when I need your head in the game. Iˇll let you play, but donˇtdonˇt make me regret this, Cain.〃

¨You wonˇt,〃 I start to say, but heˇs already turned away.

Fuck Joe Morley.

No, really, fuck that fucking cunt-face piece of

Beaumont shoves me against the boards, panting hard as his dark brown eyes glitter with frustration behind his visor. He jabs a gloved hand at my face. ¨Pull your head out of your ass, Cain. Heˇs not worth the energy.〃

¨You heard what he said.〃 About her. What he said about Daisy .

¨Yeah, I did. And heˇll say worse if he knows that itˇs getting to you.〃

Beyond my captainˇs shoulder, I spy Morleyˇs red-and-white away game jersey as he skates off with the puck. When I make a sudden move to follow, Beaumont gives me another rough shake. ¨Head out of your ass,〃 he growls in warning, ¨or Iˇll do it for you.〃

Then heˇs gone, and Iˇm hot on his heels.

Our exchange lasts ten seconds, if that, but ten seconds in hockey is the equivalent of a lifetime. In the time that it took for Beaumont to put me in my place, Huntˇs managed to sweep up the puck in a turnover that he sends over the blue line with a clean wrist shot to his linemate, veteran winger Henri Bordeaux. From there, they jostle the biscuit back and forth like two kids playing a high stakes game of keep-away, but the shot Bordeaux finally takes on the net rebounds off the pipes and gets picked up by New York again.

I keep my cool.

Head down, reflexes sharp, I stay locked in for the rest of the second period and well into the third. Itˇs not until thereˇs four minutes left on the clock, and weˇre up 2-1, that Joe Morleyˇs line change matches up with mine again. And even then, I do what Coach ordered, what Beaumont told me

I dutifully ignore the fucker.

Well, as much as the game allows, at any rate. I battle it out with him against the boards, stalk him from one end of the defensive zone to the other, and keep him far away from the net every time that he so much as dares to breathe in Kaseyˇs direction. Beaumont sends the puck sailing past center ice, but it feels like not even thirty seconds later that weˇre back on the prowl, sabotaging every attempt New York makes to score.

Itˇs only when Iˇm tussling for the three-inch slab of rubber with Morleyˇs linemate, Douglas North, that shit hits the fan.

Thing is, Iˇve spent all night enduring vitriol from Morleygritting my teeth, biting my tonguethat when North opens his mouth, I honestly donˇt think twice about whatever heˇs said, just let it wash over me like everything else because Iˇm not about to let my boys down by losing my temper. But then he says it again, with his helmet striking mine as he tries to shoulder me out of the way, and this time, I hear him loud and crystal fucking clear:

¨You into ice-cold cunts, Cain?〃

My heart thuds viciously against my rib cage. ¨The fuck did you just say?〃

¨Ice-cold cunts,〃 he sneers while slashing his stick at the elusive puck. His elbow catches me in the side. ¨Frigid pussies. You gotta be into freezing your dick off with the way youˇre always chasing Hallˇs daughter around. But maybe thatˇs why sheˇs such a two-faced bitchmust be exhausting letting her fatherˇs team run train on her all〃

Later, Iˇll tell Coach that I donˇt remember grabbing North by the jersey. No one who reviews the footage will believe me, of course, but for the first time in my career, I donˇt give a fuck. Because the last thing that I really do remember is shoving Douglas North down onto his back and straddling his waist. I remember ripping off his helmet and sending it skidding across the ice before slamming my fist down into his ugly fucking mug. And I remember doing it again, and again.

So, yeah.

Generally speaking, I leave the fighting to Andre Beaumont.

But generally speaking, if you fuck with Daisy Hall that means you fuck with me .