Page 11 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

Tanner and Mickey were playing keep-away when Rafe stepped out onto the ice.

He watched Mickey get his shoulder under Tanner’s, dislodging his stick and knocking the puck away from the blade.

Tanner let out a frustrated yelp and Mickey laughed, the sound echoing around the empty rink.

Rafe had never heard him laugh like that. It was loud and happy, and it made Rafe smile. A lot about Mickey made him smile.

All of the guys seemed great so far, but something about Mickey made him feel … chill. Made him feel like he was taken care of. Like he really noticed Rafe and could tell what he wanted without Rafe having to stumble through trying to explain it.

Tanner was great too though, and Rafe was excited about checking out their place later.

“Good hustle, guys!” Coach Hoyt called out, stepping onto the ice not too far from where Rafe was. “I like seeing the initiative. Practice will begin in five but we’re still waiting for a few stragglers.”

Rafe nodded and flashed a tentative smile at his new coach. He was dressed in a warmup suit, skates, and gloves, and carried a stick. A barrel-chested man with a beard gone white and kind eyes.

Hoyt must have taken Rafe’s smile as an invitation because he glided over. “How are you doing, Moon?”

“Pretty good,” Rafe said honestly. “Just trying to get settled in.”

“Is everyone being welcoming?”

“Yeah, they’re great! Mickey has been driving me around and he and Tanner invited me to do lunch and some gaming later.”

“Glad to hear it. You come to me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay. I will.”

“Good.” Hoyt tapped the toe of his skate with his stick blade, then glided away. The remaining stragglers had arrived, so Hoyt blew his whistle.

“Okay,” he called out when everyone was assembled around him in a semi-circle, listening intently. “We’re going to warm up with some passing and shooting drills.”

They divided into two groups and each group lined up on opposite sides of the ice along the boards near the red line. Arkady Romaschenko was in one goal and Jesse Webber the other. Coach Hoyt stood off to one side while the associate coach—Rasmussen—set out cones in the center of the ice.

The object of the drill was for a player to weave around the cone while receiving the puck, then pass it to the guy on the opposite side, receive another pass, skate toward the goal, shoot the puck, then join the line on the other side.

Players wove back and forth, passing, shooting, and warming up their bodies and minds.

It was a familiar rhythm for Rafe, and he settled into it, letting muscle memory take over so he didn’t get tripped up about the fact the uniform colors were all wrong and the logo on the ice was a hawk instead of an acorn.

He studied the logo while he waited for his next turn.

And okay, objectively, the hawk was cool. Way cooler than an acorn for sure. Seriously, who the fuck named their ice hockey team after a fucking tree nut? Real intimidating there.

The Harriers mascot was better too. Blaze the Hawk was definitely more awesome than Chippy the Chipmunk.

But badass logo or not, he missed his boys in Minnie.

He’d gotten some texts from his former teammates, which was nice, but they all knew what would happen eventually.

After a while, the messages would slow down.

Guys would get busy or make friends with the new trade or the call-ups or whatever. It was … whatever.

Rafe was used to it.

It happened all the time. On every team, in every league. It was how hockey worked. The season got crazy, and it was impossible to keep up with everyone.

His boys, the ones he was really close to, he’d maybe keep in contact with them.

He’d plan a trip during bye week or in the off-season, maybe.

Rafe would probably keep up with Zach but the rest would slowly disappear for the most part, except for maybe a Happy Birthday message or a quick text after a particularly good game.

The only other guy he’d been super close to was … Logan.

Rafe definitely wasn’t going to be texting Logan.

“Yo, move it, Moon,” Ben Estrada said, nudging his shoulder with the butt end of his stick.

Rafe blinked, realizing he was a beat behind and took off, feeling a satisfying thud on the blade of his stick when the puck connected. He carried it around the cone, shooting it to Mickey where it landed squarely on his tape.

He caught a glimpse of Mickey’s bright smile before he wheeled away. Rafe accepted another pass from some guy whose name he couldn’t remember. He skated toward the goal with the puck on his stick and fired it.

Jesse batted it away, chirping him about his aim, and Rafe laughed. He’d never been much of a goal scorer. The most he’d ever gotten in a single season was five, so it wasn’t like anyone was expecting him to rack up the numbers.

But if he could connect with Mickey and do his job on the penalty kill, maybe that would be enough.

A while later, they were all done with the drill to Hoyt’s satisfaction, Rafe skated to a stop, purposefully bumping Mickey. “Hey,” he said. “We did pretty good with our passing, huh?”

Mickey glanced at him, cheeks pink and blue eyes bright as he nodded. He looked happy, which made Rafe happy too.

After, they did breakout sequences from each end of the ice, focused on the power play and penalty kills for a while, then played a quick scrimmage.

The earlier high didn’t last though. Rafe felt like he was still scrambling and out of position half the time and he could see the frustration on Mickey’s face when they finished.

He opened his mouth to apologize to Mickey but got a look back that made him snap his mouth shut.

“Don’t,” Mickey said warningly, though he didn’t look mad.

“I was just going to?—”

“I know what you were going to do,” Mickey said with a laugh, jostling him. “And I’m telling you not to.”

Rafe sighed. “Can I say I wish it had gone better?”

“Sure,” Mickey said. “I’ll allow that. But how about we stay after for a little bit and work on some stuff?”

“Yeah? You don’t mind?” Rafe smiled hopefully at him.

“Hey, it’s for me too.” Mickey said with a shrug as he skated off to ask the associate coach, Rasmussen, for help.

Which … holy shit. Sometimes it still amazed Rafe that they got to work with guys like him.

Rasmussen was a Norwegian player whose legendary career as a high-scoring forward for the New York Rockets had been cut short by a particularly brutal knee-injury during a playoff run. Rumor had it, New York would have won if not for Rasmussen being taken out.

His knee didn’t seem to be bothering him now though as he glided over. “Hey, guys,” he said. “You would like some help?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said.

“You don’t want me to get Andy? He should still be around.”

Andy Munroe was the defensive coach for the team.

“I talked to him earlier,” Mickey said. “He had an appointment today he needed to leave for so he couldn’t stay. I know what drills to do. We just need someone to help.”

“Then tell me what to do.” Rasmussen smiled at them.

Privately, Rafe didn’t think he’d ever be okay telling a coach what to do, but Mickey didn’t hesitate, talking about a Neutral Zone Exchange drill that was better with a full D-corps but doable for two guys, plus a coach.

Rafe had certainly done the drill before, but it had been a little while. When he said that, Mickey pointed to where Rafe needed to go, told Rasmussen where he should stand, then skated into position along the half wall like he expected them to follow his orders.

Rafe glanced over at Rasmussen before he skated to the opposite half wall, but Rasmussen didn’t look upset or anything. He was smiling at little as he skated to his position at center ice.

Mickey was pretty ballsy for a rookie, Rafe thought, impressed.

Mickey started it off, and it was easy enough. They passed to the coach and one another, banking their passes around the boards behind the net and practicing their reverse passes off the back of their sticks. Rasmussen helped with the passing and kept an eye on their gap control.

Rafe felt better by the time they ended, getting a feel for Mickey’s stride and pacing.

“Thanks,” Rafe said softly as they tromped off the ice a while later.

“Like I said, it’s for me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We can do this,” Mickey said firmly.

“If you say so.” Rafe bumped his gloved knuckles against Mickey’s, giving him a big smile.

The locker room had pretty much cleared out by the time they got there, and Mickey went to the gym to do a light workout.

Rafe’s back was feeling a little weird, so he went to the training room to get that looked at.

“Looks like you’re a bit tight. Probably from all the travel you did,” the trainer said, after he’d done some poking and prodding. “Lie face down on the table and I’ll work it out. You might talk to Dakota Crane too. See if he can help you gently stretch those muscles with some yoga.”

“Okay,” Rafe said, following the guy’s instructions. The vinyl cushion on the table was cold against his bare chest. He turned his head to one side and saw Connor O’Shea on his back at the table next to him while another trainer worked on his shoulder.

Connor smiled at him, though it turned into a grimace when the guy hit a sore spot. “Hey, I was hoping I would catch you before you left for the day.”

“Oh?” Rafe asked a little warily.

“Yeah. Nothing bad,” Connor said. “Just wanted to be sure you were settling in okay and that you didn’t need anything.”

“No, no, I’m good,” Rafe said, at once grateful everyone cared and tired of being asked.

“The hotel’s fine?”

“Yeah. Very comfortable,” he assured his new captain.

“Any thoughts on where in the city you want to live?”

“Uhh, no,” Rafe admitted, grunting at the trainer digging in. He always felt like a big slab of meat when he was being worked on like this. “I barely know where anything is here.”

Connor smiled faintly, the expression almost hidden behind his auburn beard. “You sound like Jesse did when he arrived.”