Page 4 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

Rafe’s eyes were dry and itchy as he stared out the window streaked with melting snow.

The plane slowly taxied to the gate, sixteen hours after it was supposed to land. If he’d been tired before, he was half-dead now.

Rafe had made it to the Minneapolis airport with no issue, but he hadn’t even checked his bag when he found out his flight was delayed.

It happened again after he’d made it through security, and then again as he waited by his gate.

He’d finally left Minneapolis hours after he was supposed to, but somewhere around Michigan the storm had gotten worse and after some nasty turbulence, they’d been diverted to Detroit.

The landing hadn’t been any picnic either and they’d sat on the runway for hours waiting for word on when they could take off again.

Eventually, they’d been allowed off, the flight cancelled.

Annoyed and exhausted, Rafe had napped on the floor of the airport, fading in and out of sleep as he tried to keep one ear tuned for an announcement they were boarding the new flight he’d been put on.

That hadn’t happened until late this morning and now he only had a few hours before puck drop.

This wasn’t supposed to be how he started his career in Boston. He was supposed to get in last night, sleep hard, and meet the guys at the practice facility for an optional skate.

Not skid into the locker room at the arena at the last second with no time to spare.

All he could do now was get there as quickly as possible and not fuck up too much on the ice. He tried not to be an asshole and cut in front of people as he got off the plane and sprinted through Logan International in search of his bags, but he probably failed.

Hopefully no one recognized him.

When he burst through the doors of the airport and out into the cold air of Boston, he realized it didn’t feel any different than it had in Minneapolis.

He had a sudden stab of regret that he hadn’t gone to one of the teams in California or Florida or Texas or something. Being slapped in the face by warmth would make him feel like he was someplace new.

But no, it was snowy here too as his new general manager hopped out of his vehicle and greeted him.

“Welcome to Boston,” Gavin Racine said, holding out a hand.

“Thanks, uh, Gavin.” Rafe shook and plastered a smile on his face, trying to appear confident and happy to be there instead of dead on his feet and filled with the urge to turn around and head right back to the city where he’d spent a good chunk of his hockey career.

But Gavin was already grinning and reaching for his suitcase. “C’mon, let’s get loaded up and get you to the Hawk’s Nest.”

Gavin made small talk on the way to the arena as Rafe tried to reply while holding on to his seat, hoping he didn’t die. He knew Massachusetts drivers were insane, but he didn’t even think Gavin was from here!

Wasn’t he from Pennsylvania or something?

Gavin kept his foot on the accelerator the whole time and took corners as quickly as possible while Rafe quietly feared for his life.

When they finally skidded up to the arena, sliding into a spot near the players’ entrance, Gavin grimly said, “I hope you don’t have too long of a pre-game routine.”

Rafe grinned, mostly out of sheer relief he’d arrived in one piece. “Nah, it’s not too bad,” he said as he opened his door.

After throwing his keys to a surprised-looking security guard, Gavin helped Rafe unload his belongings.

Rafe went for his sticks, skates, and gloves, while Gavin wrestled with the other two bags.

He got a whirlwind tour of the arena as they hurried down the corridors leading to the locker room.

Rafe didn’t have the heart to tell the guy he wasn’t going to remember any of it, and felt grateful when Gavin said, “We’ll do a full tour when you get your badge and everything. But this’ll have to do for now.”

“No, I appreciate it,” Rafe said, his heart racing when they approached the locker room, but whether it was from the adrenaline of the ride wearing off, the race to the locker room, his nerves, or all of those things, he wasn’t sure.

Gavin swiped his badge across the card reader next to the double doors with the Harriers’ hawk logo. “I’ll leave your luggage with the equipment manager. They have your uniform ready for you. We put you in a stall next to Mouse.”

Mouse—as Gavin had explained when they’d spoken earlier—was his new D-partner, Mickey Krause. He was a twenty-three-year-old guy from Germany who’d played in the DEL for a few years before coming over to North America.

Rafe sucked in a deep breath when the doors swung open, but he paused, turning to look at Gavin before he stepped inside. “Thanks,” he said, past the sudden thickness in his throat. “Thanks for getting me here.”

He meant a hell of a lot more than the ride from the airport. Because as scary as it was to start fresh, it felt good too. Like he could be free of all of the messy feelings he’d been dealing with in Minnesota.

He’d liked the Twin Cities, named for Minneapolis and St. Paul, which were on either side of the river. But he needed this clean slate, with a new team in a new city.

“I hope it works out for you,” Gavin said, meeting his gaze, his voice filled with sincerity. “Sometimes, we all need a fresh start.”

Rafe nodded, smiling when he realized Gavin had understood exactly what he hadn’t been able to say aloud, then stepped through the doors into the locker room.

It exploded with noise when a young guy with curly brown hair whooped out a greeting, shouting something that got lost in the noise.

His new captain, Connor O’Shea, rose to his feet, smiling, holding out a hand. “Hey! Glad you finally made it, Rafael. We’re glad to have you here.”

“Rafe,” he muttered as he shook, because it was only his grandmother who called him Rafael.

A half-dressed goalie lumbered over, and he realized it was Jesse Webber.

Rafe flinched at the reminder Jesse and Connor were dating—God, at least Logan hadn’t been his captain —but Jesse was all smiles, patting him on the shoulder and tugging another guy over.

Mouse, Rafe realized.

“Rafe, this is Mickey Krause, your new D-partner,” Jesse said cheerfully, elbowing the guy forward. “But we call him Mouse.”

Rafe studied his face. Mickey had fine dark-blond hair falling over his forehead in messy little tufts, and very blue eyes. His skin was pale, but sort of golden, like he was someone who tanned easily in the summers but hadn’t actually been out in the sunshine in a while.

Of course, it was the end of December, well into the grind of the season, so that wasn’t a surprise.

“Hi, Mouse,” Rafe said automatically, holding out a hand.

“Hi.” Mouse’s voice was very soft, but his palm was rough and calloused like every other hockey player’s Rafe had encountered.

“What’s your nickname?” Jesse asked brightly. “Do you have one you want to bring in from the Acorns?”

“No,” Rafe said, although Logan had definitely called him Moon Pie.

It had started out teasing, then turned affectionate. Now, Rafe sincerely hoped he never heard that nickname again.

“It’s cool,” the guy with the curly dark hair said, sticking out a hand and grinning. “I’m sure we’ll come up with something great for you. I’m Tanner but they call me Clay.”

That would be Tanner Clayton then. Rafe had studied the roster while he lay on the floor in the Detroit airport, doing the only thing he could to prepare for this new life.

Tanner’s grin was infectious, lighting up his whole face, and something in Rafe relaxed at the sight of it. Something about him felt safe. Friendly, in a non-threatening way.

“Hi, Clay,” he managed.

“So, it looks like you’ll be on the second D-pair with Mouse. I’m usually on the top D-pair with Crawford here.”

Another guy stepped forward, dressed in a pair of boxer briefs and nothing else, his entire chest, arms, and back covered in tattoos.

“Luke,” was all he said, brushing limp dark hair out of his eyes.

“Yeah, we’ve met,” Rafe replied drily. Crawford had absolutely trucked him last season, flattening him into a pancake and leaving him bruised all over.

Crawford grinned and there was a little glint in his eye as if to say he remembered, and he’d enjoyed it.

Well, better to be on the same side as the crazy bastard than opposite him, Rafe supposed.

“Hey, why don’t you have a nickname, anyway?” Tanner asked, peering up at Luke. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Tanner wasn’t small by normal human standards—over six feet tall—but he seemed tiny to Rafe who had hovered somewhere around giant as long as he could remember.

Crawford was a lot closer to Rafe’s size than Tanner’s.

Grinning at Tanner, Crawford grabbed him by his base layer, lifting him up onto his toes with a flex of his upper arm. “Because I don’t like them.”

“ Riiight ,” Tanner said, clearly not at all deterred by the intimidation attempt. “That makes sense.”

Tanner kept talking, chattering on about something or other while Luke continued to hold him up.

Confused, Rafe turned and looked at Mickey.

He shrugged, his voice still very soft. “Don’t ask.

They’re like that all the time. Tanner gets on Crawford’s nerves, and Crawford likes to try to intimidate him.

It works with most rookies, but from what I can tell, nothing shuts Tanner up.

I can say that because he’s my roommate,” he hastily added under his breath.

Huh . Listening closely, he could hear the soft hints of Mickey’s German accent, though his English was very smooth and easy to understand.

“Okay,” Rafe said with a shrug, because whatever. There were weird guys all over the league and this seemed mild compared to some of the shit he’d seen.

“So,” Connor said, appearing at his elbow. “You wanna get settled in your stall and do your warmup real quick? The clock’s ticking.”

“Yeah,” Rafe said, feeling grateful because his head was totally spinning from everything that had happened in the past few days. “That would be good.”

Rafael Moon was Level 4 beefcake.