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Chapter twenty-five

Eric

B art Knowles. The name feels like acid on my lips as I mutter it.

He is already loud and obnoxious when I walk into the locker room, his voice carrying over the usual pre-practice chatter. I see him standing near the back of the room, surrounded by a couple of the younger guys, and I immediately feel tense. His first day with the Avalanche, and he’s already acting like he owns the place.

I’m not in the mood for this. Not right after Christmas. My legs still feel like they’re made of lead from my own workout in the gym yesterday, and my head’s spinning from everything going on off the ice. The contract, the media, my relationship—or whatever it is—with Jessica. I’ve been juggling so many things, I can barely keep it together.

Bart sees me and narrows his eyes. The jerk. He’s going to be trouble, I can feel it. I ignore him at first, heading to my locker to gear up for practice, but I can feel him watching me, waiting. And sure enough, as soon as I start pulling my skates out of my bag, he makes his move.

“Well, well, well,” Bart says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look who it is. Big Shot Gator. Gonna throw some punches today, huh? Or you saving that for the games?”

I grit my teeth, not wanting to take the bait. But Bart’s the kind of guy who doesn’t let things slide. He’s always been like that, even back in Nashville when we were rivals. Cocky, loud, and always looking for a fight.

“You got something to say?” I mutter, keeping my focus on my gear.

Bart steps closer, his skates clinking against the floor, making him my height. Almost. I still have two inches on him, though I’m not in my skates yet.

“Just wondering if you’re planning on pulling any of that same shit you did in Nashville, bro. You know, getting into fights with your own teammates. Real solid move.”

My jaw clenches, and I finally meeting his gaze. “Why would I fight my own teammate, Bart? You’re not that important. Besides, you’re supposed to have my back out there. Or did you forget?”

Bart laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Right, but you’re still the guy who couldn’t keep his cool on the ice. Got yourself shipped out here because of it, didn’t you?”

The reminder stings. I don’t need him to tell me why I ended up in Denver. I know damn well why I’m here. But hearing it from him, of all people, rubs salt in the wound.

“Shut up, Bart,” I say, my voice low. “We’re on the same team. Act like it.”

“Oh, I’m acting like it,” Bart says, his voice mocking. “Just don’t expect me to play babysitter for you if you decide to lose your temper again. I’m not getting dragged into whatever drama you’re bringing to this team.”

Before I can respond, Coach Bill Stanton steps in between us, his face hard with frustration. “Knock it off, both of you,” he snaps. “This is exactly the kind of bullshit I don’t want to see on this team. You’re supposed to be professionals. If you can’t keep it together in the locker room, how the hell are you going to keep it together on the ice?”

I look away, biting back a retort. I can feel the eyes of the rest of the team on us, everyone waiting to see how this is going to play out. This isn’t the way I wanted things to go. Not with Bart, not with Coach, and definitely not in front of the guys.

Coach turns to me, his eyes narrowing. “Eric, I’m serious. If you want to stay on this team, you need to get along with everyone. You’re not in Nashville anymore, and this team isn’t going to tolerate that kind of crap. Got it?”

I stare at him—he’s calling me out like this, as if I did something wrong? What the heck! The unfair words sting. I’ve been trying—damn hard—to keep things together since I got to Denver, but it feels like it’s not good enough.

Bart smirks, clearly enjoying the show, and it takes everything in me not to deck him right here and now. But I don’t. I just nod, muttering with a long, cold look at Coach, “Got it.”

Coach looks at me for a moment, meeting me stare for stare, then turns to Bart. “Same goes for you, Knowles. I know you’ve got a history with Eric, but that’s in the past. You’re on the Avalanche now. Act like it, or you’ll be out of here faster than you can say trade.”

Bart raises his hands in mock surrender, but I can see the smugness in his eyes. “Sure thing, Coach. Just trying to keep the peace.”

“Bullshit,” I mutter under my breath, but Coach catches it.

“What was that, Gator?” he asks, his voice sharp.

I shrug, not really caring anymore. “Nothing. Just thinking maybe this trade here isn’t for me. Where’s the fucking loyalty, man?”

The words slip out before I can stop them, and for a second, the locker room goes silent. I feel the weight of Coach’s stare on me, and I know I’ve crossed a line. But the truth is, I’m tired. Tired of the pressure, tired of the drama, tired of feeling like I’m stuck between two worlds—one where I’m supposed to be the team’s star player and another where I’m trying to figure out what the hell is going on with my life… with my mom, and with Jess.

Coach doesn’t say anything for a moment, just studies me with that unreadable expression he gets when he’s deciding whether to rip someone a new one or let it slide. Finally, he just shakes his head. “Get your ass on the ice, Warren. And leave that bullshit back in Nashville.”

I grab my helmet, trying to shake off the tension as I head out of the locker room and onto the ice. But Bart’s words are still rattling around in my head, and I can’t help but feel like everything’s starting to spiral out of control.

Practice is tense. Everyone can feel it. Passes are sloppy, shots are off-target, and the usual easy banter between the guys is practically nonexistent.

I’m skating drills with Ryan when I see Bart out of the corner of my eye, glaring at me from across the rink. I try to ignore him, focusing on the puck, but it’s like there’s this invisible weight pressing down on me, making it impossible to concentrate.

“You okay, man?” Ryan asks, his voice low as we skate toward the boards. “You seem… off.”

I shrug, not wanting to get into it. “Just tired. Long couple of days.”

Ryan nods, but I can tell he’s not convinced. “Yeah, well, don’t let Bart get to you. He’s just trying to stir the pot. He’d love to get you suspended for some crazy reasons that probably don’t even make sense.”

I glance over at Bart again, watching as he lazily skates circles around one of the other guys, clearly not taking practice seriously. “Yeah, I know.”

But knowing it doesn’t make it any easier. The thing is, Bart and I go way back. Back to Nashville, back to when we were both fighting for the same spot on the roster. He’s always been a thorn in my side, always looking for ways to undermine me, and now, with him on the Avalanche, it feels like history’s repeating itself.

We finish the drill, and Coach blows the whistle, calling everyone over for a quick huddle. His face is tight, and I can tell he’s not happy with how practice is going.

“Listen up,” he says, his voice carrying across the ice. “I know it’s been a long couple of days with the holidays. I know you’re all rusty and still in vacation mindsets. But we’ve got a game coming up, and if this is how you’re going to play, we’re screwed. So, let’s cut the crap and start focusing. Got it?”

There’s a chorus of mumbled agreements, but I can feel the frustration simmering beneath the surface. No one’s really into it today, and Coach knows it.

He lets out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “All right, listen. We’re going to need all hands on deck if we want to make a real run this season, so I expect you all to work together, got it?”

I catch Bart’s eye, and he smirks. It’s like he knows exactly how much this is going to mess with me, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

“Now, let’s get back to work,” Coach says, blowing the whistle again.

The rest of practice is a blur. I go through the motions, skating, shooting, trying to keep my head in the game, but it’s hard. Every time I catch a glimpse of Bart, my frustration grows. He’s skating half-heartedly, barely putting in any effort, and it’s pissing me off.

By the time practice ends, I’m drained—physically, mentally, emotionally. I head back to the locker room, trying to keep my cool, but as soon as I sit down, Bart plops down on the bench next to me, grinning like he’s just won the lottery.

“Man, you really are wound up, aren’t you?” he says, laughing.

I don’t respond. I’m too tired for this.

“You know,” Bart continues, leaning in a little closer, “if you’re thinking about taking that trade offer that everyone is whispering about in the league, maybe now’s the time. I mean, if you can’t handle a little competition, Denver might not be the place for you.”

I clench my fists, trying to keep my temper in check. But it’s hard. So damn hard.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter.

Bart chuckles. “Maybe. But if I were you, I’d think long and hard about where your priorities are.”

I stand up, grabbing my gear. Why is the thought of a trade to a new team suddenly so appealing to me? I just got here, but maybe Denver isn’t where I belong.