Page 1 of The Alternate Captain (Elite Hockey #3)

He’s been fighting again. There’s a fresh wound above his eyebrow, which tells me it wasn’t just a scrap. It was a full-on fight—helmet and gloves removed.

“How did you get that scar?” I ask him. We’re both aware of my stance on fighting, but I want to hear him say it. I want him to tell me he’s being reckless. “Mike? Answer me.”

“It’s just part of the game,” he says, turning and moving to the fridge.

He rummages around in the salad drawers before returning to the counter with a pile of pre-chopped vegetables and a pack of chicken.

He reaches for a wok that’s lying upside down on the draining board, then he sets it on the hob before lighting the gas.

“You’re singing to yourself again. People will think you’re crazy. ”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Okay, fine. It’s a paper cut,” he says. I scowl at his reply. “What do you want me to say?” I cock my head to the side and stare at him. He’ll back down before I do. “Okay, fine. We were down a goal and I needed to apply some pressure. Get the guys riled up. That’s how it is. ”

Sadly, I understand, but this hasn’t always been the case. I’d never known him to fight before he joined his current team. In fact, I’d say he was more of a peacekeeper.

“The captain put you up to it, didn’t he?” I say, widening my eyes.

“Not really.”

“What do you mean, not really?” I stand up from the barstool and step around the counter, pulling his face towards me so I can inspect it.

“Get off me, damn it.” Mike wriggles free before grabbing a spatula from the drawer under the hob.

“Have you had it checked?”

“It’s a cut. Calm your tits.”

Sighing, I make my way back to the counter, accepting defeat. “I just don’t like it.”

“It’s part of the game.” He chuckles softly, which pisses me off even more.

He calls himself ‘The Enforcer’. I call him an idiot.

“Anyway,” he says, tossing some chicken into the wok, “I thought since you were on my side of town, you’d want to come to the game.”

“It’s still a no,” I say.

My usual excuse sits along the line of not wanting to get the bus all the way across the city to freeze my ass off and watch him fight a grown man over the possession of a piece of rubber. I can think of better things to do with my Saturday night.

He stirs and shakes the wok before setting it down. He reaches for an envelope that’s stashed next to the microwave and tosses it towards me.

“Would you hate me if I didn’t come?” I ask.

“Nah, I already hate you, so it makes no difference.” He smirks.

I haven’t been to one of Mike’s games in a long time.

Not since he took a check to the head a few years back.

I hold his linemate fully responsible for it since he was the one the check was intended for.

I’m certain of this because I re-watched the footage repeatedly.

I wanted closure. Instead, I got more riled up.

Mike was out for two weeks. And he ended up losing two teeth that game.

He clears his throat. “It’s a big game, though, Kel. I mean, it’s been a few years since we’ve made the playoff finals. I think we’ve got a chance this year.” His tone is serious, and I watch him as he tosses veggies into the wok, an intense expression on his face.

“You say that every single year,” I say, taking a gulp of my water.

“And you say that every single year.”

I roll my eyes. “I need to prep for tomorrow.”

“No, you don’t. It wouldn’t surprise me if you could play those pieces without even looking at the sheet music.”

But I’m an over-preparer. At least I try to be. And I couldn’t live with myself if I spent the evening before my audition chilling—or turning into a block of ice—with no preparation.

I watch Mike cook as I consider my options. I mean, I could watch his game, but I’d be going alone since I don’t know anyone else and the likelihood of Tom or Sally making their way across the city at short notice is slim to none.

I open my mouth to speak, but Mike answers the question I haven’t asked.

“That ticket is next to Scottsy’s wife. She’s cool.”

“I don’t know Scottsy nor his wife,” I say.

“Do you pay any attention when I talk? Scott McCoy? The winger.”

“Oh, yeah, him.” I roll my eyes. I have no idea.

“Look. The ticket is in the envelope. I won’t be mad if you don’t come, but I will be pissed if we advance and you don’t come to the finals.”

Mike shuts off the hob and grabs some plates, filling the air with the clattering of crockery. He glances at his watch, then reaches for his phone just as the front door swings open .

In walks a guy a few inches shorter than my brother, but wearing an identical outfit of sweats, a team hoodie, and a baseball cap.

“Well, look who crawled home,” he says, without looking up. “Hutch, this is my sister, Kelly.”

Hutch pauses, scanning me quickly before placing his gear bag on the floor.

“Shit, I didn’t realise you had a sister, Betts.” He grins.

“If you weren’t gay, I’d say to keep your fucking eyes off her. Why do you think I haven’t introduced her or Stacey to any of you fuckers?” my brother says. “Besides, she’s got a boyfriend.”

“I don’t—”

“I’m bi. But whatever. Is that your guitar in the hall?” Hutch says, grabbing a plate from Mike.

I don’t have a boyfriend. Mike’s friends were always told that my sister and I had boyfriends. To him, it was a firm sign of our unavailability.

“It’s a cello,” my brother interjects, jabbing his friend in the ribs.

“A cello? I have no fucking clue...” Hutch says, sitting at the counter next to me. “Is that like a big violin?”

Mike scoffs.

“Yes, it’s exactly like a big violin,” I say.

“So, how long are you here for?” Hutch asks.

I awkwardly perch myself on the next available stool and reach for a fork. “Just the night. I’ve got an audition tomorrow at the music college so I’m crashing here—I mean, if it’s okay with you?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Mike cuts across. “Kelly will have my room, and I’ll get in with you,” he tells Hutch.

“Like fuck you will,” Hutch says.

“Don’t be mean.”

“Don’t give me a reason to be. You can take the sofa. You snore. ”

“I’ll take the sofa, I don’t mind,” I say. The thought of what could lurk in my brother’s sheets grosses me out.

“I’m changing my sheets for you,” Mike says, pointing his fork in the air towards me. “You’re taking the bed. I don’t want you going back to Mam moaning about your bad back from sleeping on the sofa.”

I roll my eyes and eat my meal. Knowing Mike, he’ll be back here this evening either shit-faced from celebrating a win, or shit-faced from commiserating a loss. Either way, the sleeping situation will sort itself out when I will inevitably put him to bed, in his bed.

Mike and Hutch both glance up from their plates.

“Are you nervous?” Hutch asks Mike, as he finishes his food.

“No. Are you?” he replies.

They lock eyes briefly, devoid of any emotion.

The buzz of my phone on the counter breaks the silence and my brother’s eyes snap to mine. Then it pings a few more times in close succession, causing Mike to strain his neck to check the screen. I grab my phone and slide it into the pocket of my jacket, hoping he didn’t get a good enough view.

“What’s that you’re hiding, Kel?” he asks, and I can feel my cheeks flame red.

“Nothing. Just people checking in about tomorrow,” I lie.

But it’s Hutch who saves the day.

“Nap time,” he announces, dropping his plate into the sink. He says goodbye and disappears through the door at the far end of the hall.

“I best get my head down, too. You going to be okay here? Make yourself at home or whatever.”

I reassure him I’ll be fine, and he disappears into his room, leaving his dirty plate where he was eating. I clean the kitchen up and retreat to the sofa, waiting until a gentle snore emits from my brother’s bedroom, telling me it’s now safe to check my phone.

John .

Excitement bubbles in the pit of my stomach.