Page 2 of The Alternate Captain (Elite Hockey #3)

I can’t describe how much I hate hockey. Yet here I am, in a crowd of people, all cheering as my brother smashes an opposing forward into the boards. The entire section of plexiglass vibrates with the impact as the guy falls to the ice.

Mike wrists the puck towards one of his teammates, who clears it from the defensive zone before skating towards the bench. Just before he reaches the door, his whole body flies backwards as he’s hit from the front.

“Oh, my God,” I gasp, covering my eyes. I’ve seen this happen a thousand times before, but I still hate it. I’ve watched him pick teeth up from the ice. It’s brutal and the whole thing makes me sick with worry.

“Are you okay?” The woman next to me leans in and offers a smile. This must be Lauren.

“Not really,” I squeak, letting my hands sink back to my lap. I watch Mike clamber to his skates. He’s off the ice in a flash and back on the bench with the rest of his teammates as if nothing happened.

“First time? ”

“Sadly not.”

“Boyfriend?” she asks.

“Brother,” I say.

“Ah, I thought I hadn’t seen you before. That’s my husband,” she says, pointing towards a guy on the ice.

“I hate hockey,” I say.

“I sort of understand that,” she says. “It’s the stench for me. Scott’s hands always stink, no matter how hard he scrubs them.”

I chuckle. Thankfully, I don’t have to smell my brother’s hands, but the lingering sweaty-hockey-player aroma is not one anyone can forget.

“Who’s your brother?” she asks.

“Mike Betts. But I don’t make a habit of coming to his games. I’m just in town for an audition tomorrow and—” I stop talking because I doubt she wants to hear about that.

“Bettsy is hilarious,” she laughs. “I didn’t realise he had a sister.”

Three thousand people let out a sigh of disappointment as our number nineteen’s shot hits the crossbar and sails out of play.

“There’s two of us. I’m the youngest,” I say.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Lauren.”

“Kelly,” I say.

“Well, Kelly, I’m sure Bettsy appreciates you coming.”

“I told him I wasn’t going to, but I felt guilty since it’s a big game.”

“Of course. It’s Scott’s last chance at the playoff cup before we move to Germany.”

By the time the first period break rolls around, I know all about Lauren’s plans to move to Ingolstadt.

“I think someone is already earmarked to take Scott’s spot.

How well do you know the guys?” She refers to the team, but I shake my head.

Mike talks about them at family events, sure, but I’ve paid no attention to the details.

“Well, number nineteen, he’s a twin. His brother is likely going to be joining the team. ”

As we leave our seats, I smile and nod in all the right places whilst she talks, and we follow a small crowd of people towards the bar.

“So, what makes you hate hockey so much?”

“I remember Mike taking this hit that literally knocked him out cold, and it’s stuck with me since.

I was only a kid and I remember him just lying there, face down on the ice.

He was just lying there like he was... dead.

” I clear my throat, trying to hold back the tears that are desperate to make an appearance.

I can’t bring myself to tell Lauren the full reason why.

“He says it’s part of his game, and I know that, but still. I just don’t like it.”

My brother’s a powerful guy. And until that hit, I loved watching him play.

I loved the joy and concentration on his face as he soared across the ice.

I know all the rules, all the calls, all the play styles—I guess I was obsessed to some degree.

But seeing him like that turned it into something I dreaded to watch.

I know his ‘stay-at-home’ defensive style serves a purpose.

And his style compliments his defensive pairing—an offensive-defencemen.

He says he needs to protect and enable him.

He makes it sound like he’s his guard dog or something, which is ridiculous.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. That must have been tough.”

“Yeah, it was.” I swallow down the emotion pushing to the surface.

We grab a beer each and head back to our seats, just as the Zamboni finishes its last lap of the ice.

By the time the teams skate back out for the second period, my single beer has calmed me down enough so I can enjoy the game.

I’m not a big drinker, so it goes straight to my head.

I sing to the music, joining in the claps and cheers, and I even jump to my feet when we score.

It’s all good until Mike and the rest of the guys position themselves, ready to take a face-off.

He shouts something over to the guy wearing the captain’s badge, then indistinguishable words fly back and forth between the pair.

The captain shouts and signals across the ice, motioning to someone, and as soon as the face-off is taken, Mike is charging towards the target.

I’ve seen nothing like it before.

“Why is he spurring him on?” I ask Lauren, splitting my attention between her and the ice.

“It’s just part of the game. Try not to worry,” she soothes.

But I don’t like it. The next moment, Mike gets elbowed in the face as the captain skates off unscathed with the puck. Prick. He should have been the target for that elbow.

To heighten my anxiety, a commotion occurs right against the boards and, of course, my surname flashes into view briefly as the opposing defenceman elbows Mike for a second time and pulls his shirt.

The noise of the crowd ramps up as two sets of gloves are dropped.

I have to adopt the brace position, practically folded in half on my seat as queasiness washes over me. I can’t watch.

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Lauren says. “I’ll tell you when you can look.”

Everyone around me gets to their feet. The music starts and cheers erupt from the spectators. I stay in my seat until Lauren flicks her chair back down and sits again.

“Is he okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, he’s fine. I think he’ll get a major for that, though. But he’s got the energy going.”

“I don’t think I can stay,” I say, defeated. The happy, post-beer sensation I had less than five minutes before has vanished.

I take the opportunity to thank Lauren for being so friendly before I grab my bag and squeeze out of my row, scrambling up the steps towards the upper-level lobby, which opens out into a large area with banners and memorabilia scattered around.

I’m just catching my breath when I glance up and double-take the eight-foot banner draped overhead. An action shot of the captain celebrating. It hits me square in the chest .

Oh my God.

John.

No. Not John. Johnny. Johnny Koenig. The same guy I’ve heard Mike refer to as ‘Cap’ a hundred times.

Confusion sets in after a full minute of standing there, mouth wide open. I reach for my phone and pull up the message thread I’ve got with John. We’ve been chatting on an app for almost three months now, and we’ve exchanged a few photos.

I pull up the most recent picture from three weeks ago and compare it with the banner overhead. The same blue eyes and unmistakable jawline. He’s wearing a helmet in the banner, but I can tell it’s the same dirty blond hair, freshly cut in the photo.

Fuck. I’m being catfished.

Shame sets in next, and my skin prickles with heat.

Part of me wants to message him and demand to know who the hell he is.

Because I deserve to know who I’ve shared intimate details of my life with.

I deserve to know who I’ve confided in about my anxiety over my music career.

I deserve to know who I’ve been flirting with.

And I definitely deserve to know who I’ve talked to about Jeremy.

I blink away the tears as I hold down the icon for the app and tap the little ‘x’ next to it in an attempt to erase it all.

Because I’m too embarrassed to call this stranger out.