Losing a game on home ice is one of the worst feelings in the world. It’s a kick right to the dick knowing you’re down in points as the clock is running out, and no matter how many plays you and your boys try to make happen nothing is connecting. Even more rage inducing is when it all goes down against your goddamn rival.
Ryan Donnelly’s punchable smirk makes my blood simmer while the two of us face off for the puck drop.
“Ready to dance again, Blake?” he taunts. “If the NHL doesn’t want you, I’d say you have a fair chance twirling around the ice in tights. Magic on Ice is calling your name.”
This fucking guy. He’s been a thorn in my side since junior league.
My teeth clench hard enough to send an ache throbbing through my jaw. I won’t let him get to me. His game is cockier than ever since he was a second round draft pick over the summer during the off season. The only consolation is that the team who picked him has not offered him a contract yet. They must want to keep him in the NCAA for further development.
I’m still fighting for my dream of being drafted by the NHL. It’s the goal I’ve been striving for as hard as I can.
This is my damn year. I’m making sure of it, taking every chance to prove myself. Freshman year I didn’t meet the eligible age requirements. I’m still getting over the fact that no teams bit for me as a prospect during this chance, yet they did for Donnelly. Even though Heston U beat Elmwood in the championship to maintain our school’s unbroken streak of winning Frozen Four.
Punching this asshole for having a better chance at making it to the pro league than I do won’t get me any closer to it, only an ejection from the game I love more than anything for misconduct.
I can’t change that he got drafted before me, but I can still beat him here and now.
It’s the last period. With minutes left to spare, I don’t have time to fuck around anymore. We need to put up points against Elmwood University to take the W.
“It’s okay to admit you fantasize about guys in tights, Donnelly.” I grin when he jerks his head. “Last I checked, you need to sign a contract. Any official offer from Buffalo yet?” His gloves tighten on his stick and I laugh. “Don’t sweat it, man. You can still make it on a team as a free agent after graduation when their hold expires on your signing rights.”
Donnelly narrows his eyes, lip curling back with a growl. The ref’s whistle blows and we sink into position for the face-off.
The puck drops to the ice and our sticks clash together. I win the battle for possession and dart around him. It’s feeling good. My linemates are in strategic positions, evading our opponents’ defense.
I’m flying down the ice toward Elmwood’s goal when my attention snags on a flash of red in the corner of my eye. It interrupts the sea of dark blue and green in the Heston student section.
What the—?
It’s not just someone wearing red in our student section. The brunette in the front row is wearing an Elmwood jersey with Donnelly’s number emblazoned across her chest.
What the fuck?
Our eyes meet and I barely feel it when Donnelly checks my side hard, the momentum slamming both of us against the boards right in front of her.
Time seems to freeze. My heartbeat drums in my ears, drowning out the sounds in the arena. It’s strange. I’ve played games where I felt like I was at the top of my performance level—skating better, shooting on the net more accurately, and connecting with my teammates.
This isn’t like that. The audience’s energy is something to feed on, but I’ve never let them distract me while I’m on the ice. Never picked a girl out of the blur of faces in the stands.
I need to move. Get Donnelly off me and make this play instead of gaping at the girl who sticks out amongst the Heston fans.
Her lips part and form the shape of a name. My attention falls to her mouth.
He manages to swipe the puck from me with the tip of his stick and skates away.
“Fuck!” I shove off the boards and dig hard, willing my legs to move faster to get it back. “We have to stop him! Get in there!”
Two of my teammates converge on him. He avoids them one after the other, making it all the way to our end of the ice.
My chest constricts as Donnelly slaps a shot on our goal. He’s good, but our goalie is better, stopping the puck in its tracks with his leg pads. Our defense picks up the rebound and passes it to the left winger for a counterattack.
We have to win this.
We lost.
“Damn it,” I mutter on my way out of the showers.
My jaw locks, then I let out a heavy exhale to release the tension in my sore muscles, making my way to my spot in the locker room after the game. Despite the shower, the imaginary stench of our failure lingers on my damp skin. Coach already gave us a lecture before he sent us off for the night.
We might have gotten our offensive and defensive line chemistry working enough to score a goal in the final period, but all it did was tie us up. Elmwood—Donnelly—lit up the lamp in overtime first, clinching the win.
If that girl in the stands hadn’t distracted me, the play would’ve gone differently. The strange moment our eyes met continues repeating in my mind.
I shake her from my thoughts and grab the jeans in my cubby. Coach likes us to arrive to games cleaned up, but we’re free to leave in casual clothes.
Some of the guys are talking while they check out their new bruises and wind down. The vibe in the room is somber, but not as heavy as my own disappointed mood. It’s not like me to keep my head down after a loss.
Not a great look for the team’s new captain. I’ve only had the title for a few months.
My last play against Donnelly replays over and over as I search for what I should’ve done differently. My dad always taught me the importance of moving on after a bad game outcome. He’s one of the reasons I’m chasing this dream so hard, so for his memory I have to put this behind me.
This is my year. I want that draft pick rather than graduating without any NHL recognition and choosing to go the free agent route to make it to the pros.
These days being drafted doesn’t mean you get called up right away without finishing college like it was in my dad’s era. Some do—Alex Keller, one of our upperclassmen teammates, signed with the NY Islanders last summer and he killed it during his rookie season. It’s becoming more common for drafted players to finish out their development in the NCAA and graduate before they’re called up to play professionally. Sports blogs speculate it makes for a more well-rounded player.
Still doesn’t make me hunger for that pick any less.
And if I get an offer, I’ll leave school early in a heartbeat. I like my classes fine enough, but finishing my degree isn’t important to me if I have the opportunity to achieve what I want.
It’s got me impatient to get out there on NHL ice where I know I belong. I came to play for Heston University with that in mind when UMass passed me over.
Heston Lake, Connecticut is a small college town not far from Hartford. This close to any of the major teams in the northeastern division, players usually vie for spots on the UMass, Elmwood U, Boston College, and UConn hockey teams. But this is the right team for me, and I show UMass what a mistake they made every time we’ve wiped the ice with them in the last two years.
I heave another sigh, then rake my fingers through my disheveled hair, sending water droplets at my locker neighbor, Cameron Reeves. He whips me with his towel, clearly in better spirits than me.
“Do I need to tell you to turn that frown upside-down like my mom always does?” he jokes.
My lips twitch, but I can’t revive the determined smile I gave him before we hit the ice. “Shut up, man.”
“Not doing it for you? Well then, my other sage advice is to hit up The Landmark for a drink and get laid.”
Noah Porter and a couple of our other D-men chime in with their agreements. This time my smirk comes a little easier because I’m with them on that cure, too. It’ll take nothing to find a girl to help me forget the sting of losing against our rivals tonight.
Once I finish getting dressed, Cameron nudges me with his elbow before tugging on his worn Heston U baseball cap backwards over his mess of thick dark brown hair. Win or loss, it’s his ritual after a game to reset himself for his next time defending the crease.
Hockey players are some of the most superstitious people on the planet. We’ve all got our little quirks to keep our focus dialed in on the W.
“Hey, captain?” Elijah Adler, one of our freshman players, hovers behind us.
“Careful, rookie,” Cameron warns. “He’s in a mood.”
I shoot my best friend a flat look. His gray eyes glint with amusement and his easygoing grin widens as he finishes tossing his goalie gear into his bag.
“Relax.” He drops to the bench and slings an arm over my shoulder. “We’ll get Elmwood back when we play them again.”
My jaw works. “I wish it was tomorrow night instead of us playing another home game.”
“Me too,” he says. “Damn scheduling. But when we do have our second game, we’ll get our revenge.”
I give an affirmative grunt in response. He’s right. Everything this year feels more intense with my last chance at the draft looming over my head. It’s all on the line this season.
“For fucking sure, man.”
Cameron clamps a hand on my shoulder and jostles me to get me to loosen up. “There you go, bro. It’s early in the season still. It’ll be us on the ice at Frozen Four for sure after we kick ass for the next thirty games to make the playoffs.”
An enthusiastic cheer of hell yeah echoes around the locker room from our teammates. Even though we lost against our rival school’s team, their morale isn’t as low as mine for costing us the win. They voted unanimously to pick me as team captain during summer training. I’m letting them down if I can’t pull myself together.
“What’s your go-to postgame pick-me-up?” Noah prompts, phone poised to capture the response.
“Porter,” Madden growls from his seat on the bench at the gear cubby next to mine.
He’s shirtless, face mottled with red splotches while he hurries to tug a hoodie over his head.
“Chill out, Graves. It’s called creative cropping.” Noah smirks and shoots me a wink over the top of his phone. “You know what I keep telling you. Any exposure is good exposure.”
Noah’s the only one of us with sponsorship deals he’s secured through flashing his winning California beach boy smile, blond hair, and perpetual golden tan on social media.
Madden ducks his head, thick dark hair hanging in his face as he scowls at his lap. “I’m just here to play hockey.”
“And with that winning attitude, who wouldn’t want to sponsor you?” Noah quips. “So? Give us your postgame recovery ritual. What about you, captain?”
“Not right now,” I say. “Ask us tomorrow.”
Ruffling my hair, I cast a glance around the room. The whole team is here. None of them have left yet, though Coach Lombard cut us loose. I clear my throat and step to the center of the room, thinking of the things Dad would say to me after a loss that I need to hear myself right now.
“Don’t let tonight weigh on you. A season isn’t defined by one game. We’ve got a long road to go.”
The guys thump their feet on the floor and clap. My chest tightens as the lingering tension in the room breaks.
“Let’s come back strong tomorrow,” I say. “See you all there ready to work.”
“Go blue!”
The team shouts our chant as one before they begin to leave the locker room.
“You coming?” Cameron asks.
I pause, weighing my options. “Is everyone going out? I might head back to the house with anyone who’s not.”
“We need this tonight so we can hit the ice tomorrow with a clean slate,” he reasons.
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He bumps his fist against mine. “Good man. Let’s go. Come on, rookie. You too.”
Elijah points to himself, green eyes wide. I wave him over so he’s not hovering at the edge of the group.
The five of us head out of the arena and start the short trek from the far side of campus to the local sports bar. After a game, The Landmark is where everyone goes. The blast of cool, late October air feels good. It’s helping clear my head during the walk through town.
This is a big part of hockey, too. If you don’t know your teammates, all the practice in the world can’t take you the last extra mile that sparks from the camaraderie built outside the rink. We live together off campus, eat together, and go out together. I see them more than I see my mom and little brother, but it’s okay because my teammates are my family at Heston.
When we make it to The Landmark, the place is packed with students and townies that attended the game. They commiserate together with pitchers of beer and the best wings in the state. It smells fucking heavenly. I wish I could cheat on the plans the team nutritionist gave me to enjoy some of that tonight, but the best I can get away with is a couple of beers.
Hambone, the owner’s white and tan dog weaves through the room, sniffing around for any scraps of fried chicken that fall. He trots over and I kneel down to greet the pitbull with a scratch behind his ears.
“Hey, Hammy. You making out good tonight?” I chuckle at the way his whole body wiggles when he wags his tail. “Yeah? Good boy.”
“Our usual spot’s full,” Noah says when I stand up.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Madden growls.
Right as we follow his gaze, the group taking up the end of the bar shouts in celebration. My mood plummets at the sight of red. Some of Elmwood’s players are here, in our bar.
“What the hell are they doing here?” I mutter.
“I heard from Coach Kincaid they have another away game on their schedule south of here, so they’re staying in town tonight instead of busing back to their campus,” Cameron says.
Madden takes a threatening step in their direction, thick brows pulled together. I cut him off and nudge him back with a shake of my head.
“It’s fine, Graves. Let’s just go over here.” I motion to the other end of the bar furthest away from them. “They’re not ruining the rest of our night.”
“Damn right,” Cameron says.
Reagan, one of the student bartenders, makes her way to us once we’re situated with a sympathetic smile. “Hey guys. The usual?”
Noah braces his elbows on the bar. “Reagan, I need to drown all my sorrows tonight.”
“So a pitcher, four large baskets of grilled chicken strips, and a round of potato wedges?” She laughs when five hungry as fuck hockey players nod in unison.
“Stat, babe.” Noah blows her a kiss. “Thank you”
“Just water for me. That’s it,” Elijah says.
“Not so fast.” With the same mischievous smile that steals the hearts of girls all over campus, Noah waves a twenty pinched between two fingers. Reagan accepts the tip he slides her whenever we’re here to make sure our song choice plays. “Did you think you’d get out of it because we’re so far from the stereo system?”
“Come on,” Elijah protests. “Really?”
“Tradition’s tradition, man.” Cameron rubs his mouth to cover his grin. “You’ve gotta do it. We’ve all been through this. Easton. Noah. Your brother did it.”
Elijah’s older brother was a sophomore on the team during mine and Cameron’s first year here. Caleb Adler was drafted after that season and plays for Seattle.
“It’s your time.” I elbow him when Pony by Ginuwine starts to play.
Whenever he hears it, he’s supposed to dance. The rest of the patrons get a kick out of this just as much because it’s’ a time-honored team tradition.
Cameron chuckles. “You’ve got this, rookie.”
Elijah pulls a face, then his shoulders slump. He keeps his light brown hair trimmed on the sides, but the longer section on top falls in his face. He scrapes it back with a sigh.
Noah hypes him up when he starts to move. He’s off beat, but his attempt at a sexy dance has all of us trying to keep it together. Not cracking up is a struggle as he turns around, plants his hands on his thighs, and tries his best impression of twerking.
I lose it first, leaning heavily on Noah. Cameron breaks next, wheezing while he wipes away tears.
Shouts and whistles from the other side of the bar cut through our laughter. My smile fades while I search the crowd to see what the commotion is. The Elmwood guys block the view around the opposite end of the bar where a bunch of people have congregated.
Exchanging a look with Cameron and Noah, I lead them around the corner for a better view. I’ll tolerate Elmwood crashing our bar, but if they start any shit, we’ll handle them.
The yelling shifts into cheers as a girl emerges in the middle when she stands on a bar stool. She climbs on top of the bar and winks at Reagan as she tugs her ponytail free, sending wavy chestnut brown hair cascading around her shoulders.
Rolling her hips to the sensual beat of the song, she sinks her fingers in her hair and gives the entire bar a show that captures my rapt attention. Mine, and every other guy’s in the room.
“Damn, baby,” Noah mutters.
I agree.
She drops down low and pops back up with a sexy move that ignites heat low in my gut. My hands ball into fists when she faces our direction.
It’s her. The girl from the game.
I’m so awestruck that she’s here, I’m not watching where my feet are taking me. I grunt as I walk into a wooden column, clipping my side. Pain flares in the shoulder that Donnelly slammed against the boards earlier while I stumble to regain my balance, nearly knocking over a bar stool.
The guys bust out laughing, but it barely registers. I don’t care. How the hell could I care about anything else?
Nothing else matters right now. My eyes remain locked on her.
