“De Haas. You’re late.”
Coach’s penetrating stare is aimed at me the second I burst through the locker room doors, having just dashed across campus like a madman to avoid this very scenario from playing out. But hopes that I’d be able to sneak in unnoticed rather than be a dead man walking right into my own funeral seem to be in vain.
Well, shit.
“It won’t happen again,” I murmur, meeting his gaze with the appropriate amount of remorse he’s looking for. Just enough to not get a verbal smackdown unleashed on me before the first game of the season.
As the team’s captain and the person expected to set an example for the rest of the team, I’d be lying if I wasn’t anticipating a full-out reaming regardless. Even if I’ve been a lot better about managing my time this season.
Until today, that is.
Today, the hockey gods decided I would oversleep by an hour, making me the run-across-campus-like-crazy-to-not-miss-faceoff kind of late. Which is just a fan-fucking-tastic way to start my morning. It’s the only reason I wait, ever so patiently, to get chewed a new asshole. Yet I’m surprised when all I get is a firm nod and a see that it doesn’t grumbled back at me.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I scoot by him and head toward my stall to suit up. After all, being late means I’ve got only five minutes to dress before we’re due out on the ice for warm ups.
The locker room is bustling, a buzz vibrating in the air the way it always does before a game. Something I attribute to all the nervous excitement radiating off everyone inside. But the buzz only makes me anxious, and that’s why I’m doing my best to zone in mentally as I dress in the bottom half of my uniform.
Until a voice startles me.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more jacked for a game in my fucking life.”
My eyes lift from where I’m lacing up my skates to find a fully-dressed McGowan, one of our sophomore defensemen, taking a seat on the bench in front of me. He’s still green as shit, not getting a lot of ice time his first season on the team. But he’s on my line this year after really proving himself these last few weeks, earning a starting spot on the ice. Something he’s never experienced before.
So jacked could mean a couple things in this situation.
Arching a brow, I ask, “In a good way, or…”
He gives a sheepish sorta grin, his blond hair flopping down on his forehead. “I mean, I feel like I’m David, ready to pound the shit outta Goliath. But I also wanna upchuck everything I’ve eaten in the past twelve hours. So…both?”
I let out a bark of laughter, not at all surprised. “Let’s not barf on the ice, unless you wanna be the one to clean it up.” I pause. “But the David-pounding-Goliath-to-a pulp bit, I’m a fan of. Channel that shit, Danny.”
He nods, but I swear the guy gets even paler as he does it. “Channel it. Right. I can do that.”
Let the record show that he definitely does not sound like he can. But I smile, placing my hand on his shoulder pad and giving him a few pats.
McGowan’s been under my wing since he came in as a freshman last season. It’s the way Leighton University runs a lot of their athletic programs; sort of how frats have Bigs and Littles, only spaced out two years instead of one. It’s supposed to help the team bond more and let the younger guys have an upperclassman that can help keep them on the straight and narrow. Help give them the tools they need to succeed at the collegiate level.
So Danny is…well, my Little, I guess.
Why the hell anyone would ever trust me to keep someone else’s head firmly on their shoulders when I can barely manage that on my best day? I have no clue. Yet, here I am anyway, with Danny looking to me for support.
And while I don’t think I’m all that good at it—I’m more of a tough-love kinda guy than the nurturing type—I can’t help the feeling of wanting to help him keep his shit together instead of losing his lunch. So I give out the only piece of reassurance I can.
“I’ve got your back out there, D-man. We all do.”
Diverting his gaze to the floor, he nods. “Thanks, Cap.”
And just like that, he’s gone. Probably embarrassed, though I don’t know why he would be, considering he’s one of the few members of the team who actually likes me.
Maybe he’s left to vomit in one of the toilets instead.
I’m banking on the latter as I chuckle and shake my head, all the while something he said makes my stomach feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
Cap.
As in captain.
It’s been months since I was selected as captain at the end of last season, but the title hasn’t sunk in. Maybe because I’ve tried not to let the title go to my head too much, but I can’t help it. And honestly, there’s no real reason I shouldn’t, at least today.
Because this is it.
My last first-game-of-the-season as a member of Leighton’s hockey program. And more than anything, I want this to be the season the Timberwolves bring home a Frozen Four trophy. A championship title for the first time in five seasons, and with me leading the team to victory.
While we’ve had our share of hiccups in practices and scrims, I’m feeling confident about our chances this year. Hopeful, even.
But all my hopes come screeching to a halt the moment I look up to find Oakley fucking Reed walking right toward me. Also known as the one person on this damn team I really don’t get along with.
Though, as much as I hate to admit it, the fault of this beef rests squarely on my shoulders.
Even if he is the one who decked me first—an extremely out-of-character reaction from him—I was still the one to start our little squabble after the city championships senior year. And that moment would forever etch me into Oakley Reed’s mind as his biggest rival. Maybe even a straight-up enemy.
At the time, we didn’t know the unthinkable would happen.
That we’d both stay in Chicago and end up here.
At Leighton.
For four fucking years.
Together.
“De Haas,” he mutters, already suited up like the rest of the team, save for his helmet. “Seems you decided to join us after all.”
I try not to let his voice get my hackles to rise, but when Oakley takes opportunities like this to toss out little barbs, it’s hard to keep from reacting. It seems like no amount of self-work and reeling in my anger seems to help with him around. It still seeps through the cracks to get the best of me, no matter how hard I try to garner some sense of control.
But can I be blamed when he eggs me on just as much as I do him?
“As if I’d be anywhere else right now?” I bite out, shoving my duffle into my stall before rising to stand.
A fake smile is plastered on his lips. “Never know with you, especially when you’re the last one to show up on game day.”
I grit my teeth as I grab for my chest and shoulder pads, not daring to walk straight into the trap he’s baiting for me. But man, it’s hard. He’s the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.
“Don’t you have better things to worry about?” My eyes take a second to evaluate him, running from his head of golden-brown hair all the way to his toes before returning to his legs. Then I make a show of leaning down and staring at his shins, even tapping against them. “Like maybe the fact that your stupid lucky socks are showing through your team-issued ones? Are those…kittens? Pretty sure that goes against regulation.”
Truthfully, I can’t see jack shit other than the white fabric, and even if I could, the shin guards would be in the way from seeing whatever pair of wacky socks he’s wearing beneath them. But it doesn’t make it any less fun to poke the bear.
I think I even catch his eye twitch as he does his best not to look down and double check.
“Hilarious,” he deadpans, not a hint of amusement in those chocolate-colored eyes. “But you should know better than to make fun of someone else’s juju. It’s bad luck on you.”
That is true.
Plenty of athletes are superstitious as hell during the season—myself included, though that is confidential information no other living soul knows about. And it’s an unwritten rule that you don’t fuck with a teammate’s ritual, superstition, juju, whatever. Throws the entire fucking vibe outta whack.
Just ask Justin Parsons, our goalie from my freshman year. One of the starting wingers that season tried catching his lucky stick as it was falling over in the locker room after a morning skate.
But Justin had a rule. No one touched the lucky stick unless he handed it to you.
It sounds hilarious to someone who doesn’t get athletes and their superstitions, but I’m not kidding when I tell you eighty percent of the team got the stomach flu a couple days later, causing us to forfeit not one, but two games.
And I can honestly say I’ve never been more sick in my entire life. I shudder just remembering it.
“I’ll take my chances,” I tell him, sliding the pads over my head and going back to minding my own business. Except the jackass is still right here, looking to pick a fight.
“Why am I not surprised? You clearly don’t give a flying fuck about anything at this rate if you’re showing up an hour late.”
I stop what I’m doing, tilting my head as I stare at him. “You seem awfully concerned about my whereabouts, Reed. Trying to keep tabs on me? Miss me too much when I’m not around?”
Oakley’s nostrils flare with anger, dark brows drawn down over narrowed eyes. His typical death glare. A look I’ve been on the receiving end of far too many times for it to instill fear anymore.
“Hardly, Captain. I just figured, since you’re in charge now, you might make some effort to act like you care about this team. Make us a priority. But I can see I was mistaken. Instead, you’re planning to lead us right into the damn ground.”
The venom behind the word captain doesn’t hit the mark, though I can tell he’s hoping it would. But the sensitivity toward that topic is his issue, not mine.
I never asked to be considered for captain; I was just chosen. But again, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I graciously thanked Coach for naming me, took on the damn title, and ran with it. Shit, maybe it would actually be enough for some guys on the team to stop looking at me like a fucking leper half the time just because hockey’s golden boy doesn’t like me.
Of course, naming me as captain only added more fuel to the fire already blazing between myself and said golden boy that started all the way back in high school. And then growing more at the end of last season, when Oakley got taken out with a broken collarbone from a hit that was meant for me.
And then there’s also every other combative conversation in between, continuously stoking the flames.
Hell, I’m surprised Coach didn’t just give Oakley the damn title to prevent this very thing from happening. And I’m sure Oakley did too, seeing as he’s Coach’s nephew. Plus, he was pretty much a shoo-in for the position.
But it’s not my fault Oakley thought nepotism would secure the spot for him.
Stick and helmet in hand, I give him an exaggerated sigh. “Yeah, well, at least I’m leading.”
Fire burns in his eyes, his jaw ticking with effort to keep his temper reined in. And that’s how I know I won tonight’s little pissing match. When he’s so fucking pissed, he can’t even come up with another witty, dickish retort.
It’s actually a fun little game I like to play—see how many digs it takes for him to shut down. Sometimes, I even try to beat my own record.
Going for a low score, like in golf.
Right now, I’d say I’m two under par.
Arching a brow, I give the jackass a winning, plastic smile. “See you on the ice, Reed.”
