should be when I arrive at LSU’s Apex Arena. Which is to say, I’m still on time, just not absurdly ahead of schedule like usual. Not only are we facing MSU again tonight, complete with that asshole Eriksen, but it’s also the first time the athletic training interns will be on the bench during our game. In other words, Violet will be watching me play, and I’m more nervous about that than I’d like. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t been to a single game since we broke up. I never saw her in the crowd or around the arena. Though selfishly, I always hoped I would.
As I push through the glass doors, I spot Candice standing with her friends by the concession area and I swerve back into the sea of people, taking an alternate route to the locker room. I have enough shit to deal with. Not adding that to my list.
My teammates mill about in various states of undress, talking game plans while upbeat music booms from a portable speaker. Drew swoops over as soon as he spots me walk in. As to be expected, he’s flipped into his pregame micromanaging alternate captain mode. Meanwhile, our captain, Marcus, is chilling with his buddies on the other side of the locker room without a care in the world.
“You good?” Drew has the energy of someone who’s been mainlining caffeine. “Watch out for their defense tonight. I heard their coach put a bounty on your head after what you did to Eriksen last game. Sonderquist is gunning for you.”
Sonderquist is MSU’s answer to, well, me. He’s their stay-at-home defenseman; their enforcer. And if he’s gunning for me instead of Vaughn, our top scoring forward, all the better. One of us was built to take the knocks—and deliver them—and one of us was built to win games.
“I’m good.” I unbutton my dress shirt and slip out of my navy suit pants, hanging them both in my locker. If you ask me, the suit requirement before and after games is ridiculous.
Drew gives me a dubious look. “Remember to keep your head up.”
“I always do, man. Besides, I’m not indispensable like Banks.” I point at Vaughn, who’s minding his own business while he gets dressed off to the side. He’s not one for pre-game chitchat; says it messes with his focus.
Drew’s eyes widen because I’ve given him something else to fret about, which wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to get him off my back. For the life of me, I’ll never understand worrying as much as he does. It doesn’t change the outcome; it’s an utter waste of energy.
With that said, it’s not that Vaughn can’t take care of himself. It’s that it isn’t his role. His job is to get the puck to the net, get it past the goalie, and do it all over again. My job is twofold: make sure no one takes him out with a dirty hit, and retaliate if anyone tries.
“Saw Candice hanging around outside,” Connor remarks. I turn, finding that he’s already tugging on his shoulder pads. Yikes. I’m later than I thought if Connor is already half-dressed. He’s never on time.
“Yeah, I saw her too.” Then I promptly headed in the other direction.
“Maybe she could help you get your mind off—you know.”
“Maybe.” I slip into my moisture-wicking base layers, avoiding eye contact with him. Connor doesn’t understand what it’s like to be so hung up on someone, you can’t even fathom the idea of sleeping with someone else. And it’s not a debate I care to get into here, of all places.
“Sex is like pizza,” he says, catching my attention again. “Even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.”
Up until a few weeks ago, I would have agreed with him.
Now I’m being forced to come to terms with what I’m missing.
***
Having Violet on the bench is a test of my focus, to say the least. While the trainers’ job is to hang back unless they’re needed, her presence is still a distraction, especially when I know she’s likely watching me extra closely because of my shoulder. It takes a solid couple of minutes into the first period before I find my groove and manage to concentrate on the game instead of wondering what Violet’s thinking about how I’m playing.
Like always when we face MSU, the game is a bloodbath. By halfway through the second period, the score is already tied three to three, with another goal against us that was called back for goalie interference. It’s been highly physical, and there are penalties flying left and right, a handful of which I’ve drawn and three that I’ve taken. If you ask me, two of my penalties were bullshit, but it is what it is.
After an icing call, we end up taking a faceoff in the MSU zone that puts me face-to-face with my least favorite person. I’ve taken a few hits out on him already tonight, and he’s decidedly pissed. Not to mention, limping slightly.
Eriksen juts his chin at our bench where Violet, Preston, and Julianna are standing with Coach Ward. “Who’s the hot blonde on your bench, Richards?”
Rage flickers inside me and I grit my teeth, shoving it down. Despite that, something about my reaction must give me away, because triumph registers across Eriksen’s face. No big surprise there; Violet is my kryptonite. I do not, however, need this dickbag knowing that.
“You know her, don’t you? Course you do. She’s a nice piece of ass.” He smirks, nodding at her. “Bet she’d be a great lay.”
Anger sparks again, igniting into a flame, and I fight the urge to snap my stick over his bloated head. Cool it, Richards. Second period is too early to get tossed from the game, but if I’m stuck talking to him much longer, it’s going to become a real possibility. Unfortunately, the officials are still off to the side talking to Coach Ward. What the hell is the hold up?
“She’s one of our trainers,” I tell Eriksen. “Save your weak-ass trash talk for the team.”
He laughs, but it’s sardonic. “Oh, now you care about hockey code? After what you did with my girl? That’s fucking convenient.”
To be clear, sleeping with Penelope was a perfectly consensual one-night deal. I had fun, she had fun, everybody came out ahead. Multiple times, in her case. And based on what Penelope said, it was desperately needed on her part after whatever the fuck Eriksen was—or wasn’t—doing to her.
“Your chick hit on me first, man. If you were still together when it happened, take that shit up with her.” I skate back a few inches, repositioning for when the puck drops. Hopefully, that will happen this decade.
Eriksen snorts. “Don’t act like you didn’t know who she was.”
For fuck’s sake. I can’t even keep track of who the guys on my own team have slept with. But there’s no point in arguing with crazy.
“Don’t worry, Eriksen. I’m sure you’ll break that dry streak sometime before the end of the season.”
He falls quiet for a moment. Once he puts two and two together—which takes a while, because he’s not that bright—his face reddens until it matches his crimson jersey.
“Fuck you, Richards.” He spins ninety degrees to face me, his teeth bared in a snarl. I think he’s shooting for Doberman, but the effect is more yippy small dog. “We can settle this after if you want.”
A bout of laughter escapes the back of my throat; his challenge is that absurd. I have no idea why he’s putting this on the table. There’s no way it would end well for him, and he should already know that after our last run-in. That said, I have better things to do than beat the shit out of Eriksen after the game.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Might give Penelope a call and see if she’s busy, though.” Of course, I have no interest in following through on this threat. Pretty sure I deleted her number not long after I got it. I’m just fucking with Eriksen because I can, especially because he started this by trying to drag Violet into it.
At hearing this, Eriksen tosses his stick and lunges for me. I immediately skate backward and out of swinging range, because any fighting can get you tossed from a game—or worse—in college hockey. Sometimes I get away with pushing my luck, but I don’t want to roll the dice with Violet watching.
The officials rush over and restrain Eriksen while he continues to yell at me, trying to get free from their grip. He gets sent off for a five-minute major, and the play restarts without him.
Violet is watching me closely when I skate back to the bench after my shift, questions written across her face. I can tell she’s dying to ask what that was about. I’m sure I’ll have to explain to her at some point in the future, but it’ll require cooking up a sanitized version of events that do not include Penelope. Somehow.
Connor cackles, fist-bumping me as I hop back onto the bench. “That Eriksen shit was beautiful, bro.”
“Doesn’t take much with that one,” I say, catching Eriksen’s eye from where he’s still seated in the sin bin. I throw him a wave and smug-ass smile, and he mouths, “fuck you” in return.
Every year, our team holds an unsanctioned end-of-year party and hands out unofficial awards called The Cellies. Some of the honors include “Best Lettuce” (hockey hair); “Best Off-Ice Game” (as in, with chicks); “Best Actor” (most dramatic dive after taking a hit); and “Best Celly” (most ridiculous post-goal celebration).
Last year, Connor and I tied for “Best Trash Talk.” Connor is a heckler—his chirps are entertaining, sometimes to the point where the victim will even laugh because he’s undeniably funny. I am not as concerned with entertainment and will go straight for the jugular, using whatever will piss off the other guy the most. The more you can rattle them, the less effective they’ll be on the ice. Case in point: Eriksen.
Lines change, and Connor gets back on as Vaughn hops onto the bench. He reaches for his water bottle, squeezing it into his open mouth, and glances around, leaning in closer so Violet and the other trainers don’t overhear. “Is that Doug I spotted over on the east side? A few rows from the front?”
“What?” My stomach lurches, gaze darting to the stands on the opposite side of the rink, but I can’t make out any faces in the crowd from where I’m seated. While showing up unannounced is pretty on-brand for him, it’s a little early in the season for one of his surprise visits.
“Thought I saw him, but I wasn’t sure since you didn’t mention he was coming.”
Vaughn is painfully aware that I’m on edge when I know my father will be here and that my performance often suffers accordingly. Usually, I give him the heads-up so he can help keep my head in the game and stop me from getting too rattled by Doug’s presence.
From the other side of me, Drew overhears. “Doug’s here?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Maybe.”
Not that it should matter—Doug records my games on TV when he’s not in attendance. He’s always watching one way or another. It’s like a ball and chain around my neck, weighing me down, slowly choking me. Still, having him here in person is a million times worse.
“Shit,” he says. “Sorry, man. That’s rough.”
Another line change occurs, and I hop on for my next shift, making a point to skate even harder than usual. With every single stride, I dig into the ice like my life depends on it. On some level, I know I’m going to hit the wall before the game is over if I maintain this pace, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I was a little off kilter to begin with because of Violet, and now I’m spinning out of control.
Connor winds up and makes a clean pass to Vaughn, who barrels for MSU’s net while I skate backward, remaining in position to protect our zone in the event of a turnover. When the play brings me over to the seating section Vaughn mentioned, I divide my attention briefly, searching the stands in my peripheral vision while staying on top of the puck.
At first, all I see are the usual college students and local families. Then I spot Doug sitting down at the far end of the third row.
Fuck me.
From that moment on, I feel his eyes following me everywhere on the ice. Judging every missed pass, every minor miscalculation, every single misstep, no matter how small.
His voice echoes through my head, telling me what I did wrong and what I should have done instead. It’s a steady stream of commentary inside my brain even when he isn’t around, but it’s always louder when he is. Sometimes I want to take off my helmet and bang my head against the boards to make it stop. But I’ve already had one concussion in my career; better not make it two.
My game goes straight downhill from there. As in, off a fucking cliff.
When I slam an opposing center into the boards, all I can think is that I should have hit him sooner, hit him harder. Connor misses my pass because he isn’t looking, and I blame myself instead of him because I should have waited until he was ready or passed to Drew instead. Our goalie, Joey, lets in a weak goal, but it’s my fault because I let the other team fire off a shot in our zone.
I can trace every single thing that goes wrong on the ice directly back to something I did incorrectly or failed to do.
After my shift ends, I hop back onto the bench next to Vaughn. My jersey is soaked with sweat, my breath is heavy, and I’m parched like I’ve been without water for hours. Leaning in for my water bottle, I chug half of it in a few greedy gulps.
“Yeah,” I confirm, voice low. “He’s here.”
Vaughn glances over to where Doug is seated, then back to me. “Didn’t tell you he was coming, huh?”
If it seems weird to outsiders, that’s because it is. What kind of parent shows up randomly to their kid’s game? I mean, barring something like a fun surprise visit—which this absolutely is not.
Craning my neck, I make sure the trainers are still out of earshot. They’re down on the other end of the bench with Christina, checking out a freshman who took a puck to the ankle. “You know how it is. Sometimes he just appears.”
Vaughn huffs, shaking his head. “Fucking fathers.”
He can identify with daddy issues all too well, although his are the opposite in nature. Whereas my father is overbearing and controlling, his is a total fucking deadbeat. In and out of his life, comes and goes whenever he wants. If you ask me, they’re both useless assholes.
“Fucking fathers indeed.”
Coach Ward stalks over, studying me with a frown. Violet notices but quickly turns away and pretends to busy herself talking to Preston. I keep looking ahead, hoping Coach will move along to someone else.
After a beat, he leans down to talk to me so the other players don’t hear. Vaughn shifts over, giving us some space, which is considerate given that most other guys would try to secretly listen in.
“Richards.” Coach is more concerned than angry. “What’s going on? You’re squeezing the stick too hard.”
Am I trying too hard? Most definitely. I’m at a twelve out of ten, maybe a thirteen, and I don’t know how to dial it back. Couldn’t if I tried.
The most frustrating part of this phenomenon is that it’s utterly counter-productive; you get yanked out of the zone and plunked into your head, where you proceed to play like shit.
“I don’t know, Coach. Just in my head tonight for some reason.”
Understanding crosses his face, and I wonder if he knows Doug is here. “I understand, son. Try to use some of those strategies we discussed in chalk talk last week. Remember, the mental game is as important as the physical. Maybe more.”
Our off-ice player development time, nicknamed chalk talk, touches on nutrition, mental health, school-life balance, and all that fluffy shit. Coach Ward is a big fan of stress management, and his lessons include crunchy-granola things like deep breathing, visualization, mediation. Maybe I haven’t given it a fair chance, but none of it ever really jives with me. Deep breathing leaves me more agitated than when I started. I can never “see” visualizations the way you’re supposed to. And meditation? Good luck with that. Not with the way I’m wired.
“I’ll try,” I tell him.
***
By the time the final buzzer sounds, we’re down by two goals for a score of six to four. While I can’t say it all falls on my shoulders, I sure as hell didn’t help. I’ve made a litany of mistakes that I know of on the ice tonight, and I’m sure Doug has found a hundred more. I’ll hear all about them soon enough. Funny part is, he’ll be angrier than Coach Ward over the loss.
The mood in the locker room while we get changed is gloomy, with little chatter. None of us like losing to MSU. And losing to Eriksen specifically rubs a heaping handful of salt in the wound for me.
“You coming to Overtime?” Connor asks, toweling off his face, followed by his hair. He’s fully naked and fully unfazed. While none of us are shy—when you shower together, you move past any sense of modesty pretty damn quick—some of us embrace the group nudity aspect more than others. For instance, most of us make a point to put on boxer briefs before we stand around shooting the shit.
Connor is also a little too comfortable being naked at home, much to Savannah’s chagrin.
“I’ll come, but I’m gonna drive tonight.” I slip on my dress shirt, running a hand through my damp hair. Overdue for a haircut, but no idea where I’d even begin to pencil that into my schedule.
He makes a face. “You suck.”
“Trying to cut back on drinking.” Doug’s presence is another reminder why. If there’s any familial predisposition to alcoholism in my genes, I want to tread carefully. I still drink, but I make a conscious attempt to moderate it more than most other college students. Specifically, when it comes to binge drinking; aside from that one-off with Connor recently, I rarely ever get drunk.
“Plus,” I add, buttoning my cuffs, “I have to go handle Doug.”
Connor grimaces, because even he has some sense of empathy. “Sorry, man. Let me know if you change your mind on drinking after dealing with that.”
“Will do.”
Getting dressed doesn’t take nearly as long as I wish it did. Time seems to speed up, propelling me to face what I dread most. My nerves skyrocket as I push open the dressing room door, exiting into the fluorescent-lit corridor, but there’s no trace of Doug in the hallway. He’s nowhere to be seen in the arena lobby, either.
I don’t even need to check the parking lot to know he’s already gone.
***
A normal person would probably be upset if their parent bailed immediately after their game. As far as I’m concerned, it’s Christmas in October.
Vaughn walks out of the dressing room a minute after I do, immediately spotting me. We stand off to the side in the concourse, rehashing the game for a few minutes before deciding to shelve it for the night. Sometimes I have to force a break. Vaughn is much the same—a workaholic who doesn’t know his limits. Or a hockeyaholic, rather.
“What do you figure, want to hit Overtime?” I ask him. “You can ride with me.”
He doesn’t respond. Vaughn’s one of those guys who’s always present, in a very zen sort of way. Unlike a lot of other people, he doesn’t ignore you for his cellphone or look over your shoulder at a party, searching for someone better to talk to.
Only one thing could possibly distract him this much.
I follow his line of sight, and my suspicions are confirmed when I spot a pretty brunette with nearly waist-length hair, torn jeans, and black Chucks. She’s standing with a smoke-show blonde in a pair of heeled boots that make her tower over the crowd. Vaughn’s attention is firmly fixed on the brunette—otherwise known as the forbidden fruit.
“Banks.” I shove him a little harder than I mean to, sending him slightly off-balance.
His attention snaps back to me. “Sorry, what?”
“Are you done staring at Coach’s daughter yet?”
To be honest, I feel for the guy. It’s rare that anyone captures Vaughn’s interest, and the girl who finally did is completely off-limits. Unfortunately for him, the number one-unwritten rule of hockey is that you never, ever go after the coach’s daughter.
Not to mention, I’m pretty sure Luna doesn’t even know Vaughn is alive. She might be aware of him due to his position on the team—nearly everyone on campus is—but he doesn’t seem to be on her radar beyond that.
“Wasn’t staring,” Vaughn mumbles. “Just noticed her, that’s all.”
I fight a knowing smile. “Right.” If he were anyone else, I’d rib him harder. But Vaughn is a rare breed. Unlike the vast majority of humans on this planet, he’s not an asshole, so he gets a pass.
He clears his throat, casting one final longing look in Luna’s direction. “Home is fine. Let’s go.”
“I said Overtime, you dick. Not home. You weren’t even listening.”
“Overtime works, too.”
We catch up to the rest of the group, huddled by the front entrance. Candice, fortunately, has not yet appeared. Maybe she already took off after the game, or maybe she was here watching one of the other players. I mean, doubtful, but it would make things easier for me if it were true.
Savannah’s face brightens when she sees us and she scurries up, copper hair flying, giving Vaughn a big hug. “Great game, you two.”
Releasing him, she embraces me, and I lean down, hugging her back. She’s a lot shorter than me so I have to stoop awkwardly, but I don’t mind. Unlike Candice’s hug, Savannah’s doesn’t come with an ulterior motive.
“Thanks, Savi. Are you coming to Overtime?”
“Wish I could, but I picked up an extra shift at work. Just gonna say bye to Drew and head out.”
In a twist of poor timing, Violet, Julianna, and Preston appear nearby at the same time Savannah and I pull apart. Judging by Violet’s expression, she caught our hug and doesn’t know what to make of it. I’m not sure if making her jealous would help or hurt my case—whatever that is.
Hell, I still don’t know what’s going on with Violet and Preston. He could be her boyfriend, and I could be obsessing over her for nothing. Then again, I do know the feelings between us are definitely not nothing—regardless of whatever Preston’s temporary role may be. He won’t stick around long-term. Of that much, I’m certain.
Drew walks out of the dressing room and says a quick goodbye to Savannah before joining me and Vaughn. Ever the social fucking butterfly, he waves over the three interns, engaging them in conversation about the game and how they enjoyed being on the bench for the first time. The only thing that could make this worse is if Candice resurfaced. Fuck. Better get out of here before she does.
“Vaughn and I will meet you at Overtime,” I tell Drew, giving Vaughn a nudge with my elbow. Setting off for the doors, I call over my shoulder. “Sound good?”
Drew looks at Violet, Julianna, and Preston. “You guys want to join? Come on, it’ll be fun. Team bonding and all that.”
My fist clenches around my keys. I had forgotten that Drew considers rudeness to be a mortal sin. He’d rather die than be seen as excluding someone. But now I might kill him myself.
Violet looks like a deer in headlights. Julianna bites her bottom lip like she’s weighing the offer. But Preston is fully on board, and one is all it takes. Soon enough, we’ve all made plans to meet for drinks, and I’m sorely regretting my decision to be designated driver.
Mental note to smother Drew in his sleep later.
