Hockey Bois (Hockey Bois #1)

Chapter One August

The first door Nick tried didn’t open when he pulled, then pushed, and then shook it in desperation. Nothing.

He tried not to take it as a bad sign.

It took him two more doors to find one that would open, and then there was the struggle of wiggling through the small opening while juggling his stick and hockey bag. He ended up jamming his shoulder into the wall, but he counted it as a win when he didn’t get stuck.

The cool rink air hit him immediately and he shivered, missing the August heat behind him. Then he remembered he was here for hockey, his first real game in a real league that wasn’t filled with beginners learning to skate, and suddenly he had goosebumps for a whole other reason.

He was excited. He’d worked hard to get here, and there’d been plenty of times when he’d thought he was too old to be doing this. Not that he was old, but twenty-eight seemed like a ripe old age to be joining his first league, considering that was when most pros started thinking about retirement.

And as excited as he was, he was nervous as hell, too.

The ref wasn’t doubling as his instructor, there wasn’t a coach to give him pointers anymore, and the other players would expect him to have his shit together and be able to help out the team.

There was a huge learning curve he’d have to adjust to, but fuck did it feel good to have a jersey in hand with his own name on the back.

His feet carried him forward automatically.

He’d been to the ice rink in Laurel dozens of times for lessons, clinics, and open skates.

Hell, he’d been here for a few high-school games years ago when the local schools had played, competing for a chance at States.

Those had been fun times, cheering with his friends and classmates, but it’d always settled oddly in Nick’s stomach to watch.

Always a spectator, never a player. Never part of a team.

Until now.

It wasn’t the rink that threw him off—familiarity with the rink was actually a confidence booster—but rather the long line of plastic tables set up in front of the usual check-in counter, not a staff member in sight.

What the hell?

He frowned, looking across the papers carefully taped to each table, at a loss. There were names of teams, lists of players, game times, locker rooms, and several scattered pens, but no actual hint as to what Nick was supposed to do.

“First time?”

Nick jumped at the sound of a deep voice, slightly accented with something not quite Maryland, and turned around to see one of the hottest people he’d ever met in real life.

Dark hair poking out of a baseball cap, check.

Rugged beard, check. Stunning pale blue eyes, double check.

On top of all that, muscles on display in a gray tee that read HOCKEY EST. 1967 with shorts that were tight but just shy of being indecent.

And last but not least, ridiculously shabby flip-flops that were about a week away from needing either duct tape or the trash.

Nick floundered for words and only after considerable effort managed to gulp and nod in response.

The guy nodded solemnly. He came toward the table and immediately found the paper he wanted, grabbed a pen, and signed.

He held out the pen to Nick. “You gotta sign in every time you’ve got a game. They keep track for playoffs or if you get suspended or whatever. What team?”

“Uhh…” Fuck, why did he sound like such an idiot? If he was losing it here, on solid ground, because of a cute boy, what the fuck was he going to do on the ice? Forcing himself to put coherent sounds together, he said with a fairly good imitation of his regular voice, “Jagr Bombs.”

The guy blinked, his hand frozen in midair where he still held the pen.

Not having a better idea what to do, Nick finally took the pen. “Thanks,” he mumbled and started scanning the pages for his team.

“This one,” the guy said, tapping the paper he had just signed.

Sure enough, it was labeled Jagr Bombs 9:40 p.m. and had a neat, precise signature next to the name Brady Jensen.

A few other names had messy scribbles, some only initials or simply lines next to them, but Nick was one hundred percent sure that the clean, actually legible signature of Brady Jensen belonged to none other than the equally serious man in front of him.

“Thanks.” Nick tried not to notice how Brady watched him find his name, handwritten on the bottom of the list, and sign next to it. “Guess we’re teammates,” he said with a friendly smile.

Brady didn’t return it. “Guess so.” Without another word, he started down the hallway, and Nick had to scramble to catch up.

He appreciated that Brady had waited for him, had helped him out with signing in, but he was thrown for a loop. If they were teammates, shouldn’t Brady be welcoming him? Shouldn’t there be joking, or a pat on the back, or at least a fucking smile?

Was adult rec-league hockey way more serious than he’d been led to believe?

Fuck me if it is, he couldn’t help but think. I’m gonna eat it my first shift…

His phone buzzed in his pocket and Nick struggled to get it out, happy for the distraction.

Jenna May (9:02 p.m.)

Good luck at your first game! We’re rooting for you :)

Score them goals, check those guys, do that hockey!

Nick laughed at his cousin’s message, pleased that she’d remembered he was playing tonight and that she’d even timed her little pep talk to reach him before he suited up.

Nick (9:03 p.m.)

i will do all the hockey, thanks

When Nick looked up after putting his phone away, he saw Brady eyeing him over his shoulder. Brady immediately looked away, turning down another hallway.

“So, new guy,” he said. “How long you been playing?”

Nick’s heart skipped a beat. He knew these questions were coming—knew everyone had a first game, and that he’d just have to have his as an adult instead of when he was a kid.

The league commissioner had already made his situation perfectly clear to the team captain.

All of that made it absolutely no easier to answer this question right here, right now.

“Well, uhm… I’ve been learning to skate the past few months… almost a year now, I guess… and I’ve been in this… this, uh… this class for beginning skaters who want to learn hockey. We did some scrimmages in the class and—oof!”

He’d been so preoccupied with his little memorized explanation that he’d nearly run into Brady, who’d come to a dead stop outside the locker room door.

“How many league games have you played?” Brady asked, eyes narrowed as he gave Nick a discerning once over.

“Can I count tonight?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Brady rubbed a hand over his face and mouthed a silent prayer. He focused on Nick again before demanding, “You play D?”

Nick blinked in surprise and suppressed a laugh. Him? Play defense? Yikes.

Though he probably shouldn’t say “yikes” about his own play out loud, at least not to this guy.

“No. Winger. I mean, I’d like to play Center—I’m not bad at faceoffs—but I’m not fast enough to get back for the backcheck.”

Brady nodded approvingly, either at what Nick had actually said or how he’d said it.

Nick admittedly was very new to playing hockey, but he was great at talking hockey.

He’d been watching the Capitals all his life.

He could talk gameplay and knew strategy…

it was the physical implementation that he struggled with.

“Well, that’s something. Benns know all that?”

“Benns?” Nick squeaked, suddenly worried that he’d forgotten someone or something important.

“Benns. The captain. The commish told him about all that when you joined the league, right?”

Curtis Bennett, as Nick well knew from multiple emails back and forth with both the league commissioner and Curtis himself, was the captain of the Jagr Bombs. Now that he knew they were talking about the captain, he could see the connection and felt silly for not figuring it out on his own.

“Yeah, he knows. We’ve talked a bit—”

“Good.” That was all Brady said before turning to shoulder his way into the locker room with a grunt.

Nick looked up and down the empty hallway as though to say to the nonexistent crowd, Can you believe this guy?

His earlier nerves returned in full force, and Nick had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He’d been so worried about the actual mechanics of skating and playing that he’d overlooked the whole “team sport” part of the equation.

Teams meant other people, which meant chemistry or, at the very least, being able to work with other people.

Him and Brady? So little chemistry they’d probably score on their own net if they were on a line together.

“Good thing I’m used to working with dicks,” he grumbled before following Brady into the locker room.

While Brady’s interpersonal skills were lacking, the rest of the team took Nick’s sudden appearance in stride.

He was overwhelmed with more names than he could hope to learn in one night, given about a half-dozen enthusiastic handshakes and pep talks as he geared up, and then unceremoniously paired with an old dude named Gregg (with two G’s, as he was immediately told) and a young, lanky kid named Greg (with one G) who barely looked old enough to be in an adult league.

Nick (9:27 p.m.)

i am totally on the bottom line

He dumped his phone into his hockey bag after hitting “Send,” shaking his head and trying not to smile.

He didn’t mind; he figured this was Curtis—Benns, he corrected himself—doing him a favor.

Easing him into the game, not putting him on a line with high expectations, letting him get his feet wet.

All of these things worked in his favor, and Nick was grateful.