Mr. Trick Play (The Playmakers #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Luka

Nothing screams rookie louder than falling on your ass day one of pre-season camp. To be fair, I tripped over Henry Colt’s leg after he dropped into a split wearing full gear, so it wasn’t entirely my fault.

“Shit, sorry, rook. You good?” he asks, sweeping his legs around to kneel into a frog stretch, bouncing up and down like he’s humping the ice.

I push up and feel a slight twinge in my wrist.

“Yeah, sorry, I should watch where I’m going.”

Reid Raines skids to a stop in front of us.

“Watch it, kid. We need our star goalie out there in peak condition this season.”

“I’m good,” Colt says, changing up his stretch, sweeping his legs back and then pulling his knees up again like he’s doing the breaststroke.

“See, he’s good, I’m good, we’re all good,” I say, and Reid narrows his eyes slightly before turning and skating back up to the other end.

“Well, I guess I can cross him off my Christmas card list,” I laugh, but in reality, I am totally freaking out.

My heart is pounding, my palms are getting sweaty, and the realization that the fucking captain of the team just looked at me like gum on the bottom of his shoe sets in.

I’m not used to people not liking me. In college, fuck, even as far back as middle school, I’d gotten along with pretty much everyone.

I like to think I’m actually a really nice guy too, so when I catch Reid glancing back at me, helmet in hand, jaw tight, and eyes narrowed in what I can only describe as a fucking death stare, I nearly fall over again.

“He’s alright once you get to know him,” Colt says.

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Seriously, he’s not as scary as he looks. Fuck, except right now. Dude, did you John Wick him or something?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you kill his dog or something?”

“No. I didn’t do anything,” I reply, turning my back to Reid and dropping to the ice to join Colt in stretching. “Is he still looking at me?”

Henry cranes his neck to look over me and then shakes his head.

“You’re good. The guys are starting to get together, though, so you should probably join them.”

“I guess,” I say, climbing to my feet.

“You’re a rookie about to attend your first training camp session. Smile, kid, this is what you’ve always wanted,” Colt says, and his words actually hit hard.

“You’re right. Thanks.”

“No worries, now go on, get out there and show them what you got.”

Coach Dennings waves everyone into the middle to give us the rundown of today’s plan. All the while, I’m sure I can feel Reid’s eyes on me, judging, questioning why I’m here, and probably plotting how he can replace me.

When I was signed to Philly, I couldn’t wait to play with some of the guys I’d grown up idolizing, and Reid was one of them.

I guess they were right, you should never meet your idols, because any aspirations I had of being best friends with the veteran defenseman vanished the second his steely gaze landed on me.

I guess now I’ll have to focus on trying to at least prove to him that I belong.

I push hard through wind sprints, controlling my breath and giving each sprint up the ice everything I have.

My muscles warm, then burn and ache, but I don’t let it slow me down.

I can’t. Raines is in my line, and he’s still powering ahead of the pack on every count.

I have to give it to the old guy; he’s got mad endurance.

“Okay, nice work, boys. Let’s see if your shooting is as on point as your stamina.

Four corners, starting with the top left.

Colt, you’re up,” Coach Dennings calls out, and as Henry readies himself in the box, I take my place in the lineup, trying to pretend I’m not hurting.

My lungs burn as the cool air fills them with every heaving breath.

“You okay, kid?” Dawes, one of the best power forwards in the game, asks from behind me.

“Fine,” I wheeze as the line moves along quickly.

Each player scoops a puck from the pile and shoots it toward the top left corner of the net.

Colt’s blocked every one of the shots so far.

Not surprisingly. He knows where they’re headed.

But he’s preparing for each shot like he’s not so certain.

Shifting his weight from side to side, his gaze locked on the player with the puck, completely locked in.

I guess he has to be. I don’t know how he does it.

I can’t say I’ve ever wanted to be a goalie in my life.

Standing in the one place that every guy out here is pegging rubber pucks at?

No thanks. But he taps the posts in celebration with every save.

I swear I can see his smile through his helmet, wide and happy, fucking elated at being the target of every shot we’ll make for the next half hour.

After we each try for the four corners, Coach Dennings calls, “Okay, now it’s free shooting. Let’s see who can score on Colt. You each get three shots, make them count.”

It’s like the air around us is electrified, the excitement of getting to score on Colt building amongst every player out here.

Colt was called up mid-season last year into the backup goalie position, but shifted quickly into a starter with his cheetah reflexes.

After only the first few shots, I can tell he hasn’t lost any of his skills over break.

Every shot is either deflected or caught, and then I’m up. Dawes claps behind me.

“You got this, rook,” he says, and my pulse quickens, not with fear, but in that “how the fuck is this my life” kind of way. I take my first shot, and Colt blocks it with his leg, shaking his head.

“One down, spring chicken,” he almost sings to me across the ice.

I sweep another puck and take my second shot, aiming for the same spot, hoping he’ll be thinking I’ll change it up, but he blocks it easily again.

“That all you got?” Colt asks, and as I turn to collect another puck, I glance up and see Raines watching me with an unimpressed scowl on his face.

“I’ll show you,” I whisper under my breath as my mind flicks through the different trick shots I’d refined through my college years.

There’s a chance he’s seen them and will be prepared for whatever I send his way, but then again, the chances he spent his downtime watching college hockey are slim.

I make my way up the ice with the puck, then as I get close, I turn my back on him, skating backwards a few feet.

Instead of turning back to shoot, I send the puck between my legs, twist my body around, then shoot it up and over his leg and into the back of the net.

“Looks like you’re not just a pretty face,” Dawes calls, the rest of the guys clapping in celebration of my goal on my way past. Everyone except Reid. He’s looking at me with one eyebrow cocked and his impossibly large arms folded across his chest.

“You think that would work in a real game?” he asks, nodding toward where Colt is waiting for the next shooter.

I shrug. “It had a seventy percent success rate last season.”

“More like sixty.”

“How . . .”

“You think I wouldn’t do my research on any player joining my team?”

He says “my team” in a deeper tone, a throaty rumble behind it that comes out all possessive-like. Instead of it giving off an entitled dick vibe, it has my cock waking up and paying notice. Fucking hell, how messed up is that?

“You’ve got skills, rook, but I haven’t seen anything yet that makes me believe you’ve got what it takes to be here.”

“Then you’d better keep watching, because I’ll have you screaming my name with the rest of them by the time the season is over.”

It comes out more flirty than threatening, not that he seems to notice, because his first response is to roll his eyes.

“Good luck,” he scoffs, and then skates over to take his shots.

Defenders aren’t the biggest point scorers out on the ice, but he manages to get one past Colt’s head with a massive slap shot, and the second it hits the back of the net, he glances over to where Coach Dennings is watching like he wants to make sure that he saw it.

Coach Dennings sends him a nod, and when he spins back, there’s the smallest of smiles on his lips.

Could Reid Raines actually be as insecure as the rest of us mere mortals, and why is it that that thought makes me want to praise him?

As we get toward the end of the session, sweat drips down my face and back, but I’ve managed to stay out of Reid’s way and hold my own.

“Hart,” Coach Dennings calls, and suddenly all eyes are on me.

“Sorry, what?”

“You’re with Raines, two-on-two, let’s go.”

Great.

Coach Dennings blows the whistle, and I’m off like a shot after the puck at the left corner behind my net.

Larry Peterson, the highest points scorer of last year and all-around fucking legend, beats me to it.

I go after him, hoping to scoop the puck when he passes, but Reid has Dawes blocked out.

Larry takes the shot, but Colt is in our goal and deflects it right toward me.

I take off, Reid moves up the ice, and when Larry tries to steal the puck, instead of shooting, I pass back to Reid, who lines up for a slap shot that sends the puck right past Mickey Jones, our backup goalie, and into the back of the net.

Coach Dennings blows his whistle, and the next four are up.

“Nice slap shot,” I tell Reid as we rejoin the team.

I get a nod in reply, which isn’t a glare, so maybe all this guy needs is a little buttering up? I can do that. Look out, Reid Raines, because you’re about to get Luka love-bombed.