The Broken Signal (Pine Barren University #6)

Chapter 1

one

BEN

The scrape of steel on ice is my favorite sound in the world.

Not the roar of a crowd when we score—though that’s pretty good—but this. The precise, crystalline shwick of a sharp blade carving through clean ice, the percussive thud of a puck hitting the boards, and the overlapping rhythm of ten guys all moving with purpose.

It’s a language I understand in my bones, as much as I do electrical circuits or complex mathematical equations. It doesn’t require me to fumble for the right words or worry that I’m about to say something monumentally stupid, which, off the ice, is what happens most of the time.

But out here, I know exactly what I’m doing.

I pivot hard, transitioning from backward to forward skating in one smooth crossover, my edges biting deep as I close the gap on Mason Nash. He’s got speed—I’ll give him that—but speed without strategy is just noise, and Nash is always noise.

He’s coming in hot on a 2-on-2 drill, Stiles trailing behind him like a faithful terrier, both of them chirping loud enough that I can hear them over the chaos of practice. It’s the same as always, noise and banter masquerading as talent, but I’ve got them covered.

“Yo, Kell, don’t hurt yourself!” Nash yells.

Stiles, never one to miss an opportunity to pile on, adds, “Dude’s going to trip over his skates!”

I don’t bite. I don’t need to. The puck is the only thing that matters right now, and Nash’s stickhandling, while flashy, has a tell. He always—always—cuts hard to his forehand right before he tries a deke. It’s a tiny detail that most people miss, but I know the pattern.

Same move, every time.

Simple physics.

He cuts, but I don’t follow the fake. Instead, I angle my stick low, and the second he commits to the move, I execute a textbook poke check that strips the puck clean off his blade. It skitters toward the boards, and Nash, caught off-balance, stumbles past me with a muttered curse.

“Shit!”

I’m already transitioning, scooping the puck onto my stick and sending it up the boards to my partner in the drill, Erik Schmidt. He receives it and sends it back to our end without a word. I settle into position.

“Lucky fucking read,” Nash mutters as he skates back into position.

“Nah, Kell’s camping,” Stiles says, like defensive positioning is cheating.

I should point that out. Call him an asshole. Make him the joke.

But I don’t, because I’d just screw it up.

So I keep quiet.

As if sensing my self-doubt, Schmidt skates past me and taps his glove lightly against the side of my helmet. It’s a small gesture, but it lands like validation from a deity. My stick feels lighter in my hands, like someone just upgraded all my gear while I wasn’t looking.

“Solid,” he says, his tone clipped but genuine, the praise about as effusive as Schmidt offers anyone.

I tap my stick against the ice, a stupid grin threatening to split my face. “Thanks,” I manage, my voice coming out steadier than I feel.

Schmidt’s approval doesn’t come cheap. He’s not Rook, all easy grins and constant encouragement. It has to be earned, which means when you get it, it means something. And right now, standing a little taller, my shoulders a little less hunched, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I actually belong here.

The whistle blows, signaling the end of the drill, and chaos resumes. The guys skate lazy circles, chirping at each other with the kind of easy, relentless banter that defines this team. It’s a language all its own—half insult, half affection—and I’m still not entirely fluent.

“Yo, Stiles, you see that poke check?” Leo Cooper calls out, his voice carrying across the ice. “Nash got fucking owned.”

Nash, never one to let a chirp go unanswered, fires back. “I was just going easy.”

“Going easy?” Rook, our captain and starting goalie, skates over with the loose-limbed ease of a guy who’s never met a silence he couldn’t fill. His grin is wide, his brown eyes bright with mischief. “Nash, you were going full tilt, and Kell still picked you clean. Just take the L, man.”

“Bullshit. I had another gear.”

“Yeah?” The corner of Cooper’s mouth twitches upward. “Reverse?”

The group erupts in laughter, and Nash’s jaw tightens, his mouth opening for a retort that never comes. I watch the exact moment he decides to cut his losses, skating away with a muttered curse that just makes everyone laugh harder.

I’m in the circle with them, laughing at the right moments. But I’m also outside it, watching the whole thing through glass. They’re a band that’s been playing together for years, and I’m the guy who showed up knowing the chords but not the rhythm, never quite locking into the groove.

I know I should join in, maybe laugh louder, add my own story, or take a shot at some banter of my own. That’s what the guys who actually fit do. But every time I’ve tried, it backfired and led to the guys laughing at me, because I don’t belong here.

So I keep quiet and skate a slow circle, letting the cold air fill my lungs.

Because here’s the thing nobody tells you about being good at hockey when you’re simultaneously bad at being “one of the guys”: after the buzzer, you’re back in the real world, where reading a forecheck doesn’t help you read a room.

Out here, I’m a defenseman. I read plays, I shut down attacks, and I protect the net. My value is clear, measurable, and undeniable. But when it’s time to get off the ice and fit in with these guys? With most people? With girls, especially?

I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Kell!” Rook’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, and I look up to find him grinning at me, his stick resting casually across his shoulders, like he was born knowing exactly how to take up space in the world. “Are you coming to Malone’s tonight?”

My skate catches slightly on a rut in the ice, barely noticeable, but enough to throw off my rhythm. I recover, but the stumble mirrors the one happening in my head, the one that happens every time I’m singled out from the crowd in any sort of social situation.

Friday night at Malone’s. I can already see it: a packed bar, Rook and the guys holding court at a table, girls drifting over, and me in the corner trying to laugh when I’m supposed to while also figuring out if making eye contact counts as flirting.

“Uh, yeah, maybe,” I say. “But I’ve got a problem set due on Monday, so—”

“Dude, it’s beer and wings,” Rook interrupts. “You can do your nerd shit tomorrow. Live a little tonight, eat some food, drink some beer, and maybe you’ll get lucky…”

“Kell doesn’t do women, but you should still come,” Nash says, skating past. “Or are you going to spend another Friday night playing with your junk?”

The emphasis makes it clear he’s talking about the electronics gear I like to tinker with, but the double meaning hangs there, waiting for someone to bite. On cue, the group laughs, and I force a grin, even as my stomach twists into a hard knot. Because I never should have told them about that.

I forgot the golden rule: never show them the parts of you they’ll use as ammunition later.

I tried being honest about it once. Standing in the hallway outside the cafeteria, telling a girl about the vintage radio I’d restored over the weekend. The way her expression shifted from curious to incredulous. The way she’d laughed, not cruelly, but like I’d just told her a great joke.

She’d laughed. Not a polite, isn’t-that-quirky laugh. A real one. “That’s what you do for fun? You’re like a garbage picker?” she’d said.

We never talked again.

So now I’ve got a rule: keep the nerd stuff locked down and blend into the crowd as much as possible. These guys know about my hobbies and my side hustle, but so long as I play my role and make it clear I’m in on the joke, it works.

Rook snorts, tired of waiting for my reply. “You’re such a dork, Kell.”

“Yeah, but he’s our dork,” Erik says.

I smile wider, because that’s what they’re waiting for. Confirmation that I’m in on the joke and that I know my place. Because, to them, I’m the harmless kid brother who does weird shit and can’t talk to girls but is good enough on the blue line that they’ll keep me around.

It’s a comfortable cage, and I’ve learned to live in it.

“Kell!” Nash’s voice booms in the locker room. “Get over here!”

Damn it.

Every cell in my body is screaming.

Retreat, find cover, and make yourself invisible.

Because if I go over to his locker stall, this ends badly. He and Stiles will want to discuss the weekend, girls, and plans I’m not part of. Then I’ll say something awkward, and they’ll laugh, and I’ll have to pretend I’m in on the joke when really I just want the floor to swallow me whole.

“Leave him alone,” Schmidt’s voice cuts through the noise, calm and reasonable.

Thank you, Schmidt. You’re a gentleman and a scholar, and I will name my firstborn after you, I think, but don’t dare say.

“Nah, man, this is important,” Stiles says, and I can hear the grin in his voice, which is never a good sign. “Kellerman! Are you deaf?”

I’m not deaf. I’m just hoping that if I ignore him, he’ll get bored. I keep my head down, but the predators are circling. My phone is sitting on the bench next to my bag, and the sight of it sends a cold spike of dread straight through my gut.

I should have put it in my locker. Why didn’t I put it in my locker?

“Dude, you should think more about phone security.” Stiles snatches it up before I can stop him, holding the phone to my face to unlock it.

My stomach drops. “Give that back—”

“Relax, Kell, we’re just going to set you up.” Nash leans over Stiles’s shoulder, both of them staring at my screen, swiping with the casual confidence of guys who’ve never once worried about what people think of them. “It’s a public service, like a charity or some shit.”