The Pucking Player

5. The Storm Before the Storm

5

THE STORM BEFORE THE STORM

LIAM

A s we pull into the Defenders Training Complex parking lot in Tarrytown, I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Thanks to my lead foot and some creative maneuvering through Manhattan traffic, we’ve made it just in time for practice.

I throw the car into park, grab my gear from the trunk, and fall into step with Nate as we head toward the locker room. The familiar scent of sweat, ice, and adrenaline hits me like a wave the second we step inside, the buzz of pre-practice energy charging the air.

The locker room is alive with the usual chaos—guys in various stages of undress cracking jokes, music pumping low in the background, and the occasional chirp from one side of the room to the other.

“Well, well, well, look who decided to grace us with their presence!” Finn calls out as we walk in, his grin wide and mischievous. “Did you two get lost on the way back from the city?”

I flip him off without missing a beat, tossing my bag in front of my locker. “Nah, we just had some important business to take care of. You know, the kind that actually makes a difference in people’s lives.”

Finn clutches his chest in mock offense, staggering back a step. “Ouch, O’Connor. That hurts. And here I thought my dashing good looks and sparkling personality were making a difference every day.”

Nate snorts as he pulls his gear out of his bag. “Yeah, a difference in the number of puck bunnies hanging around the arena, maybe.”

The room erupts in laughter, the kind that only comes when you’ve spent countless hours battling it out together on the ice. That’s what I love about this team—how we can tear each other apart one minute and go to war for each other the next.

I start changing into my practice gear, half-listening to the banter bouncing around the room. Aiden’s holding court in the corner, spinning one of his legendary glory-day stories.

“And then, with just seconds left on the clock, I snagged the puck and went coast-to-coast,” he says, his voice rising with dramatic flair. “Weaving through the defenders like they were standing still . Top shelf, baby! The crowd went wild!”

The rookies hang on his every word, their eyes wide with awe.

Nearby, Caleb is taping up his stick with the kind of intense focus that suggests he’s solving a physics equation, not wrapping layers of tape.

And then there’s Dmitri Sokolov, sitting quietly on the bench, his massive frame hunched over a book as he flips through the delicate pages. Dmitri’s a six-foot-four wall of muscle, our top defenseman and a single dad to an adorable six-year-old girl who’s got him wrapped around her finger. On the ice, Dmitri’s a wrecking ball, a guy who clears the crease with bone-crushing hits and doesn’t flinch when someone’s coming at him full speed. But off the ice? He’s a different story.

Right now, the guy who set a team record for hits last season is carefully reading what looks like Russian poetry, his brow furrowed while he’s dissecting each line.

Curious, I sidle up next to him. “What’s that, Dima? Some light reading before practice?”

He glances up, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Just a little Pushkin,” he says, his Russian accent thickening with amusement. “You might know this one: ‘I loved you; and perhaps I love you still, the flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet…’”

I clap him on the shoulder, grinning. “You’ve got a poet’s soul, Sokolov. Never lose that.”

Dmitri chuckles, closing the book and tucking it carefully into his bag. “Ah, but on the ice, I am a warrior, like the rest of you. Poetry fills my heart, but hockey? Hockey is in my blood.”

“You’ve got that right,” I say. “Speaking of which, we better get out there before Coach has our hides.”

Dmitri nods, standing and stretching his arms over his head. “Yes, let us go and face the day’s battles.”

I return to my locker and sit down to lace up my skates. As I do, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. This is my ritual—visualizing the ice, the puck, the perfect play. It’s how I center myself before practice, how I drown out the noise and focus.

But just as I’m settling into the calm, a hand claps down on my shoulder, jolting me back to the present.

Even before I open my eyes, I know who it is.

Adam Novak. Coach’s son. My right winger .

He’s standing over me, his expression a mix of irritation and restrained fury.

“Heard you made a move on my sister at the hospital today,” he growls, one eyebrow arched high.

Heat rises to my face, and I busy myself tying my laces. “Look, man, it’s not what you think?—”

“Oh, it’s exactly what I think,” Adam cuts me off. “It’s all over the group chat. Nate texted everyone about your little hallway moment with Sophie.”

My stomach sinks as I grab my phone and scroll through the group chat. Sure enough, Nate’s blown the lid off everything.

[Nate]: Guys, you won’t believe what just happened. Liam’s got it bad for Coach’s daughter!

[Finn]: Wait, what? Jessica or Sophie? I’ll have to fight the captain if it’s Jessica!

[Nate]: Calm down, man. It’s Sophie.

[Caleb]: Dude, Liam, are you trying to get yourself killed? Coach will murder you!

[Aiden]: Oh, young love. I remember those days. But seriously, Liam, tread carefully. You don’t want to mess with Coach’s girls.

[Logan]: Liam, bro, I know you’re a sucker for a pretty face, but this is a whole new level of stupid.

[Adam]: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, LIAM? You better stay the hell away from my sister, or I’ll break every bone in your body!

[Nate]: Oh, it gets better. He tried to get her number, but she shut him down.

[Adam]: Good. At least she has some sense. Sophie’s too smart to fall for your bullshit, Liam.

[Caleb]: Ooh, big brother’s not happy! Liam, you better watch your back.

[Logan]: Coach is gonna rip you a new one if he finds out. You know how protective he is of his girls.

[Finn]: Tell me about it. I’ve been circling Jessica for months now.

[Nate]: I don’t think our captain cares. He’s completely whipped. You should have seen the way he was staring at her during lunch. I had to kick him under the table to snap him out of it.

[Finn]: Liam, my man, you’re playing with fire. But if anyone can handle the heat, it’s you. Just keep your hands off Jessica, or we’ll have a problem.

[Logan]: Yeah, yeah, calm down, dude. We all know that you called dibs on Jessica. But when are you finally going to make a move, man?

[Finn]: Shut up, Logan.

[Aiden]: Be careful, Liam. Don’t let your feelings cloud your judgment. We need our captain focused on the ice.

[Mason]: Yeah, the last thing we need is Coach benching our captain because he can’t keep it in his pants.

[Dmitri]: The heart wants what it wants. Follow your heart, Liam, but be prepared for the consequences.

[Caleb]: Damn, Dmitri, that was deep. But seriously, Liam, you better have a good plan if you’re going to pursue her.

[Logan]: And a good hiding spot for when Coach finds out!

[Adam]: I’m warning you, Liam. Stay away from Sophie, or you’ll have me to deal with. Finn, I’ve got my eye on you too!

[Nate]: Looks like Liam’s got his work cut out for him. But hey, at least practice will be entertaining today!

And on and on it goes .

I glare at Nate, who’s leaning casually against the lockers, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Dude,” I hiss. “You texted the whole team?”

Nate shrugs, his grin unapologetic. “Hey, they needed to know what’s going on with our fearless leader. Besides, it’s the most entertainment we’ve had all week.”

Adam crosses his arms, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Liam, I’m serious. Stay away from my sister.”

I meet his gaze head-on, my jaw tightening. “I hear you, Adam. But I’m not going to promise you something I can’t deliver.”

At my words, the room goes completely still, the usual pre-practice noise vanishing as every guy turns their attention toward us. Even the faint sound of tape being ripped off a roll stops, leaving only the heavy weight of silence.

Adam Novak isn’t just our top winger—he’s my right winger. We’ve spent the past three seasons perfecting our on-ice chemistry—he knows where I’m going to be before I’m even there, and I know exactly how to set him up for the perfect shot. When I send a no-look pass to the corner, I know Adam will be there to bury it. When I’m pinned behind the net, he’s in the slot waiting to finish the play. On the ice, we’re unstoppable together. It’s this unspoken connection that wins championships. It’s a bond built on trust and instinct, and the team needs us running like a well-oiled machine if we’re going to make it all the way to the Cup.

But right now, Adam’s trust in me is hanging by a thread, and I feel the weight of it pressing down on my shoulders.

“I’m not trying to mess with her, Novak,” I say, my voice steady but firm. “I want to take her out for dinner.”

Adam scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “ Dinner ? With you? The notorious Liam O’ Connor? Come on, man. Sophie’s got her whole life ahead of her. Med school, a bright future. Your player lifestyle doesn’t fit into it.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “I’m not going to say this again. Stay away from her. I don’t care if you’re the captain or the fucking president—Sophie’s off-limits.”

His words hit harder than I want to admit. Not because I think he’s right, but because I know Adam, and I know this isn’t just about Sophie. It’s about the team. About us . He’s worried this thing—whatever it is—will blow up and take everything we’ve built on the ice with it.

And maybe he’s got a point.

I take a deep breath, holding up my hands in surrender. “Look, I’m not looking to screw things up—for her, for me, or for the team. I know what’s at stake.”

His glare doesn’t soften, but he doesn’t say anything else, either. The room is still heavy with tension, every guy silently watching, waiting to see how this plays out.

Before I can figure out how to move past this, Adam’s demeanor shifts. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, his brow furrowing as he stares at the screen.

“By the way,” he says, his tone suddenly sharper, “have you seen this?”

He holds his phone out, the headline glaring back at me like a slap to the face: “Anonymous Tip Sparks Allegations of PED Use in Defenders’ Locker Room.”

At the same time, my own phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find a flood of notifications, all of them pointing to the same trending hashtag: #DefendersDopingScandal.

My stomach churns as I click on the hashtag, revealing a barrage of tweets speculating about performance- enhancing drug use within our team. The article Adam showed me is everywhere, shared and retweeted with relentless speed.

The accusations are vague but damning—an anonymous tip claiming that PEDs were discovered in one of our lockers during a routine cleaning. No names are mentioned, but that doesn’t stop the internet from running wild with speculation.

The locker room is deathly quiet now, the weight of the news hanging over us like a storm cloud.

Nate, always the first to crack a joke when things get too serious, breaks the silence. “Logan, Aiden—anything to tell us?” he quips, flashing a grin at the two players most likely to be targeted by rumors.

Aiden, who’s close to retirement, and Logan, who’s recovering from a nagging injury, both bristle at the comment.

“You serious right now?” Aiden growls, crossing his arms. “I don’t need that shit to play hockey.”

Logan shoots Nate a sharp look. “You really think I’d risk my entire career for something like that?”

Nate holds up his hands in mock surrender, but the tension is already spreading.

Dmitri, sitting calmly in the corner, finally speaks up. His deep, measured voice carries over the room like a steady drumbeat. “A house divided against itself cannot stand,” he says simply. “Let’s not accuse each other.”

He’s right. If we start pointing fingers, this scandal will tear us apart before we even have a chance to fight back.

I take a step forward, clearing my throat to draw everyone’s attention. “Dmitri’s right,” I say, my voice cutting through the silence. “We can’t let this break us. We’re a team, and we stick together—no matter what. No one’s guilty until proven otherwise, and we’ll make damn sure the truth comes out.”

Around me, I see nods of agreement, but the unease is still there, simmering under the surface.

The door swings open, and Coach Novak strides in, his presence instantly commanding the room. Six-four and built like a damn tank, he’s a man who can silence a room with just a look. He’s in his early sixties now, but you wouldn’t guess it from the way he moves—strong, purposeful, like he’s still got a few good shifts left in him.

Novak used to play center back in his heyday, and you can still see it in the way he carries himself. Broad shoulders, thick forearms, and a chest that looks like it could still absorb a cross-check without flinching. The short salt and pepper hair adds to the no-nonsense authority that seems permanently etched into his features. His jaw is sharp, his nose just slightly crooked from a career’s worth of battles, and his eyes are a cold, piercing blue—calculating, assessing, always three steps ahead.

The chatter dies completely as he surveys us, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.

“Men,” he begins, his voice low and firm. “I know you’ve all seen the news. The accusations against this team are serious, and trust me, we will get to the bottom of it. But right now, our job is to focus on what we can control, and that’s our performance on the ice.”

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, but the tension doesn’t lift.

“We’ve worked too hard to let this derail us,” Coach continues, his tone rising. “The Stanley Cup is within our reach, and we’re not going to let this bullshit get in our way.”

He taps his clipboard for emphasis. “Today’s practice is playoff intensity. High-pressure drills, simulated scenarios, and defensive adjustments. We’re going to stay sharp, stay focused, and stay united.”

Then his gaze hardens. “And after practice, everyone takes a drug test. No exceptions.”

The murmurs rise again, louder this time, but Coach doesn’t waver.

“Yes, everyone,” he says bluntly. “We’re going to face this head-on. Transparency is the only way we win this.”

I nod, the weight of his words settling on my shoulders. He’s right. If we’re going to beat this, we have to stick together and prove we’re clean—no shortcuts, no excuses.

I tighten my skates and stand, addressing the team. “You heard Coach. We’re here to play, to prove we’re the best damn team in the league. Let’s hit the ice and show everyone what the Defenders are made of.”

The guys nod, their jaws set, their eyes burning with determination.

Nate, of course, can’t resist a final chirp. “And if anyone’s looking for an edge, I hear Logan’s locker is fully stocked.”

The tension breaks as laughter ripples through the room, Logan shoving Nate with a mock scowl.

Coach shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, enough. Let’s get serious. Every practice counts.”

With one final rallying cry, we grab our sticks and helmets and file out onto the ice.

As my skates hit the frozen surface, the cold air fills my lungs, clearing my mind. I shoot a glance at Adam, who’s skating a few feet away, his expression unreadable.

For the good of the team, I’ll make this work. On the ice, Adam and I are untouchable, and no matter what’s happening off it, I’ll make sure it stays that way.