8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Even the mighty have secrets. Looking at you, Landon!
It seems even our most stoic non-believers have a little superstition in them.
Landon’s been known to scoff at his teammates’ reliance on good luck rituals in the past. But whispers around Richland say he’s got a new habit of his own—one he’s guarding like an old dog with a new bone.
What could it be? Spill the tea, Puckleberries!
Someone knows! What’s our handsome boy up to when no one’s looking? ~Penni’s Puckleberry Tea
Shep
Fournier pounded each player’s shoulder as we passed him to stomp down the tunnel to the locker room. I sagged onto the bench beside my stall, my muscles singing from forty minutes of all-out war on the ice. Zacha thudded down next to me.
He knocked his elbow against my side. “Nice breakaway on Meade, kámo?e. He didn’t sit a chance.”
“Stand a chance. You mean he didn’t stand a chance.”
A flash of teeth brightened his sweat-streaked face despite the fatigue of a hard-fought second period. “That’s what I said.”
I rolled my eyes. “Better pick up your game for the third. What’s with hitting the crossbar twice in a row?”
“Maybe I need your doll in my locker.”
My spine snapped straight. “Only if you pry it from my cold, dead hands.” The tunnel—no, Merri—flashed through my mind.
Concrete walls, emerald eyes, the scent of citrus that made my mouth water.
I shook my head, forcing my focus back to the ice.
Pucks and plays I could handle. The rest of it... yeah, that could wait.
Denmark slunk into the room, steadily making his way around the half-dressed players to materialize in front of me. I shook my head. “Not a chance.”
“Karlen’s gonna do the repair on your sleeve. I’m just delivering it to him.”
“Last time you touched my gear, I went twelve games without a goal. Hands off this jersey.” I surged up to my feet, yanking the uniform over my head as I shoved past him. Zacha’s laughter chased me out, but I kept moving, checking over my shoulder to ensure the Czech hadn’t swiped the Pop.
The equipment room’s narrow walls closed in as I rounded the corner. Karlen hunched over his workbench at the far end, the screech of the blade sharpener competing with the boys’ chaos echoing from down the hall. My shoulders relaxed a fraction as I approached through the maze of cases.
“You sent Denmark? You wanna see me crash and burn? Your nephew gunning for my spot?”
Karlen accepted the jersey I held out to him, his weathered features softening at the mention of his beloved nephew. “You’re safe for a couple more years, Landon. Kid hasn’t even finished middle school. Give me five to sew this up. Unless you want a new one?”
“This one.” I didn’t believe in luck or rituals, but why tempt fate? The jersey had already brought one goal tonight.
“Head back, then. No room for players back here. I’ll bring it over.”
“Don’t give it to Denmark.”
The older man wagged his head like I’d said something ridiculous. I didn’t consider twelve scoreless games ridiculous. “I mean it,” I said, “don’t give it to that asshole.”
Karlen waved me off. “Alright, alright.”
Fournier’s voice carried through the corridor before I reached the locker room. Our captain doled out praise while scanning faces for hidden injuries—the kind we all carried and masked until physical therapy inevitably revealed the truth. We trusted him to keep our secrets from the front office.
Zacha stood in front of our lockers, his back to the room and his attention on something on my shelves. Had he been serious about stealing the doll? I picked up my step, but when I reached his side I saw he had my phone, not the Pop, in his hand. “What gives?”
“It rang three times in three minutes. Someone is desperate to get you.”
I thumbed open the screen. Shy’d sent half a dozen text messages. She knew we had a game. As my sister, she better be watching it!
The phone buzzed again. I swiped to answer. “Shy, a little busy here. You have a minute to say your piece.”
“I know, I know, but this is super important. You need to come over the minute your game is over. The minute. No Puck’n Boards, no stops to eat. Come over here immediately.”
The urgency in her voice kicked my pulse into overtime. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Shep. Tiago and Mateo are fine. But you need to come over. Promise me and I’ll stop blowing up your phone.”
The vise around my chest loosened. “No worries. Can do. See you as soon as I finish up here.”
“Good luck! Shove Meade again for me. What a speck. He sure knows how to ham it up for the refs.”
A grin tugged at my lips. Few people could make me drop plans without question, but Shy had earned that right a thousand times over. “A speck, Shy? Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”
“What’s wrong with speck? He’s a tiny, annoying speck of nothing. A human dust mote.” Her breath hitched on the other end of the call. “You’ll come straight over? No detours?”
The playful comeback died in my throat. Shy never nagged, never pushed. Not even when she had every right to. “Shy, nutso, what’s going on?”
She sighed, the blast of air fuzzing up her phone. “You just need to come by. It’s important.”
“Then I’ll be there as soon as I wrap this game up. No problem, sis. I promise.”
The puck slid off my stick in a wicked wrap-around, bulleting into the back of the net.
A rush of savage satisfaction surged through me, sharp and sweet.
Minnesota had clawed their way back into the game with two third-period goals, but now?
Now the lead was ours with only two minutes left on the clock.
Meade slammed into my back, same as he’d done every shift. The force launched me straight into their goalie. The ref’s whistle pierced the arena, his arms shooting skyward as the hometown crowd’s cheers morphed into a thunderous wave of boos.
Coach Trasier pressed the assistant’s headset to his ear, his mouth kicking up at one corner. He spoke into the mic, passed the headset back to the assistant coach, and gave the ref a sharp nod.
I balanced on my skates between Zacha and Fournier. Fournier spoke, a thread of surprise in his voice. “Coach’s challenge.” His gaze cut to mine. “You get pushed or fall?”
“Meade.” My jaw clenched. “Bastard’s been up my ass all night. Lost his edge coming across the crease and used me as his personal landing pad right into Trusik.”
Zacha knocked his shoulder against mine, a smirk on his face. “I don’t think it’s Wilson calling that challenge down.”
All three of us glanced up to the windows high above the ice, cloaked in shadow.
No way to spot Merri or Wilson behind their wall of monitors, but my pulse kicked up a notch.
Wilson would never risk a bad call. He wouldn’t dare risk a Coach’s challenge—a desperate gamble where the head coach challenged the officials, risking a penalty if it failed.
With two minutes left, the last thing we needed was to go on the penalty kill. My heart hammered in my chest.
The referee glided to center ice. Feedback chirped over his mic a second before his voice carried through Algonquian Arena. “After review, it has been determined that there was no goaltender interference on the play. The player was shoved into the goalie. The goal counts. Faceoff at center.”
“Hell yes!” My fist punched skyward as the crowd erupted.
Coach swapped Charlie’s line for mine. I dropped onto the bench, gulping air, a grin splitting my face.
Merri Wylie had brass ones, alright. And damn if that didn’t make her even hotter. The memory of her kiss, of how she’d challenged me in that hallway… I was in dangerous territory with her—the kind that could complicate everything if I wasn’t careful.
Shy and Tiago had turned Santiago’s top floor into their own private kingdom.
My baby sister, a tech genius, shacked up with a business mogul and his hockey-playing brother, Mateo, in a penthouse overlooking downtown Richland.
The renovation had transformed the entire level into one sprawling space—classic Shy, going all-in once she’d made up her mind about Tiago.
Game replays bounced around my skull as the elevator climbed up to my baby sister’s floor.
Not the usual post-game analysis though.
Too busy getting derailed by flashes of copper-penny hair and emerald eyes that had no business occupying my thoughts.
That kiss in the tunnel had changed something between us.
Made everything more real, more dangerous.
The Pop rode shotgun in my equipment bag down in the truck. Too risky to leave my new lucky charm behind. Not that I was superstitious, but facts were facts.
Raking my shower-damp hair off my face, I hit the doorbell. Shy yanked it open before the chime died, her eyes doing that X-ray thing she’d mastered growing up with me and my bullshit.
“What? Everybody okay?” My hand found its way to my neck. “You’re freaking me out here, sis.”
“Told you we were fine on the phone.” But tension curled around her words, setting off all my big brother alarms.
The knot in my gut twisted tighter as I followed her into the living room.
They’d gone full luxury with jewel tones and leather, wrapped around a red brick fireplace that dominated the wall.
I had to grin at Shy’s touch on the mantle though.
At the R2-D2 model keeping watch over some Bender fan art.
My nerdy little sister, living her best life.
The grin died in my throat. A teenager sprawled on the chocolate leather couch, phone clutched like a lifeline. Beside her sat an older woman whose stare could’ve melted steel.
Tiago held up the dining room archway, trading me a nod that held way more weight than usual. What the hell had I walked into?
Southern charm clicked into place like game-day armor. “Hey there. Shep Landon.” My outstretched hand hung empty when the older woman didn’t shake.
She didn’t shake hands. She stared at me with an expressionless intensity that sent a ripple of unease up my spine.