22. Brayden
brAYDEN
Slam!
Ever since Gavin had beaten the shit out of Myla’s attacker with a hockey stick after game one, we were doing a hell of a lot better on the ice together.
There was this unspoken thing between us now—some twisted, rage-bonded chemistry that clicked whenever we were on the same shift.
I still thought he was a jerk most of the time, but I’d gained a lot more respect for him that night.
You don’t forget who swung first for your sister.
Miller bounced off me with a grunt, and Gavin used the half-second of space to slip the puck around his stick.
He had that stupid smooth confidence he always skated with, head up, edges cutting like he was born in skates.
He drew their second D-man toward him, then snapped a pass through traffic—right onto my tape.
Gavin shot me the rock and I bee-lined it straight for the net.
The crowd noise dimmed into a low roar in my ears. My legs pumped, blades biting into the ice as I cut through the neutral zone. I had a step on their defenseman, maybe two if I pushed it. I pulled the puck across my body, dropped my shoulder, and drove hard toward the slot.
I exhaled, took the shot, and heard the worst sound ever—the clank of the puck hitting the metal post and flying back toward me.
Fuck. How the hell did I miss that?
It had been there—short side, just above the pad. A spot I’d hit a thousand times in practice. I could practically see the slow-motion replay already—textbook chance, perfect feed, and I rang it like a church bell.
“You’ll get it next time,” Gavin called over to me as he peeled off and rushed behind their net to chase the rebound. His tone was lighter than it had any right to be, like I hadn’t just whiffed on a gift.
He fought for the puck as I skated backward into position, keeping my stick in the lane, watching for an opening.
If he could spin it back out front, maybe our weak-side winger could get a shot off.
We’d talked about that exact play in the morning skate.
System hockey—trust the structure, trust your linemates.
Miller checked me from behind, sending me crashing chest-first into the boards. The impact rattled my helmet, my teeth, my patience. I bit back a groan and pushed off, swallowing the urge to turn around and drop the gloves.
It was just going to be one of those nights for me; I was completely off my game. My hands felt a half-second behind my feet, my timing off by a hair. That’s all it takes at this level—one tiny misstep and you look like you don’t belong.
Luckily, the rest of my team was not feeding off my suckery—they were playing tight, snapping passes, taking shot after shot. Our D was sealing the blue line, keeping them hemmed in. We were still dictating the pace; I just felt like the weak link in the chain.
“Change it up!” Coach yelled from behind the bench, his voice slicing through the crowd noise.
I gladly skated over, lungs burning as I hopped the boards. I slammed down onto the bench, chest heaving.
“Get your head back in this game, Cox,” he snarled, leaning around the assistant to bark it directly in my face.
“Aye, Coach.” I dropped my helmeted head, breathing through the frustration. Everyone has an off night every once in a while, but this wasn’t the time. We were on the road, division game, standings tight. It was time to shake that shit off and help my team get another victory.
I watched the next shift like a film study.
Watched our boys execute the forecheck exactly how we’d drawn it up—first man in banging bodies, second reading the play, third high slot.
I watched Gavin win a board battle, dish it back to the point, then crash the net.
The guy was on tonight. Of course he was.
The seconds ticked by, and then I heard my name.
“Cox, you’re up. Let’s go.”
I tapped gloves with the guy coming off and jumped over the boards. The familiar rush hit my veins—ice under my skates, crowd humming, boards buzzing. Home or away, it was the same drug.
Just breathe and follow your instincts.
We cycled back to our zone, resetting. Rounding the back of the net, Crosby glided over in all his big goalie glory. Even under all that gear, he moved with that casual swagger only goalies and psychopaths had.
“Give ’em hell!” he yelled, rimming the puck up the wall before dropping it neatly to my stick.
It was now or never. This sprint into enemy territory was going to either make or break the night for me.
I picked up speed through the neutral zone, cutting to the outside of their D-man, using my body to shield the puck. I felt his stick jab at my ribs, his glove press into my back, but I kept my feet moving. One, two, three hard strides, then a cut back to the middle to open up the shooting lane.
I didn’t overthink it this time. I saw a sliver of daylight high glove and let it rip.
The puck flew off my stick, clean and heavy. Half a heartbeat later, the red goal light flashed, the siren blared, and the announcer’s voice filled the arena. “Goal for the Otters by number sixty-eight, Cox!”
The boys swarmed me, gloves smacking my helmet, sticks tapping my shins. The knot that had been lodged in my chest since that first post hit loosened in an instant. There’s nothing like the feeling of burying one on the road, silencing an opposing crowd—even if it’s just for a second.
We were up by one nearing the end of the third period, defending the lead with tight, desperate shifts, when Miller decided he’d had enough of losing clean.
He started chirping at Crosby in the crease, jabbing the butt of his stick into our goalie’s pads after the whistle. Crosby gave him a shove with his blocker, and Miller shoved back harder.
Then he dropped his gloves.
Of course he did.
Before I’d even processed it, I was already skating in. Gavin and I rushed over, both of us getting between our goalie and the douche canoe, shoving shoulders and sticks into the mess.
Gavin’s glove hit the ice as I ripped Miller’s helmet right off. It was a stupid, instinctive move—I wanted him exposed, wanted him to feel as vulnerable as my goalie looked.
Gavin threw a perfect hook, connecting with Miller’s left eye. The big bastard was down on the ice before either of us could get another shot in.
Crosby was trying to push past me to get to Miller on the ground, still furious, still barking through his mask, as the refs swarmed us, whistles shrieking. By that time both teams were in an uproar and a huge fight broke out.
Everything degenerated in seconds. Sticks were flying, gloves were all over the place—it was damn mayhem.
Classic line brawl. I grabbed whoever grabbed me, trying not to lose my footing as bodies crashed against the glass.
The fans were all on their feet, yelling and hollering like this was what they’d paid to see all along.
I glanced over long enough to see Coach yelling at the top of his lungs for us to calm our tits, his face an impressive shade of crimson, but there was no point in wasting his breath; there was no way he was going to break through the raged-out mess that was ensuing.
Once a fight like that started, you just had to ride it out and pray you didn’t catch a suspension.
Finally, the referees wrestled it back under control. Guys were sent to the box, penalties were sorted, and somehow we managed to hang onto the lead. We won the game three to two, but in the locker room, you wouldn’t have known it from Coach’s expression.
“You all are a bunch of embarrassing jackasses! What the fuck were you thinking?” His face was redder than I had ever seen it before, and we all just sat in our gear in silence with our heads down.
It was like we were in kindergarten getting yelled at by the principal—if the principal dropped F-bombs every other word.
No one spoke. No one dared. Our gloves were half off, helmets sitting on the floor, jerseys sweat-soaked and heavy. My knuckles throbbed. My shoulder ached where I’d gone into the boards. Adrenaline was wearing off, leaving everything sore and raw.
After yelling for about twenty minutes straight, Coach finally sighed, shoulders slumping a fraction. “Get your sorry asses into the showers and out of my fucking sight. I never want something like this to happen again. Hayes, Cox, stay put.”
There it was. The other skate dropping.
Our teammates started to peel off their pads and head toward the showers, the room filling with the familiar stink of sweat, wet gear, and crappy hotel soap. Gavin and I made our way over to the corner of the locker room where Coach had led us.
“What’s up?” Gavin asked, voice casual, but I could see the tightness in his jaw.
I wondered how weird it must be for him, having such an ass as a father and coach.
My dad had been a fucking prick when he was my coach, but that was when I was a kid.
I couldn’t even start to fathom how terrible it would have been if my dad had been my coach now, at this level, with cameras pointed at every screwup.
“What is going on with you two?” Coach asked, eyes cutting between us like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Gavin and I both looked at each other, neither of us having a fucking clue what he was getting at.
“Sir?” I didn’t know what else to say.
He pointed a finger at the both of us. “You two are like a little dynamic duo out there now. Passing well, getting along, getting in the middle of Crosby’s fight together—what gives?”
Gavin rolled his eyes. “Dad, seriously? You want us to act like teammates, then here we are doing that and you give us a hard time about it?”
There was something strange there, though—a softness in the way he said it. Less venom than normal. It threw me.
Coach shook his head. “Just stop getting each other in trouble, all right?”
“We’ll try,” I said, still completely confused about how I should take this whole conversation. Did he want us to get along or not? Pick a lane, old man.
Gavin and I walked over to our lockers, not saying another word to each other for the rest of the night. The room hummed with the background noise of showers, music starting up low from the speakers, guys chirping about the fight now that the worst of Coach’s rage had passed.
I peeled off my jersey and chest protector, muscles screaming in protest, then finally grabbed my phone from my bag. Two names popped up on the screen that made my heart do two completely different things.
I checked my phone, thankfully finding messages from Myla and Karla.
Myla: What the fuck was that?
Myla: Seriously Brayden, you are a much better player than that.
Karla: What a game. Heading to bed. Early shift in the morning. Text me when you wake up.
I sent a quick goodnight text back to Karla, needing that tether to her calm voice, before having it out with my sister. Her passion for my playing was cute and annoying all at the same time.
Me: Hey, can we just be happy that we won?
Myla: Don’t get me started. First, that net was wide open, and second, why would you rip a player’s helmet off for another player to punch? I mean, seriously?!
Me: The best part about all of this is I can picture how pissed you are right now.
I glanced over to see Gavin smiling down at his phone, thumbs moving quickly.
I couldn’t help but wonder if he was talking to Myla, too.
I wasn’t an idiot; I knew he had given her his number the night after the first game.
I just hoped she would see that he was just as big of a womanizer as I used to be, so I wouldn’t have to step in and play the big brother card when it came to the captain of my team.