Chapter 9
NINE
SLONE
Iclocked the boy the moment he stepped into the suite. The air shifted around me from the moment I felt him in my space. Not like an intruder, more like, fuck…something that was missing, only you hadn’t known what it was until it showed the hell up. God, I sounded fucking ridiculous.
He’d grabbed a beer and headed to the front row of seats and sat by himself, the rest of the guys eyeing him but giving him space.
It…Jesus fucking Christ, it worried me. Like I even knew the kid.
But it did. For the rest of the game, my attention stayed split until he stood up and took Ryan’s plate.
Eyes followed every step his feet took like I did whenever the team tapped me as the sniper for a mission. My mind documented his every move, every interaction, the way he carried himself…just everything.
So when he stopped in my direct line of sight to order a drink from the sexy as fuck bartender who was eons younger than me and whose eyes lit up, I pushed my plate away. The chair scooted back as I leaned forward, elbows rested on the table, arms folded over each other.
I tried to appear invested in the conversation going on around me.
The Holts were talking hockey with the boys.
Ewen, Priest, and Cam were talking about the latest craziness our buddy Hayden was up to with his husband, Declan, and their wife, Marcie.
The three of them worked and followed Katie Carter across the country along with a couple of former Navy SEALS, Adam and Brock, who we also knew since Ewen, Priest, Cam, and I worked for Katie for a while.
It’s how Priest and Cam met Bauer and Gavin.
But other than a few muttered words and nonsensical hums and umms, my attention focused in on Trey and the bartender who grew more and more frustrated the longer the two interacted.
That would’ve worried me too, except Trey’s gaze met mine and stayed there while the bartender mixed whatever drink Trey ordered. When he tipped the dude, Trey turned back to him and the two of them laughed and talked.
“Your boy—”
I interrupted Priest by protesting his labeling. “Not my boy,” I said.
Ewen, Priest, and Cam laughed. I ignored them. But then the bartender’s eyes met mine over Trey’s shoulder, and Trey turned slowly to gaze at me over his shoulder.
“Busted,” Ewen and Priest said.
“Fuck,” I groaned, blushing, rolling my eyes, and sitting back away from them so the urge to punch them in the throat didn’t get past the locked gate I had it behind.
Trey turned back around to the bartender, and several moments passed filled with more flirting than I cared to witness.
Then his shoulders tightened, squared, the loose-limbed laughing kid turned to stoic marble, and he walked away, leaving the sexy bartender staring after him longingly.
At least that’s the way it looked, and I hoped like hell I didn’t look the same when I watched Trey.
Though that ship had sailed, if the looks my buddies gave me were any indication.
“Holy fuck!” Trey yelled, jumping to his feet, beating his fists against the glass.
Every eye in the suite not down next to the glass turned.
“Holy smokes, folks. A game-tying goal from Aiden Mercer with assists from Morrison and Samuelson! Aiden Mercer is living up to his hype.”
“That he is.”
I pulled my gaze from Trey’s happy, smiling, beautiful face to watch the jumbotron. For a moment, the screen is filled with Aiden’s beaming face being dogpiled by his teammates, but then it cuts to the replay.
Shane Morrison skated side-by-side with a huge forward from Vancouver.
They tore up the ice toward the net. Out of nowhere, Aiden Mercer bypassed Shane, flipped backward, and as he blazed across the ice from east to west in front of first Shane and then the guy from Vancouver, who had no fucking clue Aiden was there, Aiden swiped the puck right off the guy’s stick.
The puck turned into a blur as he immediately passed it without even a glance.
Gavin trapped the puck, passing it back to Shane, who pushed it over the blue line.
Aiden flew toward the goal with Gavin and all three Vancouver forwards on his ass.
Shane nudged the puck toward Aiden, and he was gone.
The goalie and defenders didn’t even have a chance.
Aiden scooped the puck up on his blade and slung it into the top corner of the net.
“He hit the NHL ice like he told the entire league to hold his beer.”
“You’re not wrong. On top of that, watching Samuelson, Morrison, and Mercer on a line together, you’d think they’d been playing together for years instead of a few weeks. The three of them almost seem to share the same brain.”
Those of us in the suite who weren’t sitting in the front row with Trey already rushed the glass.
The hockey boys crowded the glass beside Trey, all of them beating the shit out of the glass.
Isaiah and Isaac pushed the sliding glass panes of the owner’s suite open wide.
The Maulers pushed through the opening as soon as the window opened in front of them.
All of them screaming, “Go, Mercy!” The glass beating turned to beating the walls under the windows like they would the boards if they were on the bench for the goal.
Their presence didn’t go unnoticed, and soon their faces filled the jumbotron as they celebrated their friend and former teammate’s goal.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Prince of Hockey is in the house. Manchester Mauler and number one draft pick for the New York Warden’s, Trey Malachek, is in the owner’s suite cheering on his friend and former Mauler teammate, Aiden Mercer!”
“With what appears to be several of his MU teammates.”
The jumbotron screen split. On one side were Trey and his teammates pointing and screaming at Aiden down on the ice, while the other shows Aiden as he points back at them. All the boys’ faces are wreathed in smiles.
“Holy shit, we’re tied,” Bauer said, his hand covering his mouth, when the second period ended less than a minute later.
Trey turned and looked at him over his shoulder. “Hell, yeah, you are.”
Not sure what was going on, I asked, “What’s with the awed, flabbergasted looks?”
Trey, his face still split in half, yelled, “No one say a damn word!”
The intermission between the second and third periods felt like I was back in a war zone sniper hole, waiting for my target to appear, breath held, eyes crusty from refusing to blink in case something happened.
And silence. No one spoke. Every time someone opened their mouth, whether they uttered a sound or not, they were shushed by everyone else in the room.
The longer the time stretched, the more I felt as if I were standing on a landmine waiting for it to detonate.
“You guys are making me a nervous wreck,” I said.
A cacophony of “Shhhhh!” echoed through the room.
With a sigh, I got up and grabbed another beer, then wandered along the buffet to the charcuterie board. I stood there picking at the expensive ass cheese, meats, pickles, and olives. I moved on to the boards of vegetables, hummus, and spinach and artichoke dip.
“One would think you’re a hockey player the way you eat.”
I turned at the sound of his raspy, lyrical voice.
Our gazes met. I popped the pepper I held covered in spinach dip into my mouth, chewing while I formulated a response, or tried to anyway.
As I chewed, I realized we were of the same size, with similar haircuts, but those things gave way to the differences.
His clean-shaven face to my bearded one.
His blue eyes to my brown. His youth to my… yeah, not going there.
After swallowing the last of the pepper, I said, “If I were an insecure man, I’d think you were hinting about my weight—”
Trey’s blue eyes widened comically. “No! Shit! No, fuck, you’re—!”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “I said if I were insecure. I’m not. I’m a sexy motherfucker. I know this. But you’re gonna have to work on your pickup lines.”
“I’m not…” he trailed off.
I leaned down and whispered in his ear. “Good boy. Lying only gets you punished. No fun allowed.”
Those baby blues stretched even further, and a blush stained his cheeks. Before I, or he, could say anything else, I walked away.
At the start of the third, every single person in the suite crowded as close to the glass as they could. Guys sat in the stadium seats arranged before the now-open windows, looking out into the arena. Others stood along the edges. Some sat on the wide chair arms.
The staff prepared for this and did it well. Buckets of beer lined the window ledge. They’d placed trash cans nearby for empties. Snacks sat on plates between the beer buckets.
And we waited.
Breaths held.
Silent except for the glugging of beer and nervous munching.
And still I wondered. But then the teams came back out onto the ice.
The volume from the commentators filtered in again as if someone turned it back on now that intermission was over.
Unlike the guys in the suite with me, the voices coming through the speakers had no qualms about dissecting the game.
“If you’re just joining us, welcome to Nashville for the start of the third period between the Nashville Nighthawks and the Vancouver Sound. The game is currently tied at 3-3 after an amazing goal by rookie phenom Aiden Mercer, just seconds before the end of the second.
“This game is not turning out like anyone thought it would.”
“It’s astounding, really. It just goes to show you can never count a team out.
Vancouver flew into Nashville after two long, grueling games on the road.
They’re first in their division and second in the conference.
They, like everyone in the world of hockey, expected this to be an easy last game at the end of a hard roadie. ”
Holy shit. Everyone thought they’d lose. No wonder the hockey bros in the suite were about to rattle out of their fucking skin.
“Now, we’re watching rookie Aiden Mercer lean into the face-off in Nashville’s last regular season game. A game that, if they win, sends them to the playoffs. A first for the franchise in nearly a decade.”
The arena fell silent.
The puck dropped.
Aiden pushed and shoved, swiping at the puck.
Vancouver’s center took it. The puck dropped back.
Players scrambled.
Bodies hit the boards.
Two minutes in, the scoreboard still showed 3-3.
Shots on goal climbed.
Then a breakaway.
Twelve minutes on the clock.
The puck bounced between the second line. Right to center to left to right to left. They toyed with the defenders.
“There’s the lane.”
“But does he see it?”
The puck flew.
The arena fell silent.
Over the goalie’s shoulder, dropping behind the goalie’s back.
The horn sounded.
The lights flashed.
And the arena deflated as Vancouver’s second line celebrated.
“Fuck!”
“And this is why you don’t talk about shit.”
“So, it’s like a no-hitter?” I asked.
No one responded. Instead, the focus remained locked on the ice below us. For eight long minutes, Nashville grinded.
Then suddenly, Gavin swooped in, scooping up a loose puck. He flew like the hounds of hell were on his ass, nipping at his heels. He faked left. Lindqvist, the Sound’s big Swedish goalie, followed and…
The horn sounded.
“And with under five minutes left in the third, Samuelson ties us back up!”
Gavin danced his way around the net. The team swarmed him, crushing him against the boards.
“Holy smokes! What a goal!”
“Lindqvist never saw it coming.”
“Oh, he saw it. He just fell for the fake.”
Priest, Bauer, and Cam took turns screaming out the open window. Next to them, Trey yelled just as loudly. His face lit up like the night sky on the Fourth of July and the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Plaza had a baby.
“You finally realizing how much better my sport is than yours?” Ewen asked.
“Ask me that after we’ve watched an NFL game with the playoffs on the line from the owner’s suite,” I said.
Ewen laughed, wrapped his arm around my neck and kissed my temple. “Asshole.”
The weight of someone’s gaze crept across my shoulders. Instinctively, my eyes slid to Trey first. Gone was the bright, shining face. In its place, what could only be described as confusion.
“Mercer and Kovalenko settle in for the face-off. Both first lines…”
“Mercer takes the puck, knocking it back to Machiavelli, who passes to Samuelson. Samuelson to Morrison. Morrison back to Mercer.”
The crowd chanted, “HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS!”
“LET’S GO, MERCY!” Trey and his teammates yelled.
My eyes turned to the scoreboard.
Tied at four.
Ninety seconds left.
Puck bouncing tape to tape. Nighthawks in control. Aiden, Shane, and Gavin working their way into the crease.
Methodically, with surgical precision. Like a Recon unit infiltrating enemy territory. Every line of sight tracked, every lane tested.
A press forward.
A pull back.
Clock dwindling.
The sound of a blade smacking the puck, then breaking, ricocheted through the arena.
A collective deep breath.
The roar of the crowd merged and played with the sounds of the horns and the flash of the lights.
“NIGHTHAWKS WIN! NIGHTHAWKS WIN! NIGHTHAWKS WIN!”
“What a goal! " I don’t know how they did it. Aiden Mercer smacked the puck so hard his stick broke.”
“And his long-time friend and fellow rookie, Shane Morrison finished off Mercer’s effort!”
“And what an effort from the dynamic rookie duo and their veteran linemate.”
“What an effort from the whole team. The first two goals were scored by their second and third lines. That’s depth, people.”
“And that depth paired with the talent and energy on the first line just worked. The Nighthawks pulled out a win no one expected them to.”
Pandemonium broke loose.
On the ice.
The team lost their shit. Sticks, gloves, and helmets flew into the air, landing on the ice like confetti.
Players fell to their knees. The jumbotron showed sweat-soaked faces that seemed to disguise tears of victory, joy, and elation.
The team swarmed Aiden and Shane, who were wrapped around each other, eyes closed, both of them looking into the rafters.
Across the arena.
The Manchester players were back to screaming like banshees and beating on the wall below the open windows, accompanied by the crowd stomping and beating the glass, their voices loud enough to rival a Katie Carter concert.
In the suite, Asher and Bauer were shaking each other, then hugging, then jumping up and down, and screaming at the top of their lungs. Priest and Cam wolf-whistled, and the rest of us watched.