Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Kaden
Teamwork on Thin Ice
Some guys have a way with women.
Me? I’ve got a way with ice. Both are slippery, sure, but one will break your heart, and the other? The other will break your damn collarbone if you’re not careful. Lucky for me, I’m not just careful—I dominate.
Every time I step on the ice, I leave it all out there. Because this game? It doesn’t forgive. One minute, you’re the golden boy, skating circles around the competition. The next, you’re yesterday’s news, face-planted on the boards while someone else takes your place.
I’ve known that since I was a kid, carving figure eights on the pond behind my house like my life depended on it. And maybe it did—at least, it felt that way back then.
Passionate.
Dedicated.
Focused.
Competitive.
Yeah, that last one? Probably comes from being a twin. Everything was a contest: hockey, school, even who could mow the lawn fastest. Spoiler alert—it was always me. But lately, what I can’t wrap my head around—what really makes me want to slam my stick through the plexiglass—is why no one else on my team seems to care. Sure, it’s just preseason, but that doesn’t mean we play like amateurs. And yet, here we are, down by one goal to a team we should be wiping the ice with.
The scoreboard looms overhead, glaring down at me like it’s personally judging my life choices. Boston Barracudas: 2. New York Vipers: 3.
Unacceptable.
If I were still playing for San Jose, this would be a different story. But no, I just had to ask for that trade, didn’t I? And so far, it’s been a disaster. Nothing good has come from it. My team hates me. They tune me out every time I try to give feedback. And to top it off, I don’t have a single friend in this city. Not one.
I push off, my blades cutting deep into the ice, the burn in my legs the only thing grounding me. I’m skating outside my line, I know that, but Linus is dragging ass again, and I’m not about to let him cost us this game.
“Get your man,” I bark at him, my voice slicing through the roar of the crowd.
Linus looks at me like I just asked him to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded. Useless. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. The guy’s capable—I’ve seen it. But he doesn’t have the fire. He’s coasting, and I’m seconds away from skating over there and lighting him up myself.
I shove forward, cutting him off before the other team gets a breakaway. The puck’s just ahead, glinting under the harsh arena lights like a prize in a rigged carnival game. My muscles scream as I stretch for it, but the sting feels good—like proof I’m still giving a shit, even if no one else is.
And that’s the thing about hockey. You don’t just play it; you survive it.
Some people don’t have what it takes.
Others don’t realize they had it in them until it’s too fucking late.
Linus shoots me a look, lips moving, probably mumbling some bullshit I couldn’t hear even if I cared to try. The roar of the crowd swallows whatever excuse he’s muttering as he picks up the pace.
Fine. At least he’s moving now.
But instead of adjusting like any competent player would, the idiot keeps a straight line, oblivious to me angling toward the same spot. Before I can even blink, we collide—full-on, shoulder to shoulder—sending both of us sprawling onto the ice.
“Fuck,” I growl, the sting of the impact shooting up my side as I hit the cold, unforgiving surface.
Meanwhile, the Vipers seize the moment, charging down the ice like their lives depend on it. The puck is already halfway to our net.
I slam my picks into the ice and push myself upright, adrenaline and rage pumping through my veins.
“Cool it,” Linus snaps as he scrambles to his feet. “You’re not the coach, and this isn’t The Killer Craw Show. I’ve got this.”
The words hit like a slap. Fire erupts in my chest, hot and uncontrollable. The Killer Craw Show? At least he’s using my nickname instead of throwing out nepo-baby like he did last time. Maybe because two games ago, I punched him so hard, he saw stars and couldn’t remember his own name for half the period.
Fuck, this is really not going well, is it?
But the thing is that anyone else might shrug that off, maybe even laugh it away. Not me. I’ve had pressure riding my ass since the moment I was born.
Two Hall of Famers for parents? Yeah, that comes with baggage. Every move I make is dissected, analyzed, judged. Everyone’s watching. Always. My name isn’t just my name—it’s a fucking headline. And Linus? He probably knows exactly where to jab to make it sting.
Instead of chasing the puck, I whip around, fully ready to drop gloves with my own damn teammate. My fists curl, and my jaw tightens as I stomp toward him.
Before I can get there, Hemming cuts between us, circling the net and shoving himself into the brewing storm. His helmeted head jerks toward me, his glare so sharp it could slice ice.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Crawford?” Hemming barks, loud enough to carry over the din. “I understand you’re new to this team, but you can’t start shit with your own teammates. That’s not how we do it in Boston. Are you trying to hand them a power play? Focus on the fucking game.”
He skates off, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
I force down the anger, biting the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood hits my tongue. My shoulders heave as I take a breath, then another. Hemming’s right—I can’t lose my head out here.
Linus gives me a smug little smirk, and it’s all I can do not to skate over and knock it off his face.
Instead, I pivot and shove forward, carving into the ice as I fall into my spot. My chest tightens as the play continues. I push harder, hoping to fix this mess.
But it’s too late. The puck sails past Hemming and into our net.
The horn blares, mocking us as the fucking Vipers celebrate.
“Fuck.” The word rips out of me, echoing in my helmet as I slam my stick against the boards.
I look around at my teammates, scanning their faces for even a shred of urgency. Instead, half of them are waving to the fans like we’re in a charity game, like being down two goals is something to smile about.
Unfuckingbelievable.
The ref’s whistle pierces the air, signaling a stoppage in play. Our coach waves us off the ice, motioning for a line change. I skate toward the bench, my pulse pounding in my ears, every muscle in my body coiled tight. If this is how they want to play, fine. But me? I didn’t come here to fucking lose.