Chapter Two #2
I looked at his arms, then at the perfect lines of his jaw. “You look like you could have been.”
Brody smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We wound through the rehab area and back to the lobby. Brody paused at the door, blocking my way with a hand. “Look, I know you probably don’t want advice, but if Dylan gives you shit, tell me. Or Nash. Just don’t try to go it alone. You’ll burn out.”
I hesitated, surprised. “You know him well?”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “I know the type. This is his kingdom, and you’re the new threat. Plus, some of the other guys on the team will either be hotheads or want to try to talk it out.”
He was so close I could see flecks of gold in his eyes. It made my mouth go dry. I wanted to ask if he always looked out for new guys, or if it was just me. But I couldn’t get the words past my tongue.
He shifted, stepping back. The moment snapped.
“Good luck at practice,” Brody said, with a half-salute.
I watched him walk away, then tried to remember how to breathe.
The rink was already buzzing with activity by the time I got there. Guys in blue and white jerseys sprinted through suicides, pucks rattled against the glass, and the assistant coach was screaming something about “Pace, gentlemen, pace!” like the world’s most disappointed gym teacher.
I laced up in the back row, eyes flicking over the lineup. Most of them were laser-focused, but a few glanced my way, sizing me up. I kept my head down, just like Brody suggested. My teeth found the split in my lip, worrying the scab until it tasted like copper.
I was halfway through stretching when Brody appeared again. He wore a long-sleeved team shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, clipboard tucked under one arm. “You forgot your water bottle,” he said, tossing it to me with no warning.
I caught it, barely. “Didn’t realize I was being watched.”
He smiled. “I get paid to watch.” Then, lower, “And for the record, you tape your shin pads weird. Is that a Canadian thing?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re the first person to ever complain about my taping skills.”
“Your old trainer was lying to you.” Brody grinned, then dropped the clipboard on the boards, standing so close I could smell his shampoo, something citrusy and clean.
He leaned in. “Are you nervous?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, too honest and too quick.
Brody nodded, his face softer. “The first couple of practices are always the worst. After that, it’s just autopilot.” He held my gaze for a second longer than necessary. The noise in the rink faded for a moment.
Then footsteps behind us: Dylan, flanked by two of the rookies. Brody’s whole posture changed—stiffening, the banter gone.
“Everything good here?” Dylan asked, giving Brody a look I couldn’t translate.
Brody’s voice was neutral. “Just getting the new guy set up.”
Dylan snorted. “Good. Wouldn’t want him to blow a hammy on day one.” He smirked at me. “Let’s see if you live up to the hype, princess.”
I wanted to say something back, but Brody gave the smallest shake of his head. Don’t.
The rookies snickered, and I watched Brody retreat, jaw tight. I wanted to chase after him, or at least say thanks, but I was pinned to my spot, anger simmering just under my skin.
Practice started with three-on-three drills. Dylan was everywhere—elbows, shoves, little chirps every time I missed a shot or flubbed a pass. I gritted my teeth and played harder. If this were a test, I was going to ace it or die trying.
Somewhere in the second period, I caught sight of Brody on the bench, clipboard in hand. He was supposed to be tracking stats, but he was watching me, eyes intense and unreadable.
We broke for water. I skated past the bench and, for a split second, our eyes met. Brody’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. I felt something shift in my chest.
Then Coach blew the whistle, and the moment vanished.
We finished with a scrimmage. I took a few cheap hits from Dylan, delivering a few back. Nobody said anything, but I saw the way the team watched us—waiting for a fight that didn’t come.
After, I lingered by the tunnel, hoping Brody would come over. He didn’t. I stripped off my pads, packed my gear, and showered with my head down. The locker room emptied, the lights going off, row by row.
On my way out, I passed Brody’s office. He was there, typing something, eyes fixed on the screen. He didn’t look up when I hovered at the door.
“Good skate,” he said, without turning around.
I wanted to step inside, close the door, and ask what the hell was going on. But the words felt stupid in my mouth, so I just said, “Thanks for the tour.”
He finally looked at me, and his smile was soft and sad. “Anytime, Koskinen.”
I walked out into the parking lot. The air was colder; the sky a flat gray. I unlocked my car and tossed my bag in the trunk.
Behind me, the rink door slammed. I turned, half-expecting Brody, but it was just a janitor, lighting a cigarette and ignoring me.
I sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, replaying the day—Dylan’s threats, Brody’s hands, the way everything felt more defined and more dangerous here. I wondered what tomorrow would look like. If I’d ever feel as if I belonged.
But for the first time since the trade, I caught myself laughing—just a little—thinking about the look on Brody’s face when I told him about my taping skills.
Maybe Louisville wasn’t going to kill me after all.