Chapter 34
August
“Get me off this fucking team,” said a voice who August recognized as Dax Merlin, stopping beside him at the redline. “Actually, get me the fuck out of America. I can’t take this for much longer, Gus.”
Dax was a goofball August knew well from his time in the junior league because he stayed with his family while he played in America before he was drafted.
August hadn’t bothered to keep in contact after moving to Vancouver to play for the Bigfoots, so he was surprised that Dax was talking to him now.
“You’re an American,” August said, switching so he could stretch the other side of his hip. “You don’t like Canada, remember? You said it was too cold.”
“I was born in Texas,” said Dax. “I find everywhere cold, including Washington. But at least the women in Canada don’t know me well enough to shun me the second I walk into a room.”
August rolled his eyes. Dax and his girl troubles were a recurring problem, and they showed no signs of changing.
“Can’t help you there.” August lifted his head, squinting as the pain in his temple increased rapidly before easing into an annoying ache. “You can’t tell me you’ve dated every girl in Washington. Just expand your horizons.”
Dax should have no problem getting a girl because, as far as male attractiveness went, the idiot was a looker.
He had wild, black curls that women always seemed to fawn over, more freckles than Haas, and dark brown eyes framed by dark lashes.
Dax could have been an actor in another life since he was one of the few players in the league who wasn’t lacking charisma, but that charisma always found a way to get him in trouble.
“Expand like you have?” Dax smirked, cautiously reaching across the line to poke August with his stick. “Your boyfriend looks sweet, and the pictures of you two holding hands are so cute.”
August didn’t fight the urge to look toward the bench, spotting Quinn in his usual seat beside Bradshaw’s wife, Beatrice.
“My main problem isn’t the girls,” said Dax, forcing August’s attention away from Quinn to land back onto his old teammate.
“It’s one girl. A girl who is totally married to my captain—and now my teammates want to kill me, and I can’t go anywhere in public without getting shit for my poor life choices. ”
August nearly fell on his face from shock. “You fucked your captain’s wife?”
He had whispered the words, but Dax started waving his hands in panic. “She was sad because Ivan is a dick and he doesn’t spoil her.”
“Dax—” August pushed himself to his knees and took a breath. “She’s married to a millionaire. What do you mean she doesn’t get spoiled?”
Dax shrugged. “Money can’t buy you orgasms or instructions on how to find the right spots.”
Fucking hell. Maybe quitting hockey to become Quinn’s full-time model wasn’t such a bad idea.
“I’ll take any salary if I can play on a team with you again,” Dax continued, oblivious to August’s shock.
“I’m a free agent next season, and I’m going to be traded before the March tenth deadline anyway, so maybe try to put a good word in for me?
I swear I won’t sleep with any more married women. I’ve learned my lesson.”
August was pretty sure he hadn’t learned anything, but he owed Dax’s mother for helping him feel welcome when he was an awkward teen, so he would do it for her.
“I don’t know if we have the cap space, but I’ll let Coach know you’d be a good fit on our team,” said August.
It wasn’t a lie since August played forward more than defence these days, so they had room for a solid defenceman on their roster. Dax also put up a lot of points every season, so it wasn’t like he would be a burden.
Unless…he started fucking the wrong people.
“You’re the best, Gus!” Dax poked him again with his stick. “Sorry, I mean Gusty. I love how you’re still rocking the white hair after all these years.”
August took his helmet off so he could brush his bangs out of his face. He needed a damn haircut and dye touch-up soon. “I never saw a reason to change it.”
Real reason: hockey superstition. If he changed his hair colour, everything would fall apart.
“It’s your signature. I dig it,” said Dax. “Vancouver has the warmest winters in Canada, right?”
August stood, already knowing he would regret his choice to speak out for Dax’s placement on the team. “Sure it does. I’ll catch you later.”
Warm-up was about to come to an end, so August gave Dax a salute and took a lap to get his blood pumping before heading down the chute to the locker room.
He zoned out while he checked his tape as Callahan and Coach said their motivational speeches, reacting only when the topic switched to him, and cheers erupted through the room.
“This is going to be a fun game,” said Callahan. “We have Gusty back, Niko just overtook Jett Killinger in league points, and our rookie goalie got a shutout his last game. The Washington Shit Eagles are going down.”
August chuckled as the guys laughed and shouted in agreement. Nothing could take his joy away, not even when Coach Fedorov approached, scowling down at him.
“You play good in practice today,” said Coach.
August didn’t know if that was a question or a statement, so he nodded.
“Glad to have you back, Snow.” Fedorov tapped August’s arm with his tablet. “Next time, say what is wrong. I’m too old for surprises—hearing that you were struggling almost gave me heart attack. You are very important player on this team, and I like you. You are a good kid.”
Coaches always made August nervous, and it made sense now that he knew why, but Fedorov never had. He was strict, sure, and he gave tough love, but he never failed to make August feel safe in the sense that he wouldn’t hurt him.
August was fighting back tears when he said, “Yes, Coach.” It had been a long day, and he was getting overstimulated by all the loud voices and friendly touches, but he was handling it.
Fedorov tsked and tapped his arm again. “Do not cry, Snow. Is not time to be sad. Every guy here wants to see you succeed, so tighten your skates and do what you do best.”
August was impressed by the pep talk. Normally, Coach would say something random because even though the guy was amazing at pushing their team, he wasn’t the greatest speaker.
“Will do, Coach.” August smiled through the twinge of pain that had abruptly pulsed behind his eye. “And can I also talk to you later in your office? There’s a guy on the Washington team I used to play with who you might be able to grab.”
“Merlin?” Coached asked. “Word is floating around, but I hear he is troublemaker.”
August shook his head. “Not around me, he’s not.”
Fedorov furrowed his brows, holding August’s gaze until he was satisfied with whatever he saw, and shrugged. “Okay. We’ll talk later. Win first.”
August could work with that.
He stood and retrieved his phone from the shelf in his stall and found his messages with Quinn, warmth filling him at the sight of the new one that had been sent ten minutes ago.
Quinn: I don’t know what to say because you puckheads are a superstitious bunch, but have fun tonight.
The words were nice, but seeing the heart emoji at the end of them was even better.
August: I’ll win this one for you
August: I love you
He didn’t wait for Quinn’s reply because he had a feeling he wouldn’t get one, so he put the phone away and went back to checking his gear.
“No tape today?” Ana from the medical staff asked him, gesturing at his knee.
“I think I rested it enough when I was off,” August replied, and he smacked his knee to help prove his point.
It still burned now and then, but most players had chronic aches and pains that they had to work through during the season.
“Alright…” Ana didn’t sound convinced, and the look she was giving him said that she would be watching him all night, but she dropped it and went to report back to her team.
The buzzing excitement increased as the minutes ticked down to the start of the first period.
The hall felt too claustrophobic during lineup, especially with staff and media cameras pointed in his face.
But the moment he touched the ice; all the noise became quiet.
It was just him, his team, and the puck united by one goal—victory.
August stood on the line, shifting his weight from foot to foot to keep his body warm while the anthems played. The fans were loud about his return, and August could feel their energy from the stands as the lights came on for the puck drop.
Niko bumped his shoulder before taking center ice as they glided into position for the opening draw. August could see Callahan already tracking matchups, and he knew they were in for a fun night with everyone so locked in, which immediately annoyed the Washington players.
“Looks like the Bigfoots let their mascot back on the ice,” said one of the guys on August’s left.
August rolled his eyes. He had heard that chirp a thousand times, and it was starting to get old.
The puck dropped, and Niko won the face-off, flicking it in Callahan’s direction.
“Here, come on!”
August instinctively reacted to his captain, shaking one of the Washington forwards off his tail as he raced down the ice with Niko close behind.
Dax was right, this team was shit. They left too many openings in their defence that were easy for a player like Niko to take advantage of. All it took was a basic feint to fumble the defenceman trying to block him, and then Niko was lined up to catch Callahan’s pass.
The play unfolded the way it always did when the three of them were on the ice: simple passes led by Callahan, Niko’s speed pushing them deeper into the Washington zone, and August’s strength dominating both physically and mentally.
They sent the Washington team scattering, and by the time the puck found August through traffic, it was over. August didn’t think—he tipped it on instinct, and the puck kissed the inside of the post and vanished behind the goalie.