Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
CHANCE
I sulk in the backseat of Derek’s rented BMW, giving my fidget spinner a moody flick. My agent glances at me in the rearview mirror before darting his gaze back to the road.
He taps his finger on the steering wheel three times and sighs out loud. “What’s going on with you and that mechanic?”
I say nothing.
The spinner makes a soft, whirring sound as the fans blur in front of me.
“Are you seriously into her?”
Another flick.
“Come on, Chance. I haven’t seen you in ages. What’s with all the angry glares?”
“You haven’t seen me because you tossed me like garbage after the suspension.”
“What’s the point in bringing up the past? I came back, didn’t I?”
I scowl.
“Look, I know what you’re really mad about. It’s because I said the wrong thing in front of that girl—” At my dark look, he rectifies, “that strong, independent female mechanic.” He waves a hand dismissively. “I apologized for my comment about her being a small town girl but the thing is… she is a small town girl. I wasn’t wrong about that.”
“Aren’t you tired of running your mouth, Derek?” I growl.
“How am I the bad guy for reminding the both of you not to get attached? You think this is a romance movie, bro? There is no way you can have her and the league.”
I hunker lower in my seat.
“Do you plan on giving up and staying here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Of course not,” I say firmly.
“And you think April will leave her town, abandon her family and close down the shop she worked hard for so she can follow you to the city?”
I open my mouth and then slam it shut.
Derek straightens his shoulders and gives me a ‘ that’s what I thought’ look.
I give the fidget spinner another flick.
“You have enough on your plate without throwing women into the mix. Your team can’t even make the playoffs in the minors . I’ve seen the tapes.”
“This time is different. They have me.”
“Hockey’s not an individual sport.” He drills a finger into his temple. “Your teammates stripped you naked and hung you out to dry. Does that sound like a team that’ll be in sync on the ice?”
I lean back and stare out the window. “I have a plan to fix that.”
“What are you going to do?”
I let the expectant silence ring.
“At least give me a hint.”
“‘An eye for an eye’.” I watch him. “Isn’t that what you taught me?”
A slow, proud grin twists his lips. “That’s right. You’re Chance McLanely and no one messes with you. If these chumps won’t like you, at least make them fear you.”
Tired of the conversation, I put away my spinner, slip my earbuds in and lean my head back.
But all I can see when I close my eyes is April’s hurt expression when she ran away from me in the hallway.
By now, everyone on the team knows my wardrobe malfunction was the work of The Wicked Wizards of the West—that’s my new name for Gunner, Renthrow, Watson, and Theilan.
It doesn’t escape my notice that the WWW become extra vigilant when I’m around. They startle when I pass by, are extra quiet when I enter a room, and they keep their gym bags nearby when they change in the showers.
They’re not the only ones holding their breaths.
Everyone on the team is tense.
They know payback is coming.
Watching the WWW squirm is its own delight. Power struggles were a regular part of life in the league and, as the New Guy, I constantly had to prove myself to establish my place on the hierarchy.
This time is different.
None of these guys intimidate me.
But they do annoy me.
“Come on, come on, Renthrow!” I throw my arms up as the winger skates past me on the ice, acting like he doesn’t see me.
Unfortunately, while the WWW are keeping things low key off the ice, on the ice, it’s a total mess. It’s the last day of our scrimmage and we still haven’t found our mojo.
I rush into position, my fingers clenched around my stick. Gunner looks over at me like he wants me to trip over my own skates, and I return the glare. Our rivalry, while obvious when we were doing in-house scrimmages, is like a giant, throbbing toe sticking out in the away games.
The team we’re practicing with is way less experienced than us and yet we win over them by too close of a margin. If this week’s been any indication of how we’ll function during official games, we don’t have a fart’s chance in a gas chamber of making it to the playoffs.
More winded from irritation than actual exhaustion, I puff out a smoky, white breath and return my attention to the puck. It skids into the pocket and I head there. A blur to my left catches me off-guard and I swivel just as Gunner cuts me off to attack the defense.
I grit my teeth, fighting to hold my temper. Gunner may have given up the center position to appease Max, but he still plays like he’s waiting for a breakout pass. This is the second clash this week .
My head whips around to the coach who starts whistling and, suddenly, finds something on his shoes way more interesting than our game.
I bite back a groan. Playing on this team is like paddling upstream with nothing but a palm leaf while surrounded by man-eating sharks.
The opposing team steals the puck and shoot past me, heading for our goalie. I skate close to Gunner and make a back and forth caper. He narrows his eyes, sweat dripping from beneath his helmet.
I make the gesture again.
He shakes his head and shrugs.
Argh!
Up ahead, Watson is on his knees at the goal, preparing for a scramble. He narrowly deflects the shot. The flash of sheepish realization on his face tells me he knows, if they’d been a little more aggressive, the net would have eaten the puck.
Exhaling again, I assess my teammates. There’s no way we should be battling this hard for the puck. Both I and the WWW are extremely competitive. In the game, at least, we should be able to set aside our differences.
“They’re attacking our zone in the middle,” I yell at Renthrow as we skate to the boards.
He gives me a quick nod and I take off toward the puck, but it’s not easy to break the pass. After having their butts handed to them all week, our opponents are giving it their all.
The coach starts noticing the other team’s determination and he makes constant substitutions. I hate every second I’m on the bench and I catapult out of the box when I’m put back in the action.
We play down to the wire. Even I’m winded by the time the last buzzer sounds.
The scoreboard declares that it’s our win, but neither I nor the WWW are smiling.
After high-fiving our opponents, my teammates shrug out of their gear and head to the showers. That’s when Bobby appears, wearing his usual flannel over a white undershirt, khakis and heavy work boots.
“Bobby?” Gunner checks his phone. “What are you doing here so early?”
His eyes nervously meet mine before darting away. “We, uh, the bus needs to leave now.”
I mentally face-palm.
Note to self, never ask Bobby to lie again.
Gunner narrows his eyes in suspicion, but Bobby grins nervously and keeps talking in that cajoling tone of his. “I thought you guys would be eager to get back? If not, I can leave and come back in an hour or two… or three…”
Roars of disapproval break out from the other players.
I can’t blame them. While the hospitality of the team here has been impeccable, it hasn’t been fun sharing three run-down bathrooms with twenty men or sleeping in a bunk bed that was built for someone under six feet.
“I wouldn’t mind showering at home and crashing on my own bed,” Gunner admits with a shrug.
The other WWW members nod along.
Bobby and I both breathe out in relief.
“Gunner, Renthrow, Watson, and Theilan,” he calls. I try not to make it obvious that I’m lingering while he takes the WWW aside. “Before you get on the bus, I’d just like to confirm the schedule. I was told to take you four to the arena. Did you get the email from Max?”
The email he’s referring to is a dud account that I created on my phone while the other guys were asleep two nights ago.
“Yeah, I got it,” Theilan says.
The rest of the WWW grunt in acknowledgement.
Bobby’s smile gets a little less nervous. “I’ll drop you off at the arena first.”
When the conversation breaks up, I drop to one knee, pretending to tie my shoe.
“Whoa!” Bobby says loudly. “Chance, I did not see you there.” His stilted, acting voice makes me inwardly cringe.
“Hey, Bobby. Drive safely, man.” I bump his fist.
“You’re not coming?” Gunner asks, giving me the stink eye.
“Nah.” I shake my head. “My agent is picking me up for a photoshoot. I’ll come in a little later.” Smiling a little wider, I tell Gunner, “I didn’t know you cared so much about my schedule?”
He rolls his eyes and stalks outside.
The rest of the WWW pass me without comment.
When Bobby turns to follow them, he gives me a little nod.
I nod back.
The WWW are about to be served a little taste of revenge.