Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“What do you think about Kovi joining the team?” Gabe asked, clearly trying to strike a balance between being discreet since we were in the weight room at the Atlas Center and being heard as music blasted through the speakers.
I grunted in response, then pushed up the bar, grateful my teammate was spotting me so I didn’t drop it on my face. When I reached the top of the move, he helped me maneuver the bar to rest in the cradle.
“Thanks.” I sat up, toweling off my face and grabbing some water.
Carson Kovalsky had spent the past few years in Nashville before he’d been traded to the Hawks. Kovi was a cocky motherfucker, but he was talented. He’d been part of the USA Hockey National Development program, playing for a few years in London after that, before being drafted to the NHL.
“He has a lot of potential,” I said, wanting to be fair. I didn’t know the guy all that well. It wasn’t his fault he’d been brought in to fill Derek’s position on the line.
“Let’s hope he lives up to it,” Gabe said.
I only hoped that Kovi and Boone, one of our D-men, would have some good chem once they spent more time on the ice together. Because so far, the only thing they seemed to be doing effectively was annoying the shit out of each other.
Training camp would be starting before we knew it, and I was easing back into my workout routine in preparation for the season. A few of the guys were in the weight room at the Atlas Center, including Boone, Zayn, and my backup goalie, Quinn.
I knew what it was like to be in Quinn’s shoes. To feel the constant pressure of keeping your spot so you weren’t sent back down to the AHL. I’d spent a few years in the AHL, honing my skills before landing a one-way contract to New York.
“What do you think about him?” I asked.
Gabe was a talented left winger and one of my closest friends on the Hawks.
If I was known as a bear—grumpy and reserved—he was the NHL’s golden boy—charming, well-liked, at least off the ice.
On the ice, he was known for his elite offensive play.
He was not only reliable but high energy, often bringing a sort of golden retriever vibe to the team.
“He could be a huge asset on the ice but a potential liability off it.”
I shook my head. “You’ve been listening to the Hot as Puck podcast again, haven’t you?” I teased.
Gabe grabbed some plates, carrying them back over. “What makes you say that?”
I chuckled. “Because that’s almost exactly what they said on a recent episode. Would you really want your new teammates judging you based on the opinion of a rival player who clearly has an axe to grind?”
“Yeah. What is the story there?” Gabe asked, referring to the way one of the Hot as Puck podcast hosts, Levi, had referred to our new teammate.
“How would I know?”
“I just figured…” He lifted a shoulder. “Since Bryn is besties with Logan, she’d have the inside info.”
I laughed. “Logan might be one of Bryn’s closest friends, but I rarely ever see her.”
Logan lived in Minnesota and played for the PWHL. And she was always busy—training for her own season, playing hockey, running camps, or watching a game for the podcast.
“Maybe I’ll ask her.” He pulled out his phone.
“Do you want her to high-stick your balls?” I joked. But I wasn’t joking, not really. Logan was tough. “And how do you even have her number?”
“I don’t. I was going to DM her.”
I barked out a laugh. “Good luck with that, Goldie.”
“What?”
“DM her? Do you know how many DMs she probably gets a day? And you’re counting on the fact that she’ll actually check them.”
“She’ll respond,” he said with a certainty that was either enviable or delusional. I couldn’t quite decide.
“You are such an optimist. I guess they don’t call you the Golden Boy of the NHL for nothing.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Whatever. No one’s perfect.”
“You have one of the cleanest reputations in the league.”
“Well, that’s not that difficult, considering the competition.” He grinned.
I chuckled, thinking of some of our teammates who loved to party. Loved to fight—both on and off the ice.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?” I gulped down some water.
“Going to try to beat your record for goose eggs?”
Last season, I’d played my best season ever since joining the NHL. I’d had more goose eggs than ever—games where the Hawks got a shutout and allowed zero goals against our net. And the fans liked to celebrate—by tossing plastic eggs on the ice like the ones the Easter Bunny had left for us as kids.
“That’s always the goal.”
He rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait to see what the fans come up with this year.”
I chuckled. The fans had gotten more creative this past season, tossing more colorful and elaborately decorated eggs.
Sometimes the maintenance staff had even discovered items hidden inside the eggs.
Often it was a name and a phone number, but sometimes it was candy or even a mini canvas painted with my likeness or one of my teammates.
We ate that shit up, though we had to pretend as if we were unaffected since management hated it. Or at least, they claimed to. But if it kept the fans engaged and the seats filled, management couldn’t be too pissed about it.
After that, we stopped chatting so much and focused on our workout. My muscles were screaming at me by the time we finished, but it was Bryn’s words that continued to haunt me. Pushing me harder with every rep. Every exercise.
I already had my love story.
I could understand why she might believe that—her husband had died. But she held on to this deep-seated conviction that she would never be happy in love again. And the idea that she’d convinced herself it was true made me incredibly sad.
“Ice bath then sauna?” Gabe suggested.
“Sounds good,” I said, even though we both knew it would hurt like a bitch.
When we reached the treatment room, we stripped down to our compression shorts.
“Audiobook?” he asked.
I held up my phone, gritting my teeth at the missed call notification. Someone had left a message from an unknown number, and I had a good feeling I knew exactly who it was.
“You good?” Gabe was watching me with a concerned expression, and it was then I realized how hard I was squeezing my phone.
I loosened my grip and tried to release my anger as well. He’s not worth it.
“I’ve got The Order of Time cued up,” I said.
I tapped play, and the sound of Benedict Cumberbatch’s rich, velvety voice filled the room.
As he explored the nature of time, Gabe and I climbed into our respective ice baths.
I eased into the cold water, feeling the bite of the chill with every inch of my body that was submerged. I took a long, deep breath.
Most people’s first instinct when climbing into an ice bath was to stop breathing, but that was the opposite of what you needed to do. Slow, controlled, deep breaths were key.
“Ten minutes?”
“Fifteen,” I said, focusing on my breathing. I’d already set a sleep timer on the audiobook, but I glanced at the digital clock on the wall, noting the time. And then I let go.
I thought about the upcoming season. About Bryn. About Derek.
For over a decade, Derek and I had shared the dream of hoisting the Cup over our heads. First as college students, hoping to make it to the NHL. Then as pro athletes, following each other’s careers from opposite sides of the country. And finally—for a short time—as teammates once more.
But now, he’d never see that dream materialize. It was up to me to make it happen—for both of us. And I knew many of my teammates felt the same way. That additional pressure to make every game matter—for Derek.
We were a tight team, and his death had been sudden, unexpected, and absolutely devastating—to me, Bryn, the team, to everyone who’d known him.
I could remember that morning. We’d played my old team, New York, the night before, and we’d won in overtime.
I’d texted Derek to see if he was coming down to breakfast. It wasn’t unusual for him to skip, so I hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
But after he’d missed breakfast, I’d pounded on his door to get him to wake the fuck up because he was going to be late for the bus.
Then the texts started from Bryn, asking if I’d seen Derek.
And then Coach’s ashen face delivering the news that Derek was gone.
My best friend had died in the night, alone in a fucking hotel room. And none of us had had a clue until it was too late.
Gabe shook my shoulder, and I realized then that he’d climbed out of his tub and was standing before me. “Time’s up.” He tapped the edge of my tub, and I noted he already had a towel wrapped around his waist.
The room was silent. I didn’t know how long it had been since the audiobook had shut off.
I pushed myself upright. Water sloshed against the edges of the tub, my body confused by the sudden change in temperature.
My skin went from freezing cold to burning hot in mere seconds.
I breathed through it, knowing the worst of it would pass soon. I just had to make it through.
It felt like that had been my mantra the past year and a half. Just make it through.
Hockey had helped. My teammates. Bryn.
But I didn’t want to just make it through. Not anymore.
Gabe handed me a towel. “Where’s your head at?” he asked as I wrapped it around my waist.
Where it always was. When I wasn’t focused on hockey, my thoughts were on Bryn. It was a problem, especially lately.
When I didn’t immediately answer, Gabe peered into my eyes, scanning them as if checking for a concussion. When he tried to hold his hand up to my forehead, I shoved him away playfully, laughing as I said, “Fuck off.”
He seemed to think that because he had an undergrad degree in biology and watched a ton of medical dramas that he was a doctor or something.
“I may not be a doctor, but I know something’s wrong,” he said, turning serious. “What’s bothering you, Fizzy?”
What was bothering me?