23. Chapter 23
Cody
Two of our strongest players are out, and nobody will say why.
Coach Harper gave us nothing. No explanation, no timeline. Just told the team that Walsh and Henneman wouldn’t be playing for a bit.
Doyle glides up beside me as we loop back toward the shooting line. “You and me on the first line tonight.”
“I heard.” I scoop a puck off the pile at the blue line and let it sit on my blade. “We got this.”
Doyle juts his chin toward the other half of the ice where UConn is warming up. “Heard fifty-two is fast but plays dirty. Keep your head up.”
“Good. Dirty players are more fun to fight.”
I spot Nakagawa, who has planted himself in front of the net. When his goalie tries to shove him out of the crease with blocker bumps, Nakagawa just laughs, then does a forward spin through the blue paint, completely unserious.
“And nothing's affecting your game today?” He side-eyes me as we curl back toward center ice. “Legs good? What about your back?”
I punch his shoulder. “Fuck off.”
He grins and skates backward, hands up, as we slot into our line. “Just looking out for the team.”
“You are such an asshole. Not telling you shit anymore.”
Earlier this week, I was dragging ass through every drill. By the time we got back to the dorm, Doyle asked what was wrong, and I was so wiped out I told him I got fucked. Apparently, exhaustion makes me confess shit nobody asked about.
He stared at me for a full three seconds, then told me not to have sex before games, or he would personally beat my ass.
Couldn't even argue with him.
Grabbing a puck near the far boards, I run through a quick dangle—toe drag, backhand, forehand—not thinking about it, just letting my hands do what they've done a thousand times, when a puck hammers the glass just over my shoulder.
I jolt, head snapping up. “What the fuck!”
Knight glares, upper lip curling as he skates back toward the net.
Doyle whistles. “He’s more pissy than usual.”
“You think?”
Our defenseman has a busted lip and a bruise crawling up his left cheekbone that wasn’t there last practice.
“Who'd he get into it with?”
Doyle juggles the puck with his stick. “Nobody's gonna ask. You know how he is.”
The horn blares, and we glide toward the bench with the rest of the guys, stacking along the boards, the crowd growing louder behind us.
Home games are a spectacle. Between the school colors, the questionable signs they hold, and the way they stomp their feet to a particular rhythm, it feels more like a blood sport than a game. Not that I mind because the louder they cheer when I fight, the harder I want to hit.
Coach Nieminen leans over the boards and glares down the line. “Listen up. Finish your checks. Get back through the middle. Keep the shifts short and the changes clean. Stay out of the box. We set the pace, they react. Understood?”
Everyone on the team nods.
Coach Harper signals toward the far blue line. “Watch fifty?two off the draw. He cheats high for breakouts. If he takes a run at anyone, you take a number, not a penalty.”
Nieminen straightens. “Go fucking destroy those Huskies. Or your asses will be in the stands the rest of the season.”
I hold out my fist. “Let's do this.”
Doyle bumps it. “All day, every day.”
Novotny taps his posts and drops into his stance. I line up on Doyle's right, Knight behind us at the blue.
Across from me, Nakagawa rolls his neck and smirks. “Whattup, internet boy. Don't worry, I'll make you look good out here. You can thank me later.”
“Whatever.”
The puck drops. Doyle wins it, pulling it back to Knight. But UConn’s center and left wing crash forward.
I cut through the neutral zone, stick down. “Here!”
The pass hits my tape at the red line. Nakagawa closes fast, so I chip it off the boards and use my speed to beat him to it on the other side. My edges dig in as I cross into their zone and pull the puck to my forehand.
Their defenseman steps up with a good gap. I plant my outside foot and cut back, but he reads it, gets his stick in the lane, and the puck deflects into the corner.
Doyle gets there first, passes to Knight, and he shoots.
Glove save.
Fuck me.
The whistle blows.
I slow, skating alongside Knight. “Nice shot.”
He grunts.
The asshole sounds like Kincaid.
I hop over the boards and drop onto the bench next to Doyle. We grab some water while watching the next shift.
UConn pins us in our zone. Novotny blocks three shots, and I'm gripping my stick so hard my knuckles ache. The game goes back and forth like that for most of the period, both goalies stopping anyone from scoring.
I hop over the boards. Time to bury one in the net.
Doyle loses the face-off, but we quickly regain possession. Knight’s pass threads between two UConn players and hits my blade. Their goalie drops into butterfly, and I pull the puck to my backhand, roof it over his shoulder, and the water bottle pops off the top of the net.
“Yes!” I wheel toward the glass, grinning so hard my face hurts.
Doyle crashes into me, grabbing my helmet. I shove him off, laughing, and look up into the stands. Mom and Dad are on their feet. Davis is standing on his chair with both arms over his head.
A few feet away, Titans fans are slamming their hands against the glass. And behind them, some guy is giving me the double thumbs up. And his smile is so—
I stop moving, eyes wide.
Trembley?
I blink a few times. He’s still there. And next to him is Kincaid. Their hats are pulled low, hoods up, but I’d know Trembley’s fucking annoying smile anywhere because I’ve tried to punch it off his face for a year.
And unfortunately, I know what his pout looks like too because he’s sent me enough selfies with one after I refused to bring Blue over for a “playdate.” And when he didn’t stop, I blocked him.
For five hours.
Only lasted that long because Kincaid reached out and told me to unblock him.
Two words.
That’s all the dipshit said to me the entire week. And probably because Trembley was annoying the shit out of him.
Not sure what I expected exactly.
He hadn’t even bothered saying goodbye after fucking me. But when Trembley reached out, I thought . . . don’t know what I thought. Except that I’d been a disappointing lay he wanted to forget.
So, then, why are they here?
I swallow hard and look back at them. Kincaid gives a single nod. Heat rushes up my neck and to my face. I spin away before I do something ridiculous, like smile. At our rivals. In an arena full of our fans.
“Aww, look at that face.” Novotny waggles his brows as I pass his crease. “Who's making you blush, Jenkins? Point them out and I'll give them the royal approval.”
“Fuck off, Novotny.”
“I'm serious. You're glowing. It's actually offensive how cute you look right now. That level of radiance in my crease is distracting. I need to focus.” He gestures toward the stands. “Should I wave at them for you?”
“Just watch the puck.”
“Boring.”
UConn is pressing hard in the second. Their forwards are getting way too comfortable in our zone. Doyle and I are doing our part up front, but every time we dump it in and forecheck, UConn snaps it right back up ice and our D scrambles to recover.
“Fuck me. We need Henneman back.” Doyle spits water on the floor between shifts.
“No shit. Hope he’s back soon.” I watch as UConn's center fakes a shot at the top of the circle and slides it backdoor to their winger, who rips it short side. Novotny kicks it away with his pad, and the rebound dies in the corner.
Too close.
Coach Nieminen slaps the boards. “Jenkins! Doyle! Go!”
We hop over the boards, swapping with two fourth?line guys. I pick up the puck behind our net and wheel, scanning for lanes. Doyle swings to the weak side, and I hit him with a stretch pass that splits their forwards. He carries it across the red line and dumps the puck deep.
I chase after it. Their defenseman gets there first, but I finish the check and separate him from the puck. Doyle gets possession as I crash the net, stick on the ice. He snaps a shot. I get a piece of it, deflecting it between the goalie's legs.
The horn blares.
“Fuck yeah!”
“Nice redirect. Your teammate did all the work, though.” Nakagawa taps my shin pad with his stick. “You always ride coattails, or is that just a Tuesday thing?”
I ignore him and turn to skate to the bench.
“Aww, do you only like to fight that bitch boy Serpent?”
I spin around. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Make me, internet boy.” Nakagawa drives his stick across my chest with a two-handed shove.
A whistle shrieks somewhere behind me, but I’m already dropping my gloves. I grab his jersey with my left and throw a right that connects with the side of his helmet. His head rocks, but the grin doesn't move.
“There it is.” He yanks me forward by the collar and gets one into my ribs. “Thought you were just a pretty face.”
I hammer a shot into his shoulder and follow with one to the body. “Thought you were supposed to be good.”
He hooks his leg behind mine and tries to trip me, but I widen my stance and pull him off balance instead. We spin, both gripping each other’s jerseys, trading body shots.
“Come on, come on. Give me something worth remembering.”
I yank his jersey up over his head as far as his cage will let it go, then drive into his ribs twice. He doubles over. I shove him hard enough that he hits the ice on his back. “Stay down.”
The whistles continue to blare as the linesmen pile in.
Nakagawa rolls onto his side, spits blood, then looks up at me through his cage. “I like you.”
The ref plants a hand on my chest, shoving me backward as a linesman hauls Nakagawa to his feet. “Both of you to the box.”
I skate toward the box, chest heaving, and glance into the stands.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
My little brother has his phone out, recording me, as he jumps up and down, screaming so hard his face is red.
But he’s not the only one.
Fucking Trembley is doing the same, with a goofy, wide, full-face smile that makes him look like a golden retriever who just caught a frisbee.
Great. Just great.
If those two ever meet, I’m done for.
My breath catches.
Nope.
Not happening.
Atlas Trembley will never meet my little brother. Not that he’d want to anyway.
I drop onto the penalty box bench, pull my helmet off, then wipe the sweat from my face. Of course, the ref gives us both five for fighting.
Knight clears the puck out of our zone just as there’s a sharp, heavy thud to my left. I turn and spot Kincaid standing behind Nakagawa. He slams the side of his fist into the glass again, the veins in his neck standing out.
What the hell is he so mad at?
Nakagawa twists around, his eyebrows drawing up, then his whole face lights up while he looks around for a moment before refocusing on Kincaid. “Where’s your pretty goalie? Is he here?”
A muscle in Kincaid’s jaw jumps.
Nakagawa rolls his eyes. “Don't tell me he sent his bodyguards to do his dirty work?”
Whatever the hell that's about, I don't want to know.
Kincaid turns to me, gaze drifting over my face, then he looks back at Nakagawa. He says something, then walks away.
I make the mistake of looking at Nakagawa, who’s staring at me, brow quirked. Not sure what the fuck Kincaid said to him, but that UConn motherfucker better not even start with me, or I’ll go right into that box and beat his ass a second time.
The third period is a grind, but we hold. Knight buries one off a rebound late, and Doyle and I connect on another assist that puts the game out of reach. The final horn sounds, and the arena loses its mind.
We file through the handshake line, and I search the stands. Mom waves and points toward the exit. Dad's already shepherding Davis down the steps, my brother still bouncing.
My eyes drift a few rows over.
They’re gone.
I skate off the ice and make my way to the locker room. Inside, it’s pure chaos, and I can’t help but smile. I put up four points tonight. Best game of my season so far.
Doyle high-fives me as I drop down next to him. “Keep it up, man, and they’re gonna name you First?Team All?American.”
“Keep feeding me like that, and they won’t have a choice.”
He removes his chest and elbow pads, tossing them into his stall. “Few of us are hitting a bar on Main. You in?”
“Can't. Family dinner.”
“Your loss.”
I quirk a brow. “Are you forgetting how good my mom’s food is?”
“On second thought—”
“No, you’re not invited. But I’ll bring leftovers if there are any.”
“Thanks, man.” Doyle daps me up, then heads for the showers.
I dig my phone out of my bag, unlock the screen, then read Mom’s texts.
Mom: Amazing game sweetheart. Dad and I are outside whenever you're ready.
Me: be out in ten
Mom: See you soon.
I scroll through my other messages. There’s nothing from Trembley or Kincaid. But there is a grade alert from the student portal.
Mom always says good things come in threes. So, I log in and tap my Intro to Economics class.
My stomach drops, fingers tightening around my phone.
How?
How the hell did I get a C-?
I throw my phone into my bag. “Fuck!”
My eyes sting, and I press my palms into them.
The tutor said I had it down. Said I was ready. Hell, I even explained supply and demand curves to Doyle during warmups on Tuesday because he couldn't be bothered to open the textbook.
I knew the information. Even used the little tricks the tutor showed me with the graphs—tracing, tapping, and slowing down.
So, why didn’t it work?
I rake my hands through my hair, tugging at the strands.
No matter how much effort I throw at school, it’s never going to be enough.