Chapter 2
Chapter two
Reid
“Cocky. Arrogant. Egotistical. Take your pick,” I say when my brother Benji asks what I think of the rookie, Luka Hart. If only those were the only words I’d use to describe him.
“You forgot to add cute as fuck,” he replies as if reading my mind.
“Language,” I scold, and he immediately apologizes. “How do you know what he looks like?”
“Please, we’ve been following his socials for years. Him and The Flash. Both of them are hot.”
I hate to admit it, but I have to agree, and unfortunately for me, Luka Hart has gotten under my skin in a way that no man has before.
I guess that’s why it’s been so easy to stay out of the spotlight for anything but my killer skills on the ice all these years.
But one look from this kid and my stomach is in knots.
My eyes search for him in every room, and I have no idea why.
I look for him at every training session, and it’s messing with my performance.
That pisses me off more than his reckless plays on the ice.
The youngest of the Raines brothers, David, walks in from the living room.
“So, Luka’s like you, only younger and hotter?” he asks.
“Funny,” I reply, but he’s not wrong there either.
Luka’s so fucking hot he makes me want to scream.
I won’t tell them that, though, they’d be trying to set us up, and I don’t need them doing that.
I’m good with waiting until they’re all grown and out of the house before I even consider dating.
I can’t even imagine wanting to bring a guy back to this place with them here.
It’s one thing to be raised by your brother, and another to know he has .
. . needs. Though my needs haven’t really been met in a long time.
You would think the longer you went between .
. . it, the easier it would be, but it just makes you think about it more.
Like when the hotshot rookie flashes his dazzling smile your way, you can’t help but picture those lips wrapped around something else.
Urgh, nope. Pull yourself together, you still have to feed these two.
I was twenty-two when Mom and Dad died. I was at the start of my rookie year with Philly too, and man I was on fire.
I’d scored a killer contract, and had the fans up against the glass cheering my name at every game.
It was wild. I was wild. Then they died and I grew up real quick, but there was never even a second that I questioned taking on guardianship of my younger brothers.
They were eleven and nine at the time, and while the majority of their classmates were spending their time playing video games and hanging out with friends, these two were being dragged to ice hockey training sessions and NHL games.
You would have thought, being surrounded by hockey, they’d want to follow in their big brother’s footsteps too, but Benji’s determined to play something called Banana Ball, and David is headed to Boston University on a lacrosse scholarship next fall.
I blame Aunt Peggy. She would come and stay with the boys when I was at away games and they couldn’t come, plus she was the one who signed Benji up for baseball and took David to his first lacrosse game too.
I can’t be too mad, though, seeing as I don’t know how we would have gotten through those first couple of years without her.
Given the boys are sixteen and eighteen now, I can leave them for a few days to fend for themselves as long as the fridge is stocked well before I go.
It’ll be so weird when they’re both in college. Quiet.
“Is Luka any good at least?” Benji asks.
“He’s okay,” I reply, and David laughs.
“Wow, high praise coming from you. This guy must be awesome.”
“Shut up and eat your dinner,” I say, serving up their spaghetti.
“Yes, Dad Bro,” he replies, and I can’t help but smile. I never really wanted to be a dad, at least I never thought I did, but raising these two has been the highlight of my life—them and the NHL.
“So, Dad Bro, when are you going to start putting yourself out there?” David asks, waving his fork in my direction. “You can’t keep using us as an excuse not to date. Even Benji’s had more dates than you, and he’s only just pushed his way through that awkward teenage stage.”
“Fuck you, I’m not awkward,” Benji interjects, then immediately apologizes for swearing. “Sorry. But also, he’s not wrong.”
“I don’t have time to date.”
David turns to me with a flat, disbelieving stare.
“I call bullshit, and I’m not apologizing for swearing.”
“Just eat your dinner already, you two,” I say, twirling a helping of spaghetti around my fork.
The scent of the rich tomato sauce fills my nose, and my stomach growls.
It’s one of the few things I actually know how to cook well, which means it’s on the menu at least three times a week in the Raines household.
I remember when Dad would cook spaghetti for Mom.
He’d dish out our plates from a giant pan in the middle of the table, while telling us the story of when he’d first cooked it for her.
“The food of love,” he’d called it, often in a really bad French accent.
He never really could nail down an Italian one.
David kicks me under the table.
“What are you grinning about?”
“Just remembering Dad,” I say.
Benji scoops another helping from the pot in the middle of the table. “Ze food ov love,” he says, and soon enough we’re all doing our best impersonation of our father and laughing around the table.
***
We’re three days into training camp and two scrimmages down, and I’m acutely aware of every muscle in my body as I walk into the locker rooms for day four.
There was a time I could be on the ice all day, sleep for seven hours, and be right back out there without even a tiny drop in my performance.
Those days are long gone. Now I work twice as hard to skate, maybe ninety percent of what I used to deliver.
I’m almost thirty, so it shouldn’t surprise me, but it still sucks.
I don’t want this part of my life to end, and not just because then I’ll have no excuse not to enter the dating world.
“Hart,” Coach Dennings calls from the doorway, drawing the attention of the room.
“Yes, Coach,” he replies like an eager child being called on by the teacher.
“I want to see you in the power play one unit with Raines, Kirkston, and White. Head to the team meeting room at five. West will meet you there.”
“No problem, Coach,” he replies, still with that almost childlike excitement in his tone.
“Umm, Coach, you really think the rook is ready for that?” I ask as he passes me to leave.
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
West, our assistant coach in charge of special teams, is waiting for us in the training room just before five, along with the video coach, Sammy.
“Take a seat, boys. We’ve got a lot of work to do,” West says, and the rookie sits front and center. I drop into my seat, a row behind and three over. There’s a full rink diagram on the whiteboard at the front of the room, but they haven’t drawn any moves on it yet.
Coach Dennings walks in before they can start. He likes to make sure the boys remember he’s behind every decision for the team, and that usually means he’ll make a point to stop in on sessions like these.
“Okay, I’ll keep it short,” he begins. “West and I have a plan to really dominate the power play this season, but you have to crawl before you walk, so for today, I want you all to focus on our base power play, really set our foundation. West, I’ll leave the boys with you.”
“Thanks, Coach,” West says, and then he turns his attention to us. He hands out the roles. “Raines, you’re our half-wall, Hart, you’ll be our weak-side flank.”
“Okay.”
“So you’ll start here,” West says, pointing to the whiteboard where he draws a WSF. “Hold your ice, stay inside the dots, stick at the ready. Don’t slide behind the net or drift high. Don’t go searching for the puck. If you’re in the right spot, it’ll find you.”
“Got it,” Hart replies with a curt nod.
They show us some video examples of successful power plays from previous seasons, reiterating why they worked, and then run us through a couple of mistakes.
“What’s open here?” West asks, looking to the seasoned players for answers.
“The seam,” Hart answers before I can, and West smiles.
“Exactly. And if that’s taken away?”
“The bumper,” I say, and Hart turns toward me, that wide smile stirring something inside me yet again.
“Perfect. Okay, moving on,” West says, and he runs through the code words next, reinforcing what I already know. Hart’s attention only leaves the front of the room when he turns to look at me as I answer one of West’s questions, and it makes me want to draw his attention even more.
Out on the ice, I can tell Luka wants to go after the puck. His skates shift as he holds his position, watching the puck’s every move. But if he starts freelancing and ignoring structure, Coach Dennings will bench him, or worse, send him down.
“Hold . . . hold . . .” I call out as we run through again. “Now,” I say, and Hart is exactly where he needs to be to get the puck and take the shot.
“Nice,” West calls. “Now do that another thirty times, just like that.”
When we make our way back into the locker room before lunch break, I switch the television onto the Harlow Park Golf Tournament in hopes it’ll help distract me from my aching muscles while I take an ice bath.
As captain, I get to choose what’s on the television, and while hockey is ninety percent of my life, I try not to let how others are playing or what the media are saying get into my head in here.
The locker room is where we need to keep our cool, our focus, but also wind down after a session or a game.
Right now, with every club in pre-season training camp, the news outlets will all be talking about what to expect from us this season.
My breath catches as I descend into the ice bath. It’s like a cold punch to my entire body. My legs start to burn first, all nerves firing, trying to convince my brain to get out. But my muscles need this. I grip the sides as I lower myself deeper.
“Fuuuuck,” I groan and then grit my teeth against the biting cold as it spreads up my chest.
After the longest fucking thirty seconds of my life, my breathing starts to settle, and the burning in my legs and arms begins to fade into a dull ache.
My toes are numb, and the sensation is spreading.
My heart pounds heavily like a beating drum, counting every second that I’m subjecting my body to this torture.
I open my eyes for the first time since I started my descent and catch Luka watching me with a soft smile, and my heart does that weird flippy thing it’s started to do, only in the ice bath it feels ten times stronger.
“There’s no room for showboating in the top unit,” I say, and a determination flashes in his eyes.
“I know. Philly scored in about twenty-seven percent of their power plays last year, which was five percent higher than any other team in the league.”
“You know the stats, but it’ll take work to lock in the drills.”
“I’m sure with the right teacher I’ll nail them in no time,” he replies, the wide smile returning, only this time I notice the small, adorable as fuck dimples in his lightly freckled cheeks.
I force my eyes closed again.
I can’t let my mind go there. I have to keep focused on my game. I’ve only got a few years left in this sport, and I can’t let some rookie hotshot mess with my head.
I focus on my breathing, the pressure around my muscles building.
Normally I’d be counting, even though there’s a timer on the outside of the bath—I like to know how close I am to getting out—but I’ve been distracted.
Fuck, how long have I been in here for? My mind goes quiet; the noises of the television, the players in the room, all of it fades away to a low hum.
I count down from one hundred and then push up.
My legs feel stiff and slow, like they belong to someone else, and I step over the edge, gripping the rail for support while I find my feet as the timer sounds.
Urgh, I’ll do the full session next time.
Blood rushes back to my fingers and toes, bringing pins and needles with it, and I wriggle them to try to speed things up.
I never used to use the ice baths, but since getting older, I find I need them more than ever.
My mind is clear, muscles relaxed, the ache in my back is gone, and I stretch up, enjoying the way it’s just loosened everything up.
This isn’t a recovery session, though; this is maintenance.
After lunch, we have another session on the ice.
I grab my towel and wrap it around my waist when I spot Luka still sitting in front of his locker.
“Lunch is at ten in the dining hall. Don’t be late,” I say.
His eyes briefly sweep down and back up my body.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies with a wink that makes my cock twitch, and I quickly turn on my heel and head into the showers, immediately switching the water to cool, hoping it’ll ebb the rising heat inside.
The last thing I need is to be lusting after the rookie.
I’m supposed to be setting an example for the team, for him, but my mind keeps going back to those pretty lips. Fuck.