35. Let’s Fucking Go
35
LET’S FUCKING GO
AIDAN
T he locker room is a mixture of nerves and excitement. It might only be pre-season, but the first game always comes with a potent rush of adrenaline. For some guys, this is their first game playing on the professional level. And for the veterans like me, it’s the start of feeling like a god again.
There’s nothing that compares to that feeling.
Sitting next to Liam, I lace up my skates, headphones in, slipping into the zone. The one where nothing else matters but this team, the puck and hockey.
I’m ready.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve buckled down, putting in the work at practice and it shows.Since everything went down with the Russians, things have been quiet on the family front. Koen handles most of it on his own, allowing Liam and me to focus on the team. On hockey.
My relationship with some of the guys isn’t what I would call friendly , but at least we’re no longer on the verge of killing each other…
I look up from my skate, locking eyes with Colt across the room, and I raise my chin at him in acknowledgement. Fresh out of juniors, it’s his very first game with the league, and no matter how much I can’t stand the guy, I understand the pressure he’s under.
His dark eyes flash with a hard intensity, but after a moment, he dips his chin in return, before going back to securing his elbow pads. At least we can both respect the fact that, in order to win this game, we need to have each other’s backs.We don’t have to be friends.
Coach gives us a pep talk, complete with a look that says, don’t fuck this up, boys, before we head into the tunnel together.
The Breakers are still a new team working to establish themselves in the league. Hockey is an expensive sport and eventually the team needs to make money. And money comes from filling the arena with fans. From the sounds coming from above, it looks as if the promoters have done just that.
We wait just out of sight as the arena lights dim. Our team’s hype music blasts over the speakers as the announcers ramp up the crowd for the start of warmups.
I catch glimpses of the Breakers Belles racing around the arena, their glittery pom-poms flashing with green and silver lights in the dark rink as they work to drum up the already excited crowd.
Our assistant coach gets the go-ahead through the radio to release us and we surge out of the tunnel. Rez takes my side, the two of us co-captains for the team. Together, we lead the team out onto the ice. When the Breakers circle around our end, the crowd goes crazy around us.I don’t think I’ve ever seen the arena so packed… and for pre-season at that.
A couple of girls in the front row just behind the goal bang wildly on the glass, trying to catch our attention. Colt passes by extra close, giving them a devilish smile along with a wink, living up to his image as the team’s puck-boy.
On the other side of the rink, the opposing team does the same, while the cheerleaders twirl and jump in the middle. Some of the other guys smile and wave at the fans, even toss out pucks to some kids, but not me—I’m dialed in and focused.
Soon enough the ice clears, and it’s time for puck drop.
It’s Liam and I, along with our starting offensive line: #6 Reid Kincaid, left wing; #89 Rez Tyler, right wing; and 1st line center, #21 himself, Colt King. King is the only recent addition to the first line this season, fresh off the junior hockey circuit. Since the draft, the sports reporters have frequently been referring to the Breakers starting line as the “Dream Team.” Guess we’re about to find out how true that statement is.
Colt wins the face off and we’re flying down the ice together, crossing into the Falcon’s zone. Reid has the puck and fakes a pass to Rez before sailing it back over to Colt, who’s snuck right past the Falcons’ defenseman. He one times it through the five-hole to put the Breakers on the board in the first minute of play.
“Hell fucking yeah!”
Colt drops to one knee, sliding across center ice, holding his stick like a bow, drawing one arm back as if firing an arrow. The arena eats it up. The fans go nuts and we all rush Colt into the boards in celebration before high-fiving the bench.
Let’s fucking go!
By the end of the second period, I’m flying high. The Breakers are up 3-1 and we’ve got the Falcons on the ropes. They’ve resorted to dirty plays in an attempt to knock us off our game. But the only thing they’ve succeeded at is landing two of their own players in the sin bin. The Breakers will start the third period on a power play.
I’m slow getting off the ice before heading back down to the locker rooms for the period break and that’s when I see it... A very particular shade of honey-blonde hair. Narrowing my eyes, I study the passing Belles as they race around the rink, pumping their arms to the beat of the music, and twisting and spinning in perfect unison. My gaze stops on the little Belle crossing center ice. She’s facing away from me, but the way she skates… I already know.
Rory pulls in, tucking her right leg close, gathering power before throwing herself up and into the air. Her legs extend past her ears in an impressive split jump before she lands effortlessly back on one blade.
I’m the only one left in the box. I’m supposed to be below with the team, but I’m frozen in place. Our assistant coach holding the door shoots me anxious glances, but I ignore him. My eyes fixed on the girl I’ve worked all week to get the fuck out of my head before this very game, and here she is, front and center in all her glittery glory.
Why didn’t I know Rory was a Belle? She wasn’t last season… I’m sure of it.
She wears the Belles uniform, a cropped version of the Breakers jersey: black with elements of green and metallic silver stripes. The words Boston Breakers are scrawled across her chest, right over the silver shamrock. The sweater hugs her torso, showing off her lean, sculpted abs. She’s painted a shimmery green shamrock just over the waistline of her too-short pleated skirt. The pleats fly up as she races backwards across the ice, showcasing shimmery green hot pants and her remarkably toned ass underneath. I grip my stick a little tighter. Leg warmers complete the look, rising over her knee with classic hockey stripes in green and silver, pulled over figure skates made to look like hockey skates.
My initial surprise quickly turns to annoyance and I squeeze my stick so hard it’s a wonder I don’t snap it in half. Who does she think she is joining the Belles? The sight of her in that revealing little uniform has thrown me so far off balance. I shake my head in an effort to clear out this mental image I know will replay in my mind—probably forever.
How dare she infiltrate this space? I’ve worked hard to separate my family life from my hockey life. Seeing her here brings up complicated emotions that will only serve as unnecessary distractions. Anger flares and I have half a mind to rip her off the ice right now.
Adding insult to injury, Rory skates with infuriating confidence. A radiant smile on her face as she relishes in the cheers from the crowd. And they love her.
Alongside my rising anger is an unwelcome rush of desire. I can’t deny how captivating she looks—I’m unable to look away. Little Kostalova skates the rest of the routine with a combination of strength and grace. And unlike when I’ve spied on her practicing her competition routines, she genuinely seems to be enjoying herself, the usual cold intensity missing from her beautiful face.
Rory stops on the blue line closest to me, raising her shimmering pom-poms to the sky, looking up to the crowd above. My eyes trail over the defined lines of her abs, the way her pleated skirt swirls about her legs. The heat rising deep within me has nothing to do with anger…This infuriates me even more and I glare at the little Belle, who spins around oblivious to the daggers I’m shooting her way. Giving me her back. Too absorbed in her routine and her job, eyes on the crowd. The number 21 flashes across her back in metallic silver embroidery. She tosses her hair and reveals the name King scrawled across her shoulders.
It’s instant rage at the sight of Colt’s name written on her body, with an unexplained craving for it to be mine .
Loud whistles draw my attention across the rink to the Falcons’ bench. A couple of their players have hung back as well, watching the Belles’ routine. I recognize one of them as the Falcons’ starting left wing, Logan Pierce. The piece of shit leans over his bench, trying to slap Rory’s ass as she skates past them.
At the last minute, she spots him and veers sharply to the left, just missing his hand. Her smile falters for a moment before she recovers, though looking a little unnerved.
My fists tighten at my side, and I grind my teeth.
By now, Assistant Coach McKinley’s anxiety has propelled him forward, eyeing me nervously as he gingerly pushes me toward the tunnel. I should be down below, listening to Coach’s second period speech. Reluctantly, I allow him to herd me down the tunnel, tearing myself away from the sight of Rory on the ice.
I stalk into the locker room with a slam of the door. The room is silent. All eyes are on me and I shoot Colt a dark glare before plopping down next to Liam, who gives me a curious look.
Shaking my head, I push him off. Not wanting to explain my newfound mood. For now, I need to channel all these complicated emotions into hockey. I can’t afford any distractions. I can’t let her distract me. The wild emotions inside threaten to spill over, and maybe I’ll let them—on the Falcons’ offensive line.
Pierce is gonna get it.
If there’s one thing hockey’s good for—it’s an excellent outlet for pent up aggression.