17 - Haven
HAVEN
Practice wasn’t just practice, it was a war zone.
Mercer drove the team like he was trying to break something loose inside them. He pushed drills past the point of muscle memory and into pure grit, where instinct either sharpened or snapped.
“Run it again!”
There was no wasted movement; no easy reps.
Just relentless pressure, shift after shift, until legs dragged and tempers flared, and I could see the frustration building.
Grayson skated like a demon was chasing him, at least for the first few hours.
Now, the mere force of gravity was dragging him down.
Dorian and Caleb looked frayed at the edges.
Zack and Asher’s edges had worn off completely.
“Again!” Mercer shouted.
Only Ares had weathered the storm without issue or complaint — sometimes even pushing the rest of the team harder than the coach himself. He was taking this seriously. He was hungry for a win.
Truth be told, so was I.
So far I’d kept my mouth shut, and my comments to myself. But it got to the point where I couldn’t watch this any longer.
“Coach…”
“Alright, brEAK!”
Mercer turned his attention from the ice, as the guys peeled off. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight.
“You got ideas, analyst?”
He called me that about half the time. I was ‘Maxwell’ for the other half.
Either way, I nodded quickly.
“Good,” he grunted. “Talk to them. I need some air.”
Mercer stormed out the metal side door, and into the cold. As it swung closed behind him, I noticed a man in a dark suit on the upper walkway, standing as still as the boards themselves. He had his arms folded, watching. Not the practice, not the drills.
Us.
He didn’t move when I looked at him. He didn’t acknowledge me at all.
He just… watched.
Shaking off my unease, I motioned Grayson over. He skated directly to me, helmet under his arm. Like everyone else he was covered in melted ice and sweat, his flowing hair plastered against his too-handsome face.
“You’re holding the puck too long,” I told him. “Again.”
He replied by tilting his head back and squirting his water bottle directly into his open mouth. It splashed everywhere, including all over me. Just as he meant it to.
“The Phantoms are afraid of you,” I went on, without acknowledgment. “That’s why they cheat you forward. They’ve done it the past two games.”
“So?”
“So you can catch them by passing to the open man. Which in this case is Caleb…” I paused, looking down at my tablet, “seventy-six percent of the time.”
He spat, drank, and then spat again. For some reason, even that was sexy.
“Shed the puck, shake the defender,” I told him. “That’s the only way you’ll advance it safely. Left lane, whenever you can. They’re weak on that side.”
“And if that doesn’t work?” he asked, his tone surprisingly genuine.
“It will.”
Staring down at me, he raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Look, you can’t do it all by yourself,” I added firmly. “You’ll need to force tighter coverage on your wings. It’s the only way you’ll get open.”
Grayson took another drink, then tossed the bottle aside. He looked me up and down.
“By now you should’ve noticed,” he countered, “that I make my own openings.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” I shot back. “Problem is, so have the Phantoms.”
Staring back at me, his mouth twitched, momentarily. For a half second, I could’ve sworn I just made Grayson Sinclair grin.
Shit, it was so hard to tell.
“Now go grab Wilder for me,” I ordered.
He lingered another few seconds — just long enough to show he wasn’t being ordered around. Then he skated off in the direction of Ares.
Likewise, the big defenseman waited an extra half minute before showing up. He’d taken his gloves off, and was methodically cracking his knuckles.
“Listen,” I told him. “The Phantoms aren’t a physical team. They’re all about finesse.”
“Finesse,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“They all go down the same, Spreadsheet,” he grunted. “Makes no difference to me.”
“Sure,” I conceded. “And that’s fine. But—”
“You telling me not to hit them?”
“No,” I replied quickly. “You can hit them. In fact, we’re counting on you to hit them.”
Ares stopped cracking his knuckles for a moment. His eyes went instantly narrow.
“Just don’t chase them.”
He paused, as if considering my words. Eventually he nodded.
“And for fuck’s sake, don’t fight them,” I added. “Please.”
“Can’t promise anything, Spreadsheet,” he said, as he launched back from the boards.
“Ares, wait!”
It should’ve been too late. He was already in motion.
Something stopped him, however, and he turned around.
“We need this,” I reiterated. “Not just for standings. For everything else.”
He growled again, but this time there was an undertone of solidarity. The intensity of those ice blue eyes told me we were both on the same page.
“Keep us from making big mistakes, and we got this,” I said. “I know we do.”
The enforcer snorted, and cleared his throat.
“Pretty confident for someone who’s been here five minutes,” he said.
I hugged my tablet against my chest and shrugged.
“It’s been a long five minutes.”
He absorbed my words. A beat of silence passed between us, and then he was gone.
It was the same thing down the line. Asher. Caleb. Zack. I called Dorian over, and chewed him out for being late on two out of three line changes. Finally, I couldn’t avoid it anymore. I checked the metal door, which was still closed, and signaled to Sebastian.
The goalie came slowly, letting the ice carry him. His mask was still down when he reached me
“What’s the word, boss?”
All of a sudden I’d forgotten everything I was about to say. I was too fixated on his eyelashes, which were longer and thicker than I remembered them.
“Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous,” he nodded.
“Sometimes.”
A pause. He stiffened a little.
“About last night—” he started.
“We don’t need to make it a thing,” I said.
Too fast. His eyelashes came together in a few rapid blinks.
“Right,” he nodded.
The silence between us deepened. It sure as shit didn’t help that I still had nothing to say.
“I’ll uh…”
“Yeah,” I nodded over his shoulder. “Go take some shots.”
Damn.
He skated away leaving me feeling foolish and empty. Like I’d just invalidated the only real connection I had, in the entire house.
“You happy?”
I whirled, to find Mercer standing beside me. He’d snuck in through the front door; or walked in, or whatever had happened. Either way, my heart started beating a thousand miles an hour.
“With?”
“Progress,” he grunted, his shrewd eyes scanning the ice. “Or lack thereof.”
I followed his gaze, where the guys had picked up again. They were faster. Cleaner. Not yet good enough, but closer.
“They’re getting it,” I said quietly.
He nodded, grimly, not answering right away. Like he was weighing even heavier thoughts.
“Getting it isn’t the same as keeping it,” he said finally.
My grip tightened slightly on the tablet.
“I know.”
“Do you?” Mercer questioned. He turned to face me, and I didn’t look away.
“Yeah. I do.”
A beat of silence was followed by a long, hard stare. He nodded once; sharply, decisively. Then he shifted his gaze back to the ice.
“Good,” the coach said, his voice calm and collected. “Because tomorrow we find out what they are.”