Chapter 6
SIX
The Ghost
Deacon
It starts at the damn airport. I’m dragging my gear through baggage claim, half-awake, half-running on caffeine, when I think I see her.
Dark hair. That walk I couldn’t mistake if I tried — confident, graceful, with that little tilt of her chin like the world could throw its worst and she’d still stay standing.
But it can’t be her.
I blinked, shook it off, and blamed the red eye and the rookie beside me rambling about TikTok fame. By the time I look again, she’s gone. Just another face in the crowd.
Then, on my run through Washington Square Park, it happens again.
I spot her. Or think I do.
Same dark hair, pulled back this time. A stroller beside her, two women with her, all talking and laughing. The sunlight hits her cheekbone just right, and my chest goes tight — too tight for how fast I was running.
I slowed down to do a double take, but by the time I circled back, she was gone, and so was the stroller.
Maybe I’m losing it. Maybe I’ve got the male version of a biological clock ticking.
Too many cute as shit kids around, our owner has triplets for god’s sake.
Guess it’s contagious, that domestic bliss thing I never paused to appreciate, to my Italian mother’s dismay.
That and my brain, being the asshole it is, filled in the blanks with her.
The one woman who ever iced me out completely.
And for that dick, of all people. Kyle Dingy.
The guy who’s managed to piss off every teammate he’s ever had — me most of all.
Still, it stuck with me. All the way to the rink. All through warmups. Hell, even through my downtime before my game, while in the shower, jerking off to a fucking ghost before coming back for tonight’s game.
I’m wholly convinced it’s my brain messing with me since we’re playing his team.
Loved beating them tonight, seeing him in the opposite goal letting enough fly by to ensure we’re the only undefeated team in the league. I don’t give a shit that we’re only three weeks in. Unbeaten is unbeaten.
The locker rooms are about empty, all the guys headed to Icehouse, a tradition after each win. Team toast, drinks, maybe grab a bite, and then head out with whatever bunny looks like she wants to add got plowed by a pro to her list. No shade, and no shame.
I throw my duffle over my shoulder, and am about to head out when Dash Sterling stops me, “KOK’s gonna try to back out tonight, help me out?”
I lift my chin, and he nods to the showers. I follow him.
Dash yells in, “KOK, everyone else is out of here. I told them we’d meet them at the bar—”
“I’m not feeling like the bar tonight, Dash,” he grumbles.
I clear my throat, “Which is exactly why your ass is going.” He turns and looks at me, “A win’s a win, KOK; let’s go.”
He glares at Dash, knowing he is the one who brought me in on this.
Dash raises his hands in the air, as if to call, uncle, as he steps backward from the shower room.
“Just what I fucking needed,” I hear him snarl as I turn off the water.
“Gonna stick around,” I tell Dash, knowing something's up, but not asking what, since it's not my business unless someone makes it so. I don’t ask for that shit to land at my feet because it becomes my issue then. I have enough of my own.
“Thanks, Moretti,” Sterling says fucking with his phone. “Rides waiting.”
The ride to Icehouse is the usual mix of ego and leftover adrenaline.
Dash sits shotgun, still half-buzzed from the win, while Faulker and Killer are sprawled in the third row, KOK beside me with headphones on, which is smart because those two are loud as hell.
“Three weeks in and still undefeated,” Dash says, twisting around with a grin. “Feels pretty damn good, huh?”
“Feels like Coach D’s system’s working,” I say, voice even, forehead against the cool window, watching the city flash by in streaks of gold and gray. Wet streets, neon signs, steam rising from the grates.
“That’s part of it, man,” Faulker laughs. “But, you’re out swatting pucks like flies. That’s not a system, that’s sorcery.”
Killer snorts. “Yeah, the man just looks at the puck, and it changes its mind. He’s got some kind of goalie voodoo going on.”
“It’s called skill,” I tell them. “You two should try it sometime. Maybe then Johnson wouldn’t be able to let them have every shot on him.”
“Fucker needs to go,” KOK mumbles.
“Damn right he does,” Faulker agrees.
Dash points at me. “Skill, superstition, whatever works. He’s pissed you’re on a streak again.”
“Let him be pissed.”
They all laugh and resume their scrolling.
Killer’s texting, thumbs flying. Faulker’s replaying clips of his own shift like he’s analyzing tape.
Me, I hate phones, but I’ll be in the doghouse if I miss a message.
And there it is, A text from Ma — a blurry picture of her and Pop by the TV. Proud of you, ragazzo.
I smile despite myself. She never misses a game. Still treats me like her little boy, even after fifteen seasons and more bruises than I can count. I send back a heart, lock the phone, and pocket it before the guys can start in on me.
Dash twists in his seat again. “You coming out after Icehouse or pulling your usual vanishing act?”
“Depends on who’s there,” I tell him.
Faulker leans forward, grinning. “Translation: if they’re all starry-eyed, he’s out.”
I shoot him a look. “You’re one chirp away from carrying my gear next road trip.”
Killer snickers. “He’s not wrong, though. You’ve been in a mood since Montreal. Man needs a distraction. Preferably one that doesn’t involve film study or protein shakes.”
“I’m not in the mood,” I lie, sitting back.
Dash smirks. “Right. That’s why your frown lines are deeper.”
“It’s my resting in-season face.”
That earns another round of laughter.
When we pull up outside Icehouse, the sign flickers blue over wet asphalt. Faulker whistles low. “Our church of champions.”
“More like confessional,” I mutter, pushing the door open.
“Smells like victory in here.” Dash rubs his hands together. “Or is that designer pussy I’m smelling?”
Kids got a way with words, that’s for sure.
The Icehouse is packed, shoulder to shoulder with familiar faces.
The kind of night where you can’t tell if people are cheering for the team or looking for a chance to go home with a player.
I spot the guys right away, huddled in the back corner around our usual booths.
Same spot, same noise, same old same old.
I’m not really in the mood to be “on” tonight. I want to eat, drink a beer, and disappear before anyone tries to hook up. Hell, I turned down one of my favorites the other night.
I push past it and remind myself this isn’t just any bar — it’s our home turf. These are our people. The ones who pay to watch us beat the shit out of other teams on ice. They deserve at least a nod, no matter what mood I’m in.
As I make my way through the crowd, I shake hands, clap shoulders, and say thanks when people shout good game or nice save. Feels more like walking through a post-game locker room than a bar.
Off to the side, I catch sight of the colony — the regulars. Puck bunnies lined up like it’s open tryouts for who can ruin their mascara first. Not it.
Then I notice a few of the LA players made the trip too, which explains why the tension hums a little heavier than usual. Johnson’s front and center, all over Dingy like a loyal lapdog.
“You see Johnson?” Koa asks.
“Kid looks like he might go down on his knees for Dingy,” I shrug, since that’s no different than when the dick played for us.
Dash asks, “That tool still hate you?”
“Hell if I know. He stopped talking shit when The Times did a piece on me.”
“That’s one way to shut him up.” Dash grins.
“Damn right, it is,” I nod.
By the time we get back to the booth, I see that Dash hasn’t strayed toward the colony yet — which shocks the hell out of me. He’s usually halfway to a bad decision by now.
Koa notices too, “I’m good. Resume regular programming.”
“You sure, man?” He asks, and Koa nods. Dash winks, “I’ll bring you something pretty back. You can decide if you want to take it home as a souvenir win.”
“Get your ass back here, Dash. It’s toast time,” Bass yells from across the table.
“Raise a glass,” Smith shouts, and just like that, the bar quiets.
Stone’s the first to stand. “They came to play, we came to win, we left them questioning what the fuck hit them.”
Predictably, some LA jackass yells, “We’re right here, Stone, still standing. Get ready to take it in the ass in LA.”
Smith smirks, lifting his beer. “To us, the champions of the rink! They wanna shove it in our asses, well, they can suck my dick.”
The whole place explodes in laughter. A few of the LA boys bark back, but no one’s dumb enough to throw a punch, not yet anyway.
I nudge Koa. “You’re up, KOK.”
He smirks, grabbing his glass. “We crushed it tonight, there is no doubt. Now we drink and fuck till the lights go out.”
Dash snorts. “Way to keep it low profile tonight.”
“You got two, KOK — bring it home!” Faulker yells.
Koa raises his beer higher. “A toast to the LA boys, who came out to celebrate getting their asses kicked tonight, proving once again that winning isn’t everything.”
“Fuck you, KOK!” one of the Lancers yells back.
Koa drains his beer, slams the empty on the table, and in the blink of an eye, has another full one in hand.
He raises it again. “One more for the bunnies.”
The bar roars.
“To the ladies who know our stats and our sticks,” he says with a grin, “a little heads-up — LA players have tiny dicks.”
The place erupts again — loud enough to rattle the glassware. Dash and Koa slam their beers together, both grinning like idiots.
“How about you come over here and suck mine, second line!” someone yells.
Koa flips the guy off without hesitation. “I’d prefer something with a little meat on the bone.”
“Fuck yeah,” Dash laughs, grabbing a chicken wing from the table and waving it. “Like this?”