Wolfe (Colorado Crush Hockey #2)

Chapter 1—Wolfe

“It’s time, Wolfe.”

That’s all he needed to hear.

His cue.

His ritual.

Sliding his wireless headphones onto his head and over his ears, the opening strains of the “1812 Overture” washed over Wolfe’s body, mind and soul, just as it did before every single game.

In exactly fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds, Wolfe — clad in his Colorado Crush navy and gold uniform — would make his way to the ice for game seven of the Stanley Cup Final.

The ice was his safe haven. His calm. No thoughts of the past, no shredding of his soul. Wolfe’s one constant, his peace, was the frozen water that called to him like no other.

According to the arena’s score clock, Wolfe and his teammates were sixty minutes away from winning the cup with one single victory.

Wolfe couldn’t envision any alternative other than holding that perfectly cumbersome, blessedly silver trophy high over his head in the arena following the battle in which they were about to embark.

It didn’t matter that Wolfe found himself in the enemy’s den. Wolfe could be standing in the flames of hell, the devil breathing down his neck for eternity, but as long as his name lived among the others engraved on Lord Stanley’s cup, the location of the game was a moot point.

To everyone in the league, Wolfe was a badass motherfucker who took no prisoners. His heavy slapshot had been compared to a rocket. His bone-rattling hits matched the power of a semitruck. Wolfe was both feared and revered by every man in the League.

He also had a salty personality to match and didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thought of him. Not the management, not the opponents’ fans that abhorred him because of his hockey domination, and certainly not his father. His father... don’t go there, Wolfe. Focus on the game.

Wolfe took a deep and cleansing breath to shake off the dregs of the worst day of his childhood... of his life, and let the building crescendo of Tchaikovsky’s renowned overture work to fill his mind and rev his hockey engine.

Classical music, Tchaikovsky in particular, pulsed through his earphones prior to every game. That tradition wasn’t changing now just because this night featured the final contest of the year’s National Hockey League season.

Wolfe was pulled from his concentration when team captain, Dante Ricco, walked by his stall and smacked Wolfe’s shins with his hockey stick, indicating the time neared for the team to take the ice.

Waiting until all of his teammates shuffled by him on their skates, their jerseys swishing and swaying as they walked, Wolfe stood at the back of the pack to make his own way to the rink.

The music playing in his ears became increasingly bolder with each step he took. Wolfe could literally hear Tchaikovsky yelling at him to get his ass in gear and dominate on the ice through each measure of the powerful piece.

Sixty minutes. Victory. Nothing less.

With massive bells tolling, chimes ringing and cannons booming in the finale of the greatest classical piece of all time (and screw you if you disagreed), Wolfe could feel his heart pound with excitement to play the game he loved.

To win playing the game he loved.

Catching his helmet tossed to him by a Crush trainer standing near the opening of the rink, Wolfe pulled off his headphones.

His mess of blonde hair framed his sharply angled face and brushed against his shoulders.

His golden locks caught in his playoff beard, especially scraggily due to a month of growth that was a far cry from the patented stubbled trim he maintained.

At this moment, Wolfe appeared more like a biker from the “Sons of Anarchy” television show instead of a professional hockey player.

With a shake of his head to shift his hair away from his face, Wolfe plunked his bucket on his nugget.

He then tossed his headphones to the trainer seconds before stepping onto the ice.

Feeling the endless energy course through his body with each powerful glide of his skates on the ice, he let it feed his soul along with the bright lights and jeers from the fans of the enemy. All of it came together to prepare him for battle.

A battle he would win.

Wolfe planned to win the whole fucking thing.

***

LOSING FUCKING SUCKED.

The dark sentiment shrouding him echoed among his teammates, as the locker room was quieter than a mouse pissing on a cotton ball.

There was nothing worse than losing. Nothing.

After sixty minutes of gritty play, the Crush fell to the Dallas Firestorm, 4-2. Wolfe did his part with a goal and solid D, but that was little consolation since the Crush couldn’t catch any breaks and ultimately fell in the season-ending game on an empty-netter that sealed their fate.

“Boys, I’d like to say it was a great season, but it wasn’t,” Dante stood and moved to the center of the room, where the eyes of the Crush team found him preparing for a powerful speech.

Dante rested his hands against his hips, sweat drenching his compression shirt tucked into his breezers, the hockey pants worn by the players.

A glimmer of disappointment and anger flickered in his deep-brown eyes shared with many of his fellow Italians.

“I want you to remember this feeling. Let the anger... the pain... drive you this off-season. But know one thing; there isn’t going to be any fucking off-season. Our road to the cup starts now.”

Dante remained in the middle of the room, surrounded by his Crush teammates sitting on the benches in the visitor’s locker room. Dante’s piercing gaze swept to each player, demanding their commitment for the quest on which they were about to embark.

When Dante’s stare met Wolfe’s, a silent conversation passed between the two teammates and best friends.

Let’s do this.

I’m with you, brother.

Wolfe took a few minutes following Dante’s decree to let the loss on the ice and the resonating pain of defeat wash over him so he remembered just how shitty this moment felt when he trained his ass off in the coming months.

And train he would. How else would Wolfe keep memories of the past at bay and away from that hole in his chest that used to house his heart?