3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Ping-Pong Queen and Shep Landon’s Secret Weapon?
Coach Wylie has the guys rollin’. My darling Puckleberries, it’s time to spill the tea on the team’s newest addition.
This stylish coach is not just shaking up the locker room with her flare for fashion (seriously, those retro dresses?
Sign me up!) but she’s got the guys buzzing.
Word on the street is she challenged our local Golden Boy Shep Landon to a Ping-Pong battle and not only beat him, but snagged his prized Goorin Stallion cap, too!
My kind of woman! Can’t wait to see what happens next! ~Penni’s Puckleberry Tea
Shep
My teammates’ congratulatory slaps echoed down the tunnel of Algonquin Arena. Zacha waited by the locker room entrance, fist extended.
“Good game, brácha.”
Adrenaline surged through my veins as I slammed my jersey in the hamper in the center of the room and faced my closest friend. “Good game? Good game? Best game of the year, you mean.”
The bench creaked beneath me as I yanked at my laces. Every shot had found its mark tonight, every pass connected. Pure instinct took over. Not my best game ever, but after weeks of nothing? The puck felt like part of me again, like coming home. “I’m back, baby. I’m back.”
The charcoal gray socks came next. Six seasons of the same ritual—mine to control, mine to maintain. No equipment manager would ever touch them again. I set them on the low shelf in my stall.
Piece by piece, the armor came off—shoulder pads, pants, shin guards. The familiar rhythm steadied my hands, grounded me in the moment.
A flash of blue caught my eye. Perched at the edge of the top shelf sat my stolen trophy—a Funko Pop with blue hair and big yellow glasses.
What changed tonight?
The toy stared back, silent witness to my return to form. Dangerous territory for a man who trusted his own skill above all else.
My fingers traced the bright blue spikes, pushing the little devil deeper into the shadows.
Coach Trasier entered with a single, loud clap and I put my back to the pilfered prize and graced my boss with a winning smile.
He’d put me out on the first shift and I’d scored within the first minute of play.
My ice time went through the roof tonight, restored to what it’d been before I slid into a skid.
“Luck back on your side,” Coach said from across the room, teeth flashing through his dark beard.
I brushed my shoulder, cocky confidence masking the lingering doubt. “Not luck, Coach. Pure skill.”
The boys’ howls echoed off concrete, feeding the swagger I wore like armor.
“Whatever it is, glad it made an appearance tonight.” He nodded. “Keep up the good work.”
The puck ceremony started, our nightly ritual of brotherhood. AB Bouchard, a Canadian playing on our third line, dragged himself upright and faked a cough to get everyone’s attention. “I think we all know where this is going tonight.”
More hollering bounced off the walls as the guys cheered, and I grinned. God it felt good to be back.
The cheers washed over me like validation. AB swaggered across the carpet, stopping at the edge of Renegades logo on the floor. He tossed the puck my way. ‘Bout time you started pulling your weight around here, Landon.”
I snagged the badge of honor and held it high. “Someone’s gotta carry you backwards yahoos.”
Coach’s nod sealed my redemption. The golden boy was back on his throne.
Charlie Taft, the second-line winger turned media darling during my slump, barked my name out across the locker room. He sprawled on the bench opposite me, a towel draped over his shoulders. “What’d you do?”
I’d pilfered a tiny figurine from the gorgeous new video coach. The weight of the stolen Pop pressed against my conscience. “Just one of those things.”
“C’mon, bro, share the wealth. You saw every play tonight. You take something?”
The locker room temperature dropped ten degrees. “Fuck you on about, Taft?” Novak, one of the team veterans, growled in a tone that didn’t play.
“Twelve game skid, then suddenly his shots hit the net every time?” Charlie shook his head. “Not normal.”
I scrubbed a towel over my head. The question echoed my own doubts, but I’d rather eat my stick than admit it.
The nightmare that haunted every shooter’s dreams—I’d lived it, escaped it.
Not everyone did. “Golden Boy,” I said, my practiced smirk sliding into place as I met his gaze.
“Haven’t you heard? Nothing can hold me down. ”
But his question burrowed under my skin, settled like an unreachable itch between my shoulder blades. It lingered even as I tossed my dirty socks and the stolen figurine into my bag.