11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Merri
The Renegades’ charter plane looked like a high school cafeteria had collided with a luxury jet.
I smoothed my yellow dress for the hundredth time as I made my way down the aisle, taking in the scene.
Sections of four oversized leather seats facing each other—two forward, two backward—interspersed with traditional row seating for the antisocial or workaholics.
But it looked like all the row seats had been snatched up and I needed to work on building rapport with the team, regardless.
AB Bouchard and Charlie Taft had claimed one cluster, already deep in debate with Lambert and Wilson who sat opposite them.
Their voices carried that specific testosterone-fueled energy I remembered from Arvon’s locker rooms before practice sessions.
All that raw competitive spirit barely contained by cinder block walls, now barely contained in the narrow tube of a private jet.
Near the back, more player groups settled into their chosen groups.
Novak and the Europeans dominated one section, their long legs stretched into the center space.
Rookies claimed another, clinging to one another like a new line still finding their chemistry, but still oozing the cocky confidence of athletes in their prime.
Even Cawley, the Renegades’ smallest defenseman, carried himself with that unmistakable hockey player bulk that came from years of building muscle to survive on professional ice.
My fingers twitched, desperately seeking something to ground me as I hesitated in the aisle.
Every seating pod felt loaded with meaning, like choosing sides for a scrimmage with a new team or the first day of high school.
The seat across from Hampus “Hammer” Breining sat empty and I sank into it before I could second guess the decision.
Anxiety bubbled up in my belly and I distracted myself by fussing with the team app. Three hours and seventeen minutes until we landed in Minnesota Thunder territory. I pushed my lips together, focusing on steadying my nerves. First away game with the team. No pressure.
Shep passed my row without a glance, same as he’d done in the terminal while we waited to board. He slouched into a seat several rows ahead, Zacha claiming the spot beside him. My traitorous heart skipped. I meticulously arranged my tablet, pretzel bag, and water bottle in perfect alignment.
My fingers itched for Joonie’s familiar blue spikes and yellow glasses.
I shifted my water bottle a quarter inch to the left, then back, then adjusted my tablet until it formed a perfect right angle with the tray table.
The pretzel bag crinkled as I smoothed it flat, aligning its edges with the tablet’s corners. Still not quite right.
“Is this some pre-flight ritual you’ve devised?”
I jumped at Theo’s voice, my smile brightening as I looked up at our team captain. His dark eyes sparkled with good humor as he claimed the seat beside Breining. “Possibly! Everything a girl needs, in its proper place.”
“I see that.” He nodded at my snacks laid out in a row.
Once everyone had found their seats and the flight attendant finished her checks, the cabin settled into pre-flight quiet.
AB’s deep voice rumbled up from somewhere behind me as he muttered a prayer—the same one he said before every game according to Wilson.
And apparently every flight, too. A few rows up, Shep wore a huge pair of headphones, head tipped back against the seat.
The engines roared to life, and my fingers dug into the armrests as we accelerated down the runway.
The first twenty minutes passed in that liminal space of early flight—too bumpy for movement, too tense for conversation. I kept my eyes fixed on my tablet, pretending fascination with tomorrow’s game stats while my stomach did lazy loops with each ripple of turbulence.
Finally, the plane leveled out. The seat belt sign dimmed with a quiet ding, and the flight attendant’s voice crackled over the intercom announcing our cruising altitude.
The cabin came alive as guys stretched and shifted, some swapping seats to continue conversations interrupted by takeoff protocol.
Theo lowered the tray table between us with a solid thunk. “Your snack collection is only half the battle. Let me up your game.”
He dug into his carry-on stowed under his seat and pulled out a deck of cards with cartoon cats on the box. “Ever played Exploding Kittens?”
“Oh, you are so going down.” I straightened in my seat. “I happen to be a master of strategic cat deployment.”
“Someone’s feeling confident.” Coach Trasier appeared in the aisle, his black beard and intense eyes sparkling. “Deal me in, Captain,” he said as he sat in the empty seat beside me.
“You sure you want to play against our resident analyst?” Theo grinned as he shuffled. “She’s probably got every card combo memorized.”
I tugged at my ponytail, warmth flooding my cheeks. “I only memorized the nope cards. And maybe the cat cards. And possibly optimal attack patterns…”
“Oh, this’ll be good.” He settled into the seat across from Theo, accepting his cards with a half-smile. “Just remember, winning isn’t everything.”
“Says the man who made us do suicide sprints after losing to Calgary.” Novak’s thick accent carried from behind us. He leaned over the seat, eyeing our setup. “Trade me seats, Hammer?”
Breining muttered a curse, but shoved up from his seat. We raised the trays to let him pass and let Novak take his seat.
Wilson chose that moment to stalk past, his gaze fixed straight ahead. I drew a shuffle card from my hand, focusing on the ridiculous cartoon, my cheeks burning with the effort of holding my grin. No way would I let his cold shoulder affect me.
“Speaking of drama—” Novak dealt himself in, his grin turning wicked. “Did anyone catch Penni’s latest post? Apparently there were ‘sparks flying’ at Rails n’ Ales.”
Heat crawled up my neck. I drew another card, pretending fascination with the exploding kitten artwork while memories of woodsy cologne and heated kisses threatened to overwhelm me.
“Wylie? Your play.”
I slapped down a cattack card. “Hope you’ve got a defuse handy, boys, because this kitty’s got claws.”
“Just for that crack,” Novak declared, slapping down a card, “I’m inviting you to the winter water park trip.”
I arched an eyebrow at him while we waited for Theo to make his play. “Winter water park? That’s a thing?”
“Swedish tradition,” he said with a sage nod. “Very therapeutic.”
“It’s not remotely Swedish,” Theo corrected, eyeing his cards. “Scout and Novy made that up last year to convince the rookies it was culturally significant.”
Coach Trasier chuckled, his Quebecois accent thickening. “Still got half the team in wetsuits in December.”
“The pictures were epic,” Novak said. “This year, inflatable obstacle course will make everyone cry like small babies. Much better than polar plunge, ano?”
I laid down a defuse card just as Theo tried to hit me with an exploding kitten. His eyes narrowed. “You counted cards, didn’t you?”
“Me?” I fluttered my lashes with exaggerated innocence. “Though statistically speaking, the probability of drawing an exploding kitten increases by roughly twelve percent with each—”
“Save the math for game film,” Coach cut in, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Speaking of which, that was one hell of a call in Minnesota.”
My gaze darted to where Wilson sat three rows ahead, hunched over his tablet. I smoothed my skirt under the tray table. “Just doing my job, Coach.”
“Takes guts to make that kind of call your first game.” He played a skip card, then fixed me with a steady look. “Good instincts. Though next time, maybe run it past Wilson first.”
I pushed my lips together, studying my cards with laser focus. “Noted.”
“But seriously,” Novak said, his accent thick, “v?ichni go to the water park next month. Even Wilson comes, though he only eats nachos and complains about chlorine.”
“Like that’s different from any other day,” Theo muttered.
My laugh bubbled up, genuine this time. These glimpses behind the professional curtain—the team’s easy banter, their casual inclusion—settled something in my chest. Even without Joonie’s steadying presence, even with Wilson’s continued frost, I could do this.
A movement caught my attention. Up front, Shep sat rigid in his seat, staring out the window while Zacha talked. None of his usual easy swagger or playful banter. That tension in his shoulders twisted through me, reminding me of how different he’d been since that night in the corridor—
“Your play again, Coach Wylie.” The captain’s suspicious look had my cheeks heating. “Unless you’re distracted?”
I squared my shoulders and slapped down a card. “Please. I’m a professional.”
“Speaking of attention…” Novak’s grin turned sly. “Puckleberry Tea says plenty of nice things about our new coach. Though Rinkside is more interested in your calls than your dresses.”
My heart stuttered. Had she noticed something? That kiss had been in a secluded corridor, but gossip spread through hockey circles faster than a fresh sheet of ice. “Oh?”
“Just the usual ‘woman in hockey’ angle.” He waved his hand. “Though she did mention your fashion choices. Very important journalism, that.”
I flicked my next card down with extra flourish.
Just the standard narrative then – new female coach making waves, complete with commentary on my wardrobe choices.
I fought down the urge to glance toward the front of the plane where Shep sat rigid in his seat, his usual cocky showman nowhere in sight.
“‘Bold moves from new blood,’” Theo quoted. ‘But is she trying too hard?’ Seems Rinkside thinks you’ve got something to prove.”
“Don’t we all?” I aimed for sunny but landed closer to sarcastic. When Coach Trasier and Theo exchanged glances, I forced my smile brighter. “Every decision gets analyzed, every outfit gets critiqued.”
“Your style is as memorable as your confidence,” Coach agreed. “As long as you get it right.”