22. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Renegades are known for their unwavering dedication to preparation, so Shep Landon’s early departure from this morning’s practice skate has raised concerns about his commitment and potential impact on the team’s momentum.
Still no reports of injury, but we can’t help but wonder if there was more than bad luck at the heart of his slump. ~Renegades Rinkside
Merri
What was going on with Shep?
Heat crawled up my neck as Nat’s words from the weekend echoed through my mind. You have a Shepherd Landon problem. My bestie wasn’t wrong, but she also wasn’t helping.
I shook my head as if I could shake off the question. Fat chance I’d shake off the compulsion to look for the man. Shaking my head hadn’t worked the last four hundred and ninety times. What made me think it would work on the four hundred and ninety-first?
My heels click-clacked against the polished concrete as I rounded the corner into the hall leading to the locker room.
The noise level jumped a dozen decibels, the guys getting hyped for the game in twenty minutes.
Head straight, Merri Wylie. Don’t you dare look.
He’s just another player with a killer grin and a daughter he never mentioned.
Just another NHL hotshot who could wreck my career faster than you can say “no fraternization.”
Some mantras worked better than others. This one landed somewhere between “Wilson will warm up to me eventually” and “these heels totally won’t kill my feet during overtime.”
Wilson spoke from the far wall, his face flushed. “Pirates changed their lineup. Trasier wants everyone in his office.”
My heart thumped against my ribs as I passed the locker room and swerved into the coach’s office.
Coach Trasier’s office buzzed with pre-game tension.
Clyde, his massive mastiff, sprawled across half the floor like a furry speed bump, his tongue lolling out as he tracked everyone’s movements.
The two assistant coaches, the goalie coach and Coach himself stood beside a white board, hands on hips, heads sagging between their shoulders.
The mastiff’s tail thumped against the floor when I entered, but he didn’t budge from his position—typical Clyde, all love and zero motivation to move.
Tonight’s game promised fireworks. The Pirates sat right behind us in the Atlantic Division standings.
The same team that had embarrassed us in last year’s playoffs, leaving scores to settle.
They’d push us tonight, test our set plays, our top players.
Every shift would be a chance to prove last season’s collapse was a fluke.
We needed to be focused, on target. First to the puck and hungry for every advantage.
My heart thumped against my ribs as I dug my tablet out of my bag.
Pirates’ coach must have thrown us a curveball—probably Reeves coming off IR early.
He’d skated in an injured jersey for their morning practice, but he’d looked good in the footage I’d reviewed.
I should have suspected the possibility of a last minute change up.
The power forward’s return would force us to adjust our matchups, maybe even shuffle our own lines.
I twisted the end of my ponytail, my carefully constructed professional smile threatening to crack. Game tape and strategies should occupy my thoughts, not broad shoulders and southern drawls.
“Reeves is in,” Coach said, jaw tight. “Taking rushes with their top line.”
A collective groan rippled through the room. The Pirates’ star forward had terrorized us in last year’s playoff collapse. His early return from injury threatened to derail our game plan.
“Show me what you’ve got from their morning skate,” Coach said, holding out his hand for my tablet. “Need to see his skating, check if that knee’s really ready.”
I handed over the device, my carefully constructed professional smile firmly in place despite the tension coiling in my stomach.
The footage I’d pulled earlier focused on their special teams, their strength before the forward’s return.
I’d need to find clips of Reeves specifically.
My fingers flew across the screen, pulling up practice footage while Coach and his assistants hashed out line adjustments.
“There,” I said, highlighting a sequence. “Watch his lateral movement after contact. He’s favoring his right side.”
Coach’s eyes narrowed as he studied the footage. A predatory grin spread across his face. “Good catch, Wylie. Lambert, get word to the boys. We’re gonna test that knee early and often.”
The hair on the back of my arms stood straight up and I pivoted to face the open door just in time to see Shep pass by.
His gaze flicked to mine for a heartbeat, and the cocky grin he wore softened, just enough to catch me off guard.
That same look I’d seen at the water park when he watched Hannah, like his golden boy armor had cracked, just for a second, just enough to reveal the real man underneath.
The team lumbered past in shoulder pads and skates, looking about as graceful as a herd of caffeinated elephants. But I knew better. In twenty minutes they’d transform into precision instruments, hockey talent crystallized into pure athletic poetry on ice.
Coach dismissed us with a wave. Wilson beelined for our perch above the arena, no doubt planning to infect our workspace with the stench of stale coffee and sriracha wings. But I had a pit stop to make first.
The empty locker room still vibrated with pre-game energy, all testosterone and tape jobs and possibility.
My heels click-clacked across the floor toward Shep’s stall.
The water park replayed in my mind. His laugh when I’d nearly face-planted off that obstacle course, the possessive heat in his eyes when he tossed me the ball.
He’d let us win—though I’d deny it to my dying day.
Because he didn’t want anyone seeing beneath my wetsuit, he said, referring to the bet.
He’d also lost the right to claim the Pop.
And I was thinking his activities today—whatever had taken him away from Renegades Ice until the last minute—had limited his opportunity to kidnap Joonie again.
Joonie, who even now pressed against my hip through my bag.
I thought of how he’d wrapped his arm around Hannah’s shoulders, smiling down at his daughter like he’d never seen anything more precious.
I withdrew Joonie from my bag, his yellow glasses glinting under the fluorescent lights. Mom had understood about lucky charms, about needing an anchor when the world spun too fast. She’d have approved of sharing that gift.
Don’t let me regret this. I tucked the Pop on the top shelf of Shep’s locker.
Movement caught my eye. Denmark gathered stray socks and shirts that had missed their hamper targets. I narrowed my eyes at the equipment manager. “If you tell Wilson I talk to inanimate objects…”
He made an exaggerated cross over his chest and scurried out. My laugh echoed in the empty room as I headed for the elevator.
The ride up gave me time to smooth my dress and run matchup probabilities in my head, time to slow my racing pulse. Calm the pounding of my pulse.
Maybe I didn’t need my blue-haired friend anymore. Maybe I was ready to trust my own skills, my own heart.
I slipped into the video room, claiming my spot among the monitors. Wilson’s two-fingered salute barely registered through the cloud of sriracha fumes.
Or maybe the secondhand spice had finally rotted my brain.
Either way, tonight would be interesting. And I did love analyzing interesting data points.
We won. By the skin of our teeth and a perfectly executed overtime goal by Hampus “The Hammer” Breining.
The defenseman barely acknowledged his teammates’ celebration, shrugging off their back slaps with the same surly attitude he’d shown since being benched.
Even Coach’s praise bounced off his scowl like pucks off a crossbar.
But Breining’s attitude problems could wait. A win over the Pirates meant sole possession of first place in the division. The numbers never lied. We’d outshot them 32-28, dominated zone time, and capitalized on Reeves’ rusty knee exactly as planned.
I lingered in the video room long after Wilson packed up his sriracha-scented snack—a shocking development on its own—and I gnawed over what to do about Joonie.
Would Shep leave my Pop in his stall, trusting the luck to hold through our home stand? Or would he take my blue-haired friend hostage again, this time with my reluctant blessing?
I shoved up from the old office chair, sending it careening sideways into a table. My heels echoed through the empty corridors, each step more determined than the last. Head high, shoulders back. Mom’s voice echoed in my head: Confidence is a woman’s best accessory.
I retraced my steps back to the player area.
The locker room sprawled open and mostly empty, except for Shep and Zacha near their lockers.
Shep had changed into street clothes, with a graphic tee hugging his wide shoulders and a pair of dark denim jeans molded to his thick thighs and the rounded muscle of his ass.
I shook my head. No distractions!
“Landon!” The word burst out sharper than intended.
“Merri!” He matched my volume, his eyes sparking with mischief.
His grin set off alarm bells in my head. When his grin settled into a soft curve of his supple lips, it set off an entirely different feeling low in my belly.
I swallowed hard, straightened up my shoulders, and plowed forward, hand extended. I wiggled my fingers. “Give. Now.”
Shep slapped his hand to his chest with a thwump. “Here? Now? In front of the kids?”
Zacha snorted and heaved himself up from the bench. “I’ll have Novy call you about the Littles, brácha. Tomorrow. Looks like you have your hands full tonight.”
Heat billowed up my chest and into my cheeks, burning and mortifying and I jerked my hand back. “He does not have his hands full. Zero fullness. No fullness whatsoever.”