Cross Check Christmas (Toronto Titans #3)

1. Hendrix

HENDRIX

T he crowd roars—half cheering, half booing as I slam into another player, sending him sprawling across the ice.

Someone sends me a rude gesture from the opposing bench.

I flash them a grin and skate backward, searching for my next target. The puck's somewhere in play but honestly, I'm having too much fun introducing these guys to the glass. Coach keeps telling me to focus more on scoring, but where's the joy in that?

Another opposing forward tries to sneak past me with the puck. Bad move, buddy. I line him up perfectly and—WHAM! His helmet bounces off the plexiglass like a pinball. Clean hit, textbook perfect, but the ref's whistle shrills through the air anyway.

"Two minutes, roughing!"

"Are you kidding me?" I throw my hands up. "That was cleaner than my grandmother's kitchen floor!"

The ref points to the box. I make a show of rolling my eyes and skating over, trying not to smile too much. The penalty box feels like my second home at this point—I should really bring in some throw pillows, maybe hang some art on the walls.

"Having fun in there, Ellis?" Coach Knight’s voice carries from the bench. His mustache twitches.

"Five-star accommodation." I stretch out my legs, making myself comfortable. "Great view of the ice. Could use a mini-fridge though."

The penalty box attendant shakes his head, but I catch him hiding a smile. I've spent enough time in here to know most of them by name. This one's Dave—great guy, has three kids and makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. Not that I should be eating that stuff in season.

"Third time tonight, Ellis. Going for some kind of record?"

"Just spreading the love." I wink at him. "Everyone deserves a Hendrix Ellis Special at least once in their career."

From here, I have the perfect view of the chaos I've created on the ice. Two guys are still arguing about my hit, another's getting helped to the bench, and Coach is turning that special shade of purple which means I'll be doing extra skating drills tomorrow.

Worth it. Every single second.

From my front-row seat in the penalty box, I watch Griffin make another impossible save. Our goalie's like a wall—if walls could do splits and catch pucks with their teeth.

"Time's up, sunshine." Dave opens the door and I leap back onto the ice.

Owen's got the puck, dancing through defenders like they're traffic cones. Show-off.

"Ellis! Stop admiring Jablonski's footwork and get in position!" Coach bellows from the bench.

Right. Position. I'm technically supposed to be playing right wing, but there's this huge defenseman who's been eyeing Owen all night, and he's just asking to meet the boards.

Sawyer flies past me, his long blonde hair so drenched in sweat, it's plastered to his neck. "Rix! Stop playing defense and get in position!"

"But mom, I'm having fun!"

I spot my target lumbering toward Owen. "Hold that thought."

I take off across the ice. The defenseman never sees me coming—they never do. The crash echoes through the arena as we collide. He goes down hard, and I swear I hear Coach groan from here.

"Dude," Owen laughs as he skates past with the puck. "You're supposed to be covering me!"

"I am covering you! By removing every threat within a ten-mile radius."

Owen scores—because of course he does—and I use the celebration as cover to check another guy into the boards. Just a love tap, really. Barely even knocked his mouthguard out.

"Ellis!" Coach Knight's voice could strip paint. "Get your ass in position or I'm benching you!"

"Fine, fine." I skate to my spot, but not before shouting to my latest victim, "Call me! We'll do lunch!"

I catch Griffin watching the action from his net. He gives me that look—the one that says 'I love you buddy, but what the heck?'

I shrug. “He skated into me!"

The game's tied with two minutes left. Coach's face has moved from purple to a concerning shade of magenta.

Owen appears on my left like magic—he's got this weird sixth sense about where to be on the ice. "Ready to show them what we can do when you're not trying to break the league record for hits?"

"I wasn't trying to break it." I grin. "I was trying to shatter it."

Sawyer grins. "Follow my lead."

We break into formation and Sawyer takes the puck, dancing through defenders while Owen creates space. I resist the overwhelming urge to check the guy marking me.

The three of us move in perfect sync—years of practice making us read each other's minds. Sawyer passes the puck to Owen who draws two defenders. I slip behind their defense, completely unmarked because they're all too busy watching Owen dance.

"Now!" Owen sends the puck through a gap.

I catch it clean, fake left, and spot Sawyer streaking toward the net. The goalie commits to me—sucker. I slide the puck across the crease.

Sawyer buries it top shelf.

The crowd erupts as we crash together in celebration before returning to center for face-off.

The puck drops, and the Orlando Eclipse's center snags it. Time to go hunting.

I glide across the ice, matching his speed while staying just out of view. Most players check their right side obsessively, but their left? That's my sweet spot. Like a shark circling its prey, I drift into his blind spot.

The center's getting cocky now, his stick handling loose and casual. Amateur hour.

I slide in close. One smooth lift of my stick and... the puck's mine.

"Surprise!" I sing-song as I peel away.

The center's cursing would make a sailor blush. I spot Sawyer ahead and send him a perfect pass. He catches it without breaking stride because he's fancy like that.

The crowd's on their feet. Thirty seconds left. Sawyer weaves through their defense then dishes it to Owen.

Owen winds up for what looks like a rocket of a shot. The goalie drops into his butterfly, ready for the blast.

Owen’s got that intense look he gets before taking a shot—the one that makes rookies wet themselves.

But Owen's not shooting.

Instead, he sends a no-look pass right to where I'm sneaking in on the back door, completely forgotten by everyone except my linemates. The puck hits my stick and I have more open net than a soccer goal.

The goalie's eyes go wide when he realizes his mistake.

"Hey there!" I wave as I roof it.

The horn blares and the Blizzard Dome explodes. Game over, Titans win! The crowd's losing their minds, and Coach Knight might actually be smiling under that mustache.

"That's how it's done!" I crash into Owen and Sawyer, nearly taking us all down in celebration. "And I didn't even have to hit anyone!"

I'm barely through my first cup of coffee the next morning when my phone buzzes. It's the front office requesting my presence for an "urgent meeting." Because that's totally not ominous at all.

When I arrive at the executive offices, it's like walking into an intervention.

Malcolm Chase, our owner, sits behind his desk wearing his trademark "I'm about to say something you won't like" expression.

Coach Knight's there, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, his assistant coaches line one wall like a firing squad, and the team managers hover near Chase's massive mahogany desk.

"Take a seat, Ellis." Malcolm gestures to the empty chair.

I plop down, spinning the chair once because why not? "If this is about that last hit, I swear he skated right into me. Like a moth to a flame. A really big, angry moth."

The leather squeaks every time I move, which is approximately every three seconds because sitting still isn't exactly my strong suit.

I feel like a kid sent to the principal's office.

The executive boardroom of the Blizzard Dome is way too fancy for my taste—all gleaming wood and pretentious art of old hockey legends judging me from the walls.

My agent, Derek, paces the office, occasionally stopping to adjust his glasses like they personally offended him.

"Look," Chase leans forward, hands clasped. "We need to address the elephant in the room."

"You mean the fact that someone approved that hideous painting?" I point to the abstract monstrosity hanging behind his desk. "Because I've been meaning to mention?—"

One of the assistant coaches snickers.

Derek stops pacing. "Hendrix, read the room. It's about your contract situation."

Oh. That.

My contract has been under negotiation since the Spring. Derek hasn’t been satisfied with the team’s offers so far and has been throwing around numbers like confetti. I've known the guy since juniors, but lately, his dollar-sign eyes are giving me whiplash.

"Mr. Ellis," Malcolm starts, his bright yellow tie way too cheery this early in the morning, "we've reached an impasse."

I lean forward, "I just want to play hockey. Nothing else matters to me."

Derek whirls around. "Hendrix, please. We've discussed this. Your value?—"

"Is more than just monetary," I finish. "I know, I know. But have you seen our line chemistry? You can't put a price tag on that."

"Actually," Malcolm slides a paper across his desk, "we can. And have."

I glance at the numbers and whistle. It's not terrible, but according to Derek, it's not what I'm worth either. Personally, I think it's enough to keep me in hockey sticks and protein shakes for the rest of my life, but what do I know?

"The fact remains," Derek says for what feels like the millionth time since March, "Hendrix's value to this team far exceeds the current offer."

Malcolm's face turns an interesting shade of red. "The team's offer is more than generous."

"For a fourth-line grinder maybe," Derek cuts in. "Not for someone who led the league in hits last season. He comes from hockey royalty. He’s the son of Rainer Ellis, for Pete’s sake!”

Great. Now he’s name-dropping my famous dad as if they don’t already know. Not to mention my brother. I slouch further into my chair. Numbers make my head hurt. That's why I hired Derek—to handle all this contract stuff while I focus on what really matters: introducing people to the boards.

"We appreciate Hendrix’s… contributions, but we have to consider the salary cap implications."