Goalie interference

Chapter 1

Ash

Harder–I could push harder.

I could always push harder.

My lungs seized as I tried to catch my breath, eyes closed, and leaning all my weight on the boards. Water felt like fire when I tried to swallow it down, burning with every cold breath I took.

But it was good pain.

It was all good pain.

There was one thing in this world I was good at, and it was this. It was making sure that, no matter the cost, that black bullet of rubber did not make it past me–I was a fucking wall.

A wall of muscle and sweat that might as well have been brick and cement.

Being a goalie was all fun and games when we were laughing about our weird superstitions, or how we spent so much time alone that we’d just talk to ourselves. I was my own best friend in that net–I didn’t run with a partner or have two wings to talk to when I was bored.

I had a backup goalie who was nice to my face, but was probably praying I'd get injured, and they’d get their shot.

Goalies weren't like other hockey players–they weren’t interchangeable. Twenty-three guys on a team, and most of them would likely see some ice time at some point that night, but unless we fucked up or got hurt, a goalie was out on that ice all sixty painful minutes.

Those sixty minutes of ache and exhaustion–you either learned to love it, or it consumed you.

And I loved it.

A sharp whistle pierced through the air, calling everyone into the locker rooms for a shower and video study. I let out a breath of relief, knowing I at least had a few extra minutes to get my shit together and not throw up on the ice before heading in–I was always the last off the ice.

Practice wasn’t normally so bad, and normally I could rally, but I was working off a hangover and four hours of what we could barely call sleep. I didn’t make a habit of partying the night before a game or practice, but it was our captain's birthday, so exceptions were made.

Even if I regretted them heavily today.

“Kincaid,” our coach hollered, moving along the boards on his side until he was looking down at me. I was still bent over the boards, head on my padded arms and breathing slowly, swallowing back every gag of twelve-hour-old tequila and pizza. “You alright, son? You look rough today.”

“I’m fine,” I panted, forcing myself upright slowly. “Just tired, but I’m good.”

It was a lie, and he knew it. He wasn’t going to call me on it. If I felt good enough to lie, then he was going to trust it, because the alternative?

Letting one of my backup goalies play for me tonight.

Goaltending was a ruthless position–one of our defensemen would have a fucking hangnail and sit out one night, not feel any effects from it, but not a goalie.

If I sat out tonight, Thompson could have a really fucking good night replacing me, and just like that, he could be starting the next few games–taking my first-string spot because I was just a little hungover?

Over my dead body.

“If you say so,” he huffed, clamping a broad hand on my shoulder supportively. “Why don’t you head in for a shower–your new coach is covering your video study this morning while I do the rest of the team’s.”

“You’ll like him.”

Oh, Reed…

He really did mean that when he said it.

“You said that about the last one, too,” I breathed, moving slowly to the door to the rink and almost stumbling when my skates hit the padded floor. “And the one before him, and the one before him–I’m pretty sure this is coach number five that you thought I'd like–”

“Yes, but this one’s different,” he hummed, shutting the door for me and following me down the tunnel to our locker room.

“He’s a retired goalie from the San Jose Sharks, and he seemed plenty nice in our interview.

I told him about some of your challenges, and he seems to think you guys would make a great team. ”

My challenges.

That was one way to put it.

Some would call it aggressive anger issues, but challenges sounded so much cleaner.

I wasn’t an asshole, okay? I had a short temper, and the best way I’d found to relieve some of the pressure in my head when I got angry was hitting things.

Whether that was my stick into the net post or my fist into something hard–it didn’t really matter to me.

I just had a tendency to lash out in general, even at my coaches.

Five of them so far, and I was only a Junior.

I’d been attending the University of Michigan on a full-ride scholarship for three years now, and I may not have been the nicest, but I brought results.

Our team had made it to the Frozen Four both years so far, only losing last year because of an injury they just wouldn't let me play through.

Everyone got so touchy about concussions and ligament tears. I pulled one little tendon in my groin and swore I was fine, but my coach at the time pulled me–let Thompson take my spot and cost us our game.

Our coach, Reed, did what he could to keep us all happy.

Half the team consisted of the sons of rich assholes, and the other half were too good to piss off if he wanted to keep winning.

I fell into a weird mix because, though he was my coach, goalies usually had a separate coach, specifically for goaltending.

Reed was a great coach…for defensemen and forwards.

Goalies trained differently, played differently, and needed different attention, so as much as I liked Reed, I was forced to suffer through progressively worse goalie coaches. Coaches who looked at me and thought I was just an asshole, but Reed understood me.

Reed understood that I wasn’t an asshole–I was just passionate about the one thing I was good at in this world.

“You’ll like him, Ash–I promise,” he swore, patting my back and sending me off to get showered and changed.

It felt like a weak promise, but I was still hopeful. I knew there had to be a coach out there who I could work with and not end up in a screaming match with–at best.

That one who pulled me from Frozen Four?

He ended up getting fired for putting his hands on me because I pitched a fit about him pulling me.

The one before him?

Quit because I was being difficult.

Before him?

Fired because he accused Reed of giving me special treatment–playing me when I wasn't the best goalie to start.

It came out two months later that his daughter was dating Thompson.

Strings of bad coaches that all boiled down to nothing. I was starting my Junior season, likely one of my last, only really learning or evolving from video studies and just trying to be better than Thompson and Jordan.

Our team had three goalies, but if I had it my way, we'd only need me.

“Ashton Kincaid, Matthew Thompson, and Christian Jordan,” an unfamiliar voice called out to the showers, causing me to pause washing soap off my chest to find its source.

“Back here!” Jordan called out from next to me–he'd definitely be the first to die in a horror movie.

It was just a vibe he gave off.

Footsteps echoed through the emptying shower, coming closer to the back where the three of us were.

I already knew this was likely our new coach, so I went back to showering, not bothering to care enough about this one’s name or fake pleasantries–they would mean nothing in two months when he quit or got fired.

“They segregate you guys, or you do that on your own?” the voice asked with a chuckle, deep and rumbly.

“They think goalie weirdness is a catchable disease,” Thompson hummed, smiling back at the guy in fakeness already–he was such a kissup. “I’m Matt, but everyone calls me Tommy.”

“Christian, but I go by Jordy,” Jordan added, raising his eyebrows back at the guy–at least he didn’t fake over-niceness from the jump.

Silence fell over the shower, only the sound of falling water filling the air. I could feel the eyes of my teammates on me, waiting for me to introduce myself, but I'd seen this movie before, and I didn’t like the ending.

“And that must make you Ashton,” the voice sighed, half-chuckling when I just waved a lazy hand back at him. “Real talker, that one,” he teased, making Jordan and Thompson snicker as they shut off their water in almost perfect sync.

“He’s a real charmer,” Thompson laughed, nudging my shoulder. “He grows on you–eventually.”

Thompson had grown some balls around me when there was someone to defend him from getting his face knocked in–he'd never do something so brazen if it was just the two of us.

Thompson and Jordan grabbed their towels, agreeing to get dressed and meet in one of the video rooms for our session. I was in no rush, enjoying the feel of warm water on my cold skin–I'd had to skip my shower this morning to not be late.

And honestly, that shower, even in an open locker room filled with twenty other guys, felt like it cured half my hangover right there.

I hadn’t even realized our new coach was still standing there until I turned around and found him there. The water was running down my back, and my first thought was to cover my junk, not prepared to be flashing another grown man.

A grown man, but younger than I thought.

When Reed said he was retired, I assumed forties or fifties.

Most NHL players took a few years off when they retired and came back for coaching a little later, but this guy couldn’t have been more than thirty-five.

He either retired well before the standard retirement age or he came straight from San Jose.

Something about him was familiar–shaggy dark hair and olive skin with dark eyes to match. It was hard with goalies, considering they spent so much time in a mask and padding, but I would have sworn I saw that face somewhere.

“You get your rocks off watching us shower or what?” I asked, breaking the weird silence we’d had, sizing one another up.

Or maybe that was just me.

“No,” he said with an amused shake of his head. “I’m sorry if I gave that impression, Ashton, but–”

“Ash,” I corrected. “Or Kincaid. The guys will call me Kinny, and they’ll get punched for it, but anything's better than my full name.”

“Ash,” he said, nodding once in understanding. “I just wanted to speak with you for a second, without the others.”

Aaaaand here we go.

Lecturing me about how things were going to go. Asserting his dominance over me in his coach role now, like it would make a lick of difference later.

Oh, Coach Reed was so right–I was going to love this guy!

“Coach Reed told me some things about you, and I just want to clear the air,” he said calmly, his dark eyes locked on my face in an oddly controlled way.

“I’m here to make you better. That’s not to say you’re bad now or that you need improvement–I’m here to refine your skills and make you as desirable as can be when you’re done here–that’s it. It’s a partnership–a relationship.”

“You tell me what you need, and I tell you what I need, and we meet somewhere in the middle.”

“Until I piss you off–”

“No,” he said sternly, slowly. “No until. I know I need to earn your trust, maybe more so than usual after your string of coaches, but I promise you, Ash–I just want you to succeed. I want all three of you to be the best you can be, but goaltending is a tough gig. I doubt Tommy and Jordy actually plan to pursue this as a career when they graduate, so I’ll still coach them, but my focus is you, Ash. ”

He was right. Thompson was a business major, and Jordy was taking over his dad's construction company–they just wanted something to do while they were in school.

That was part of what bugged me so much with other coaches–I was the only one here to play hockey and make a life out of it. I heard religiously about how improbable a feat that was, which only pissed me off more, but now this guy comes in and says he gets it?

That he just wanted to help?

Sure.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I trailed off, suddenly aware of the fact that I didn’t even know the guy's name–I must have tuned him out when he was introducing himself to the others.

“Coach Thayer,” he filled in for me…and made everything click.

He was Thomas fucking Thayer.