Chapter 3
Beckett
“Did you make it okay?” my agent asks over my headphones as I weave through the Denver airport.
“Yup,” I grunt. It’s… fine. I’m lucky the Yeti had a team apartment vacant that I could move into literally the same day.
Supposedly, it’s furnished and fully ready to go.
Which is why I only had to bring two bags with me.
One with my gear, and one that’s essentially just underwear and a suit to wear for the game on Saturday, in case the rest of my things from my old place don’t make it in time.
Not that I left much in my Florida condo.
I’ve never understood players who have loads of crap in their homes when we spend so much time on the road.
“Great,” I reply, certain it’ll be done. Logistics coordinators for hockey teams are like fucking magicians. I have no idea how they do it, but everything I need is just poof there.
“It will be great.” Vic is trying to remain positive despite knowing I’m pissed.
“Well,” I deadpan, “people have always told me I look good in ice blue.”
I can practically hear my agent roll his eyes through the phone. “I’m aware you’re not happy about the trade, Beck—”
“Name one client of yours who has ever been happy about a mid-season trade, Vic,” I demand.
“Mikey—he hated the left winger on the Tempest and wanted the fuck out. Look, you knew it could happen. The Cyclones wouldn’t agree to including an NMC in your contract.
We discussed it. Almost no players get full no-move clauses after thirty, even if they’re a franchise guy or a star goalie.
You assured me it didn’t matter what jersey you were wearing so long as you got to keep playing. ”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think I was going to be joining a new team mid-season.”
“Didn’t know you were so passionate about the Cyclones,” Vic says in my ear as I make my way to the correct floor for my ride.
“Just don’t want to have to go through all the new-player bullshit again.”
I don’t want to risk getting put on the IR if an overzealous doctor gets a little too anxious about my hip is what I really mean. But that’s not information my agent—or anyone else for that matter—needs to know.
“Beck, they got you on a plane hours after the contract was signed. There’s no way they’re planning to do anything other than throw your old ass out on the ice. They needed you like, yesterday.”
“I’m not fucking old, Vic.”
“In the world of mere mortals, true. When it comes to professional sports, you’re definitely flirting with it.”
The extra time I have to put in to keep up with my teammates seems to support that claim.
And it’s not just extra time on the ice.
My strength-and-conditioning regimen is a perfectly structured plan, delivering maximum benefit with the least harm to my body.
My recovery days are honed. My stretching routine would make a professional yoga instructor look like an amateur.
I eat only what I’m told, never allowing myself the cheat days I did in the past. But it will all be worth it if it keeps me on the ice.
I walk through Door 506 and spot a black pickup idling a few paces away.
“Thanks for that, Vic. I’ve got to go. They’re here. Really excited to make small talk with whatever intern they sent to pick me up.”
“Hey,” Vic says, and I slow down. “This is your chance, Kane. I know how badly you want that C on your chest like your dad had. The Cyclones weren’t going to give it to you, even if Guthry had retired before you.
Remember that when you show up to practice tomorrow.
They literally traded for you because they needed the leadership. Be the fucking leader.”
“You’re right,” I mumble. After hanging up with Vic, I notice for the first time that the man sitting in the front seat of the pickup staring at his phone isn’t some scrawny intern. No, if things go the way I want them to, it’s my new linemate, Evan Li.
“Li.” I tap on the window. He lifts his head, a smile forming as he rolls the window down. “Hey, Kane! Just a second. Larsen will help you with your bags.”
A big guy hops out of the backseat and sticks his hand out. “Matt Larsen.”
“You’re the rookie?” Grasping his hand, I try to remember the roster information I studied on the plane.
“Sure am. Let me throw your bags in the back for you.”
I shake my head, moving to the bed and heaving my gear bag over the side. “I’ve got it.”
Once we’re back in the car and on the move, I ask, “How did you two get chauffeur duty?”
“Coach asked whether anyone wanted to or if she should send the intern. Larsen volunteered, and I figured I’d drive since we need you to be alive to be of any use to the team,” Li jokes.
“That’s so unfair. I’m a fucking fantastic driver,” Larsen says from the back.
“Sure. As long as you believe speed limits are more suggestions and the point of driving is to see how many times you can cross the lines in the middle of the road.”
The rookie grins, his head leaning into the spot between the front two seats. “Is that not how you win the game?”
I chuckle as Li whacks his friend’s head.
“Plus,” Li adds, “we live in the team apartment building, too, so it was easy for us to be the ones to pick you up.”
We spend the rest of the drive chatting. It’s something I’d normally be annoyed by, but Vic’s parting words are still circling in my mind, reminding me that this could be my one chance to prove I deserve to be a team captain.
Li pulls his black pickup into an underground parking garage, handing me a packet with my key and apartment information. We drag my bags out of the truck bed, and Li silently grabs one before heading toward the elevator.
“My guy! Do you know who else lives on this floor?” Larsen asks as we step out of the elevator, still happily following as Li and I carry my bags down the wide hallway.
I shrug. “Literally just moving in, Rookie, how the fuck would I know?”
He chuckles. “Too true. And to be fair, I’ve lived here since the start of the season, and I only found out when I rode the elevator with her after the game the other night.”
“Oh, shit,” Li says, and I glance at him. “Really? I know she lives in the building, but I’ve never seen her here.”
“Children,” I interrupt as we reach the door with my number on it. “Who are we talking about?”
“The Ice Queen,” Larsen practically shouts at the exact same time Li replies, “Coach Blake.”
As if summoned, the door behind me opens. All three of us turn to stare as a tall woman walks out in black joggers and a Yeti mascot T-shirt. Her dark hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her eyes—they’re almost the exact same shade as the blue in the club’s logo.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
I mean, pretty. No. Good-looking. Fuck. What am I allowed to say about my head coach’s appearance? That she’s attractive?
Nothing. Almost assuredly, saying nothing is the right answer.
Her appearance is surprisingly something the internet articles failed to accurately capture when I was reading up on the plane about my new coach.
I’d heard the news about the first female head coach when she was brought on last year, but our teams haven’t met this season, so I hadn’t had a reason to care.
Since I learned I was coming to her team, I read a number of articles about her and her coaching style, but I clearly should’ve paid more attention to the pictures.
Or at least read a vanity piece or two about her.
There’s something vaguely familiar about her that I can’t seem to place.
“Shit.” Larsen steps slightly behind me, almost as if he’s trying to hide his bulking frame.
“Ah, Rookie,” she chides, and the smallest twitch of her lip makes me think she’s enjoying messing with the kid. “You think I haven’t heard you dumbasses call me Ice Queen before? Why do you think I make you do sprints so often?”
“Sadistic was my guess,” he mumbles, though when she chuckles, he gives her a small smile.
“Maybe a little.” The gleam in her eye tells me she thinks the assessment is amusing.
My college team had a female assistant coach, and she was the toughest person in the room at any given moment.
When I heard I was getting traded to the Yeti, some of the guys tried to offer condolences about being traded to her team.
However, after working with Coach Green in college, I have no doubt Coach Blake will be just as good as any other coach on the ice.
Hell, as sad as it is, she likely has to be better than her male counterparts for her to have made it this far.
“Anyway.” Coach Blake’s eyes finally meeting mine. “I didn’t realize they were moving you into this unit. I guess we’re neighbors now.”
“Yeah.” I hold out my hand. “Beckett Kane. Nice to meet you.”
She stares at my hand for a moment, and just as I’m about to awkwardly pull it away, she reaches out and shakes it, her grip surprisingly strong. Or, maybe not surprisingly, considering she’s a hockey coach.
“Coach Blake.” She looks at Larsen. “Not Elsie, never fucking Elsie.”
“Wait, I thought your first name was Finley?”
The rookie and Li are both laughing as Larsen explains, “No, Elsie, like Elsa, like—”
“Fucking rookies,” Coach Blake mutters, moving back into her apartment. “See you at practice, Kane,” she shouts as she shuts the door behind her.
“I cannot believe you’re living across the hall from Coach.”
The two men help me carry my belongings into the apartment, Larsen unreasonably excited to learn I have the exact same layout he does.
He then proceeds to ask me a million questions about whether I have a wife or girlfriend who will be moving in with me.
If my family is going to be coming out for my first game as a Yeti.
As I continue to tell him no, even when he almost pityingly asks if I have a goldfish or something, I realize how isolated I’ve let myself become.
And when they finally leave, taking their chaos with them, I’ve never felt more alone.