Chapter 31
THEO
“Dude. Theo. Where is your shot, man?” I lift a hand to acknowledge Jordo’s comment as I skate back to the other side of the rink.
The power play drill we’re working on shouldn’t be a challenge for me.
Create the screen. Find the open lane. Pass the puck.
But my pass keeps going wide, which wrecks the whole play, and then we have to start all over again.
No player is ever going to hit every shot.
But I’m better than this.
At least, I should be better than this.
I skate back to the bench and pull off my gloves, then reach for my water bottle.
Carter comes over and steps off the ice, dropping his helmet onto the bench beside me.
“What’s happening out there, man?” he says.
There’s only concern in his voice, no judgment, but the comment still makes me prickly.
Half my fingers are numb, and my grip keeps slipping.
That’s what’s happening. But I’m not about to admit it out loud.
Carter will have Nico over here looking at my hand the second the words are out of my mouth, then they’ll pull me from the ice and probably send me to the hospital for more imaging, and that’s the last thing I need.
Coach didn’t play me in our first exhibition game last week.
I wouldn’t usually be concerned about that. Veterans sit out more than they play. But considering my injury, I expected Coach Kimzey to want me on the ice.
My performance today can’t be helping my case, which only makes me more frustrated.
Every time I see Becca, I’m reminded of just how much is riding on the start of this season.
“Nothing’s happening,” I say to Carter, finally answering his question.
“Right. Sure,” he says dryly. “So you’re missing passes you could make when you were still in juniors because everything’s fine?”
I clench my jaw. “I’ll find my shot,” I grind out. “I’m just out of practice.” Coach Kimzey skates over and locks eyes with Carter, who gives his head a quick shake, making Coach nod and retreat in the opposite direction.
That’s the level of Carter’s influence. He even has the coaching staff listening to him.
“How bad is the pain?” Carter asks.
“It’s manageable,” I say.
“On a scale of one to ten,” he says.
“It’s manageable,” I repeat, emphasizing the word so he recognizes he’d better stop pushing.
He glares at me, then tugs off his gloves and reaches for his hockey stick. He tosses it at me with enough force that I know he’s frustrated. “Grip it,” he says.
“Dude, I can hold a hockey stick.”
“Then show me.”
“Why? Because you’re a team captain?” I say, hating the way my voice sounds. Too sharp, too caustic. But I’m losing my grip here—figuratively and literally. The stakes have never felt so high, and I’ve never felt so incapable of just doing what I need to do.
Carter’s expression hardens. “Because I know you’re lying to me, and I want to know why.”
My eyes lift and scan the arena. Coach Kimzey has gathered the rest of the team on the opposite side, but Holly is at the goal with our defense coach, mask pushed up like he’s watching us.
I force a breath out through my nose as I glance up at Carter, then I pick up the stick, gripping it with my left hand. Except, I can’t fully close my fist. Without the glove as padding, my fingers can’t close the gap. My hand starts to tremble with the effort before I finally cave.
“It’s easier in the morning,” I say. “When I’m not so tired.”
“Dude. What are you doing? Why are you even trying to play right now? It’s no wonder you can’t make a shot.”
“It’ll get easier,” I insist. “I just need more time.”
“So take time,” he says. “Get better. Why are you pushing so hard right now? Does Nico even know how bad it is? You know how it works, man. Your spot’s still going to be here whenever you’re ready to come back.”
“That’s just it,” I say. “I’m not sure it will be.” I reach for my gloves and shove them back onto my hands.
“What does that mean?” Carter says. “What are you talking about?”
I take a slow, deep breath. Carter’s going to be pissed when he hears about my conversation with Shawn.
Mostly because I didn’t tell him about it immediately after it happened.
I don’t even know why I didn’t tell him.
I was preoccupied with Becca, but it was more than that.
It was shame. Frustration. Anger that it’s me they’re talking about trading and not him.
But I still have to tell him. He needs to know what’s truly on the line for me.
“Shawn called me when I was in Florida,” I say.
My brother frowns. “What about?”
I shrug. “Trade rumors. Front office talk about getting me off the books so they have the cap space to get a power forward good enough to replace Miles.”
Carter swears. “They wouldn’t do that.”
“I didn’t think they would. But according to Shawn, they’re the ones who brought it up. Which means I can’t be dispensable right now.” I reach for my stick. “No matter how badly it hurts, I have to keep playing.”
“Unless you play badly,” Carter says. “Which will do the opposite of what you want.”
I pull on my helmet. “Then I won’t be bad,” I say. Because what other choice do I have?
I push back onto the ice and skate toward my team.
Carter catches up with me just a few seconds later, grabbing my arm and tugging me to a stop.
“It’s the tightness at the end of your shot that you’re missing,” he says, his voice low.
He holds up his stick and shifts it forward, his wrist rotating barely an inch.
“The snap at the end. It’s probably your lack of grip strength.
But if you shoot wide on purpose, you might be able to fake it. ”
“Shoot wide?”
“Like, six feet wide,” he says. “I’ll see if we can run the play again, then I’ll make sure you’re passing to me. I’ll make sure I’m wherever you’re sending the puck, so it at least looks like you’re doing it on purpose.”
I nod. “Good. That could work.”
“I’ve got you,” he says. “But you have to be honest with Nico. You can’t fake it through a game, man.”
“I will. I’ll talk to him.”
With Carter working double to cover for me, I make it through most of practice without looking too inept. But then we end with a scrimmage, and Carter and I are put on different teams.
I’m on my own now.
My hand is throbbing, but it’s not the first time I’ve played through pain, so I dial in my focus and ignore the white-hot pain shooting through my hand and up my arm.
Two minutes in, I steal a puck from the opposing side and carry it behind the net.
I wait while my team moves into position, then I tighten my grip on my stick, wincing as another spasm makes my hand twitch, and skate up the boards.
I make a pass to Jordo that’s golden, exactly what it needs to be, then he sends it back as Sanders moves into position to score.
We make eye contact, then I send the puck flying, but I lose my grip mid-pass, and the puck skitters off my stick in the wrong direction.
Fly swoops in and grabs the loose puck, hauling it down the ice and slicing a goal over Holly’s shoulder and into the net.
I swear and toss my stick into the boards, where it cracks and splinters into two pieces.
Coach Kimzey blows his whistle. “Williamson. Take a break,” he says to me. “And let Nico take a look at that hand.”
I pull off my helmet and skate toward the bench. Sanders is already standing there, and he eyes me coolly. “Nice shot, Butter Fingers. Why don’t you just toss it to me next time?” His eyes drop pointedly to my left hand. “With your good hand.”
It’s a cheap shot—one that none of my teammates would ever make.
I lunge at Blake, gripping his jersey and giving him a solid shake. “You think that’s going to earn you any friends on this team?” I practically seethe.
“Is that what we’re supposed to be?” he says back, his demeanor icily calm in a way that reminds me of his older brother. “Friends?”
There’s a hint of something sincere to his question that pricks at my brain in a way I can’t quite sort out. And then I remember all at once.
We were supposed to hang out last weekend. I told him I’d call him, and I completely forgot.
I’m supposed to be stepping up. Thinking about how a captain might act. But I’ve been so focused on my hand, so stuck in my own head, I haven’t followed through on any of it.
I let go of Blake’s jersey and swear under my breath. But before I can say anything else, Coach Kimzey calls Blake back onto the ice, and Nico shows up behind the bench.
“I know you don’t want to, man, but we really need to talk about that hand.”