Chapter 7
ALEX
The locker room is empty. I’m surprised. Shouldn’t the other guys be here changing? Am I late? I check the clock. No. I managed to get myself here on time.
The empty locker room is freaking me out, though.
For one, it’s much smaller and plainer than the locker rooms I’m used to, and it only serves to drive home the point that I’m in a much lesser league, and yet I’m still way out of my comfort zone here.
The arena is very nice. It’s only a few years old, and they had a huge budget. It’s just small. Really small. It seats a third of the number of people the Grays’ stadium can seat.
The ceilings are lower, the hallways narrower, there are fewer windows, and there’s less…shine. There are fewer fancy embellishments, less glitz.
None of that matters, of course. It just makes me feel a little claustrophobic. Or something.
For another, I realize that most of my socializing, conversation, time off the ice with my teammates happens in the locker room. Being in here alone is very odd.
I head for an empty locker—there are several—and toss my duffel onto the floor. I drop onto the bench and stare into the empty space.
I think I’m nervous. Holy shit. I’ve never been nervous about hockey before.
I’ve been revved up for a game for sure. I’ve felt adrenaline, anticipation, an I-want-this-one-to-go-well excitement, of course. But I’ve never been nervous about a practice. I can play hockey in my sleep. Everything about it is practically instinct at this point.
But I don’t think it’s the hockey, exactly, that I’m jittery about.
I’ve never started with a new team before.
Not since I came to play for the Grays at age nineteen, and that almost doesn’t count.
Declan recruited me. Everyone was excited to have me come.
I was a hot shot, at the top of my game, and better than anyone else anyone was recruiting.
And I was too young to know that I shouldn’t have been that cocky.
But the next several years did nothing to quell that confidence.
I never gave anyone reason to believe I was anything less than the best.
But that was before the injury. Before I realized I’m not invincible. Before other people surpassed me. Before people started talking about me in the past tense.
Now I am not only starting with a new group of players, I’m definitely not at one-hundred percent. I’m not the star I once was. And I’m starting over in a place that doesn’t want me.
Nora does.
That thought echoes through my head and settles in my chest.
Yeah, she fucking does. Nora wants me here. She needs me. She said so herself.
That makes me shove up from the bench and start dressing for practice. Fuck these nerves. I’m going out to play hockey in podunk Louisiana for a team that has a swamp wolf as a mascot for fuck’s sake. I’m fine.
Several minutes later, I make my way out of the locker room and down the hallway toward the ice. As I near the rink, I finally hear voices. At least I’m not going to be alone on the ice.
But now I’m faced with another first. Feeling strange about being the last to arrive to a party. That has never bothered me before. I don’t mind making an entrance.
Man, fuck feeling anxious. I hate it.
You’re Alex fucking Olsen. You’re a professional hockey star. You won the Cup last year.
They pay you millions of dollars to slap a puck around on the ice.
I grin to myself as Nora’s words come back to me. But she’s not wrong.
And Nora wants you here so much she dropped everything and sped to New Orleans to save you from the Old Man Posse.
I take a deep breath and skate out onto the ice with a big smile.
Several bodies turn in my direction, and one guy calls, “Hey! Alex is here!”
That causes everyone else to turn toward me as I skate up.
I give the group a grin. “Hey…everybody.” There are two women in the group. “I’m Alex.”
The guy who called out extends his hand. “We know.” His grin is large and genuine. “I’m Beckett. Beckett Moore. Welcome.”
Gratefully, I take his hand. “Hey, nice to meet you.”
I recognize him from the laminated page Nora gave me. He’s the left-winger for my team, the Revelers.
There was a page for each player on each team. There are two teams. My sister has a league, not just a hockey team.
“Well, the Revelers need someone to play against,” she’d said when I’d looked confused.
I mean…yeah. But why not play against other FPHL teams?
But then Nora had distracted me—her biggest talent, it seems—by handing me a binder.
“Everything you need to know is in here,” she’d said with her pretty smile and those big brown eyes shining.
All I could think was, she’s your girlfriend now.
No, my brain doesn’t put “fake” in front of girlfriend. I’m just all in on this dating Nora Delaune thing, it seems.
Which made her handing me a binder of things I need to know about my new team and flipping to the first section full of laminated pages, one for each player on the Revelers and the Rascals, and saying, “You can study up on everyone before practice” not really register until she’d left Astrid’s office and the little cloud of wildflower scented air and I-get-to-kiss-her-again thoughts cleared.
So, I’d gone through the pages.
All twenty-four players. Each team has only twelve players, significantly fewer than a typical pro team. Each of these teams has a mix of ages, hockey backgrounds, and each has one woman, which is cool. Ingrid Archer is the left wing for the Revelers, and Quinn Trahan is the center for the Rascals.
“We’re thrilled to have you,” Beckett says.
“Thanks. Sorry, I’m a little late.”
My nerves quiet a little, and I take in details.
Like the fact that they are not actually practicing yet.
Which I guess is a good thing. I didn’t miss anything.
But no one seems actually dressed for hockey practice.
They’ve all got skates on, but there are no pads, no shin guards, no helmets.
There aren’t even sticks or pucks anywhere.
They all look like they just showed up for a day of ice-skating.
Now I feel like a dumbass, and I’m not sure why. Other than the fact that I am clearly dressed for practice in full gear with a hockey stick in hand.
Are they hazing me? Possible. And that would be fair. They’ve all been together since I don’t even know when. Some of them have been playing together as teammates from the previous FPHL team. I am sure they’ve been practicing together all summer.
“So yeah, I know I’m late to join and catch up with everything. And most of you probably know about my injury. But I can assure you, I’ve been working out, and working hard on coming back. I promise I’m bringing my full game and will work as hard as everyone else,” I say.
Someone snorts, and I turn toward the dark-haired, muscled, tattooed man.
I recognize him right away. This is Lawson Landry.
He played in the big leagues for a couple of years.
He was cut from his team—something that almost never happens—after he beat the absolute shit out of one of his own teammates at a bar one night.
I knew about that without reading his binder page.
Everyone in hockey knew about that. He sent a teammate to the hospital.
But the page had told me that his extended family is from this area and that he’d come back here to be close to them after his career imploded.
“Your fifty percent is better than anyone’s one-hundred percent down here. Nobody’s worried about that,” Lawson says.
“Hey,” someone grumbles.
“Real nice, Landry,” someone else says.
“Hey, he’s not the only Landry,” a big man with a full beard and long hair says, grinning. “Call him Outlaw so we don’t get mixed up.”
Outlaw was the nickname Lawson picked up during his relatively short stint with the pros and, according to stories, was accurate. The fact that he didn’t even last a full season with the Dallas Dragons makes me think most were.
“Oh sure, Zeke,” someone else says. “You and Lawson are so much alike.”
The big man laughs. “Just don’t want to risk it.” He claps Lawson—his cousin, I guess?—on the shoulder.
Lawson rolls his eyes.
“We appreciate what you’re saying, Alex,” Beckett jumps in, shooting Lawson a frown. “But yeah, none of us are worried about you catching up.”
“Well, it seems I missed practice,” I say, looking around the group.
“Oh, you thought you were coming to hockey practice?” Zeke asks.
I nod. “Well, yeah.”
“Nah, this is a dance lesson,” Beckett says with a grin.
My brows arch. “A dance lesson?” My gaze drops to his feet. “On skates?”
“It's a choreography rehearsal,” Lawson says.
“That’s what I said.” Beckett shrugs.
“It’s not dance class,” Lawson says, turning toward Beckett. “We also have a couple of fights choreographed. A couple of you have choreography for how you come onto the ice. There’s intermission stuff.”
Beckett also turns to face Lawson more fully. “It’s all set to music. Like a dance.”
“Does your sister know that you’re referring to her choreography as dancing?”
Beckett frowns. “How about you don’t worry about my sister?”
“Well,” I jump in as the tension between the men climbs quickly. “Clearly, I’m here at the wrong time. Sorry to interrupt.”
Lawson looks back to me. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” I ask. Trepidation slithers down my spine. Fuck, I don’t like trepidation either.
Lawson’s scowl eases, almost as if he’s now entertained. “This is what you’re here for.”
I shake my head. “No one said anything about choreography or…dancing.” I shake my head harder as they all start to smile. “I don’t dance.”
Someone chuckles. “Oh, you think you’re here for real hockey.”
Beckett shakes his head. “This is real hockey. It’s just got… embellishments.” He grins at me. “It’s fun. Seriously.”
The trepidation definitely grows. What are they talking about? “Embellishments?” I don’t want to know. I’m not sure how I know that, but I do.