12 - Grayson
Grayson
The rink echoes with the sharp crack of pucks and Wyatt’s increasingly irritated yelling while Drew Barrett misses the top corner for the fourth time in a row. The puck ricochets hard off the glass behind the net, rattling through the otherwise empty arena.
“Jesus Christ,” Liam mutters beside me from the bench. “At this point, just hit the net. Let’s start there.”
“I heard that,” Drew shouts from the circle before firing another shot directly into Wyatt’s glove.
Wyatt points his blocker at him. “And stop shooting glove side every damn time. You’re predictable.”
“You’re trying to do everything at once,” I call from the boards, hands braced against the rail.
“I am doing everything at once,” the rookie shoots back, breathing hard as he circles toward center ice again.
Fair enough.
Losing Nathan this close to the playoffs screwed our lines harder than anyone wants to admit, and Barrett knows it. The kid went from sheltered third-line minutes to skating next to Liam against top defensive pairings almost overnight.
The talent is there. It’s the panic that’s the problem, which is the exact reason I arranged extra ice time. It’s better to have more chances to screw up now before seventeen thousand people are crowded in the stands watching him do it live.
Nathan snorts beside me, adjusting the sling around his neck. “He looks like he’s about three missed shots away from a breakdown.”
“That’s because he’s currently trying to replicate you,” I say, eyes focused on the ice.
Drew cuts toward the slot too late, and Wyatt knocks the puck away easily before slamming his stick once against the post.
“Earlier!” Wyatt barks. “If you do that in a real game, Shaw’s going to scream at you until you develop trauma.”
“I don’t scream,” I cut in.
All four of them look at me.
Liam raises an eyebrow. “You absolutely scream.”
“I motivate aggressively.”
Nathan laughs just as another puck ricochets off the glass behind us.
Drew skates by looking sweaty and frustrated while Wyatt chirps him the entire way.
“Your release is slower than my grandmother’s Wi-Fi.”
Drew glares. “Your grandmother’s dead.”
“I’m aware. Embarrassing for you.”
Liam chokes laughing, but I just shake my head.
“Again,” I call out, tapping my stick once against the boards. Then I glance at Liam. “Are you going to help the kid or did you come here to sit on your ass?”
Liam pushes off the bench with exaggerated offense. “I’m the only reason your power play functions.”
“That confidence would mean more if you’d backchecked this week.”
He flips me off before hopping over the boards and skating into position, muttering a smartass comment under his breath.
This is why I love being captain of the Blades. Veterans staying late for the kid drowning under pressure while pretending not to notice he’s drowning in the first place. There aren’t as many teams in the league with this kind of chemistry as people think.
I glance toward Nathan, who’s sprawled across the bench beside me in a hoodie and sling, one leg stretched across the rubber flooring while he watches practice with the intensity of a man being tortured.
I drop onto the bench next to him. “I know sitting on the sidelines sucks. Thanks for stopping in, though.”
“Can’t let the whole organization fall apart just because I’m out.”
“You’re very humble for someone held together by medical tape at the moment.”
“And you’re jealous because I’m finally getting the princess treatment.”
Before I can fire something back, Drew misses another shot high, and Wyatt throws both hands into the air, tossing his gloves.
“Oh my God,” Wyatt yells. “The net is four feet tall. Are you aiming for God?”
Drew groans loud enough to echo through the rink.
And that means it’s time to call it.
I jerk my chin toward the ice. “Call him off and play nice cop, please. Wyatt’s got the asshole part covered.”
Nathan pushes himself upright with a dramatic sigh. “Kid,” he calls out. “Get over here before the douchebag in goal makes you cry.”
Snow sprays beneath his skates as he stops in front of us, chest heaving.
Nathan gestures with his good arm. “You’re trying to force plays because you think you need to replace me to a T.”
Drew grimaces. “Kinda do.”
“No,” I interrupt. “You need to play your game, not Wilder’s. Just play your game well enough that we don’t lose structure.”
Nathan points at me. “That. Mr. Ray of Sunshine over here says annoying things, but occasionally they’re useful.”
I scoff, “What does that even mean?”
“You’re an optimist. You know, all positive and shit.”
“Not always.” I’m not sure why I’m arguing like it’s an insult, but the smirk on Nathan’s face has me feeling defensive.
“You organized an entire NHL team to show up at Wesley’s season opener wearing Boston Tempest jerseys so I could win my girl back after I mentioned my plan to wear her jersey.”
“The gesture needed to be grander.”
“Exactly my point.”
“That was mostly Liam,” I lie.
“That was not Liam.”
“It was at least thirty percent Liam.”
Nathan ignores me and looks back at Barrett. “Point is, Shaw only meddles in your life if he thinks you’ve got potential. So if he’s spending extra hours helping you, you’re doing fine.”
Drew’s expression eases. “Okay. Yeah.”
“That’s it for today,” I add. “We’ll see how this week’s games go and go from there.”
The rookie nods and heads toward the tunnel while Wyatt peels off his mask, sweaty hair sticking up in every direction.
“You didn’t need to be such a dick,” I tell him, tossing a water bottle his way.
He catches it. “What? Did you want me to suck his dick or something?”
“The fact that it’s either ‘be a dick’ or ‘suck a dick’ in your mind is concerning,” Liam says, shoulder-checking him as he passes.
We slide on our blade guards and make our way toward the locker room together, skates clacking against concrete once we step off the ice.
Nathan nods toward Barrett, who’s disappearing ahead of us. “Kid’s talented. Just scared to screw up.”
“Which ironically is why he keeps screwing up,” Liam adds.
Wyatt slings an arm carefully over Nathan’s good shoulder. “Meanwhile, this one’s become damn near unbearable after ten days off the ice.”
“You miss me.” Nathan leans and purses his lips for a kiss, prompting Wyatt to unhook his arm and step away.
“I miss your production. You as an individual, not so much.”
Nathan ignores him. “Home against Toronto in two days should be an easy win.”
I fling a towel at his head. “Why the hell would you say that out loud?”
Wyatt laughs because he knows exactly how psychotic my superstitions are. Same socks every game since rookie year. Same chicken alfredo before every home game because we won seven straight after eating it once.
Nathan just shakes his head. “I’m excited to watch the game in person. I miss being on the ice. If it weren’t for Wes, I’d be going crazy.
There’s an immediate shift in his expression when he says her name. Softer somehow.
“She’s been staying over a lot,” he continues. “Keeps pretending she’s not taking care of me, but yesterday I caught her googling anti-inflammatory meal prep recipes.”
Liam snorts. “That’s girlfriend behavior.”
“Right? She doesn’t do anything halfway,” Nathan says, looking deeply pleased with himself.
A bitter knot settles low in my stomach at the casual certainty in his voice.
I want that.
I’ve always wanted that.
The relationship. The partner. Someone who feels like home instead of temporary entertainment between road trips and games.
I’m the one who took relationships off the table for now. I did this to myself. But to be fair, none of my recent relationships felt the way Nathan looks right now. None made my voice go soft when talking about them.
“I miss that.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
The tunnel falls silent, and when I glance up to find all three of them staring at me, suspicion clouds their eyes.
“What about Bra-Gate?” Liam asks.
Wyatt barks out a quick laugh. “You did not just say Bra-Gate.”
“Yes, he did.” Nathan slows to a complete stop. “And no, we are not letting it go this time.”
“Okay, but seriously, Bra-Gate?” I ask with a grin tilting at the corner of my mouth, despite the conversation at hand.
“Yeah,” Liam says. “Random black lace bra in your bathroom. The mystery girl you refuse to talk about. Bra-Gate.”
Avery’s bra.
It’s my own fault. When I folded up her clothes that night, I couldn’t bring myself to grab the bra off the towel rack. Touching it felt like guaranteeing the image of her wearing it would forever live in my brain.
Though, to be fair, that image already lives there anyway.
I’d forgotten about it hanging in the bathroom until the guys came over after practice the same day to bitch about the previous night’s loss. Liam found it hanging there like evidence at a crime scene.
“We know you have a woman, Shaw,” Wyatt says.
“I do not have a woman.”
If only they knew who the bra belonged to. Actually, that would be worse.
“So what?” Liam asks, eyes gleaming. “The bra was yours?”
“No, you little shit.” I rub a hand over my face, scrambling for an excuse. “It was a one-night stand.”
“You?” Wyatt’s eyebrows raise. “A one-night stand?”
“You wouldn’t come out with me. I got drunk. One-time thing.”
The lie rolls off my tongue with ease, but sinks like a stone in my stomach. I don’t like reducing Avery to that, but I have a feeling that telling anyone she’d been drunk out of her mind would piss her off more. Besides, nothing actually happened, so no one will ever know that the bra is hers.
They accept that answer for now, and Liam launches into a story about some one-night stand he had last month with a wannabe influencer while I drift into my own thoughts.
The truth is, Avery’s been stuck in my head for days in very inconvenient ways.
The image of her sitting barefoot in my kitchen wearing my shirt.
The fact that she’d been blackout drunk alone with some random guy who clearly didn’t care whether she could stand upright or not.
Every time I think about it, irritation flares beneath my ribs.
Not at her.
Okay, maybe partially at her.