Chapter 8
LIAM
At practice and at games, I paid almost zero attention to the people behind the glass.
I loved fans, but I’d learned long ago to ignore anyone and anything outside the rink because I needed to focus on the game.
Don’t read the signs. Don’t make eye contact.
Don’t acknowledge that a world exists past the boards.
The one exception I made was kids. During practice and warmups, I always found a few kids and tossed them pucks. Their smiles were the best, and they always clung to their pucks like they’d just been given the coolest treasures in the world.
This morning, three kids were gathered by the glass during practice. I scooped up enough pucks for each of them, then glided over to where they were standing.
The way their eyes lit up—that was the highlight practice most days, today included.
I smiled back and tossed the pucks over one at a time. The second one took a couple of tries—it kept getting hung up in the netting—but it finally went over. The third followed without much work. All three kids clutched their new pucks and bounced with glee.
I grinned and tapped my glove on the glass.
Just as I was about to skate away to continue warming up, someone in the stands caught my eye. I looked and…
Oh. Fuck.
Kanes hadn’t told me his dad was back in town.
There he was, though, sitting four rows back, hands tucked into the front pocket of a black Pittsburgh Phantoms hoodie. He was talking to someone else… but then he wasn’t.
He was staring right back at me, mouth still open as if he’d stopped mid-syllable.
Our eyes locked. Oh, hell. I’d thought about him way more than I should have ever since we’d sat through those games back in October.
And he was just as hot in jeans and a hoodie as he’d been in a suit.
Fuck me. I was supposed to skate after laying eyes on him?
Skate, and play hockey, and be the captain… how?
Thank God, a whistle broke the spell before I stared at him for a conspicuously long time.
I jerked my attention away from him and back to skating, and I couldn’t figure out why my heart was beating so fast as I joined my teammates by the whiteboard. What the hell? I shook myself and tried like hell to focus on the drill Coach Miller, our offensive coach, was describing.
Halfway through the description of the drill, I realized I’d been concentrating so hard on concentrating… I’d missed most of what he was saying. Fuck. That wasn’t good.
Lucky for me, the diagram he’d drawn on the board was a familiar one. I recognized this as a zone entry drill he ran us through frequently. Awesome—bullet dodged. He liked to break out completely new drills, though, so I’d damn well better pay attention for real next time.
I made it through the drills, thank God. Well, kind of. On the first run-through, I passed to Temo, and he clearly wasn’t ready for it. I knew I’d screwed up even before Coach Miller blew the whistle.
“Center, defenseman, right wing,” he barked.
“Sorry, Coach,” I called out, and we set up again. Whoops.
Second time, I got it right, and after that, my line was fine. Third and fourth, also fine.
Coach Miller was satisfied with all the various groups who’d run through, but Coach Dahl stepped up.
“Kanes, switch out with Craws.” He gestured at Chris and my left winger. As the wingers swapped places, the coaches exchanged nods. Then Coach Miller blew his whistle, and we were off again.
I could immediately see why Coach Dahl had made the switch.
Chris had played on my line off and on during training camp and the preseason, but Coach hadn’t been quite ready to move him up to stay.
He and I had been discussing it for the last several days, though, and he’d apparently decided now was the right time to drop the hammer.
Today, Chris was much stronger and more confident than he’d been those few weeks ago.
He’d been steadily moving up in the lines as he’d gained confidence, and he was on a seven-game point streak.
Only made sense to start considering him for the top line.
As for Craws, he was hardly in need of a demotion, and I could see some disappointment coming off him as he was slotted next to Andersson and Haavisto.
But I knew Coach would pull him aside after practice and tell him what we’d discussed last night—that Craws, Andersson, and Haavisto would make for an intensely physical line that could body people around during offensive plays.
My line—Temo, Chris, and myself—were all smaller.
At exactly six foot, Chris had three inches on me and four on Temo, but he played more like we did—relying on speed and agility over brute force.
All three of us were perfectly capable of throwing people around and slamming them into the glass, but that wasn’t our strongest strategy as a line.
Coach and I had talked about it at length, and we’d concluded that having two top lines—one that was all about speed and maneuvering while the other was a juggernaut of sorts—would be a solid offensive strategy.
While Craws absolutely deserved first line minutes, his talents would work better in line with Andersson and Haavisto.
Just to be sure he understood that, I didn’t wait for Coach to pull him aside. Instead, I skated up next to him as we were all cooling down after practice had ended.
“Hey, man.” I put a hand on his back. “Just so we’re on the same page—you’re not getting demoted. Got it?”
He pursed his lips, gazing down at the ice, but he nodded. “Yeah. I got it.” He clearly wasn’t thrilled about it, though.
“Look, Coach told me he doesn’t want a first and second offensive line. He wants 1A and 1B lines.”
That got his attention. “He does?”
I nodded. “Listen.” I halted, and he did too. We faced each other as our teammates skated lazily around us. “You’re a spectacular forward. You’re on pace for a career high season, you know?”
Chewing his lip, he nodded.
“Right, so no one’s looking to demote you. But can you imagine the damage you’ll be able to do alongside Andersson and Haavisto?”
His forehead creased. “What do you mean?”
I chuckled. “Dude, look at the way you three play. You’re all fast, but you’re also massive—you can bowl right over just about anyone. So putting all three of our most enormous forwards on the same line? Man, they’re going to need a Zamboni to stop you.”
That got a laugh out of him, and some tension unwound in his neck and shoulders. “Okay, I guess I can see that.”
“You’ll still be getting close to first line minutes. Don’t worry.”
He relaxed a bit more and nodded slowly. “Okay. I mean I didn’t think he was punishing me or anything. It just…”
“It always feels like it when you get bumped down a line. But Coach might even have your line start some nights.”
“Seriously?”
I shrugged, ignoring the twinge in my still-bitchy shoulder. “Depending on who we’re up against. We play Dallas soon, and their top line can’t play defensively to save their lives. Put them against the three of you and our top D-pair?” I whistled. “They’re kinda fucked.”
At that, his uneasy expression shifted to a wicked grin. “Ooh, we’ll mow right over them.”
“Exactly.” I clapped his shoulder. “Trust me—this will be a good arrangement.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Thanks, man.”
“Don’t mention it.”
With that, I left him to finish his cooldown routine, and I headed back to the locker room for a shower.
Once I was alone, I released a long breath.
The captaincy was always a heavy responsibility, but some days I definitely felt the pressure more than others.
Keeping feathers unruffled wasn’t my favorite part of it, that was for sure, but I thought I was pretty good at it.
It helped that this situation had been a relatively easy one. It was a hell of a lot easier than those times when someone was getting demoted. Or when they were being healthy-scratched. Or when they were this close to being sent down or put on waivers. I did not relish those conversations at all.
Came with the territory, though, and my teammates must’ve been pleased with how I’d handled it, since they’d voted me their captain for the tenth year in a row. No pressure, or anything.
The shower washed away the stink of hockey while the heat relaxed some tense muscles in my neck and back.
I’d have to ice my shoulder when I got home; my physical therapists and trainers had warned me it was going to be a bear long after I was reactivated, and they hadn’t been joking. A separated shoulder was bullshit.
Eh. Could’ve been worse. An old teammate from major juniors who now played in Los Angeles was on long-term injured reserve for a torn MCL. My former linemate who’d been traded to Toronto two seasons ago broke his arm last week.
Me? I just had a cranky-ass shoulder that wasn’t going to forgive me any time soon for slamming into the boards a little too hard at just the wrong angle.
And having watched the replay, I was just grateful that Boston’s beast of a defenseman had been able to react the way he had.
He’d ended up falling at a weird angle and hit the ice pretty hard, but the alternative had been crashing into me from behind.
I’d happily take the perpetually sore shoulder over what could’ve happened to my spine or head.
I shivered, goose bumps prickling up under the hot water as I rolled my stiff shoulders.
I’d been lucky—I’d played this sport most of my life, and though I had a laundry list of injuries and some near constant pain as a result, I’d never had anything serious.
Like, nothing life-altering or career-threatening.
A mild concussion here and there. The separated shoulder.
Two core muscle surgeries. The kinds of fractures that “there isn’t much we can do about except let it heal”—four different ribs over the course of my career, plus my cheekbone. 0/10, do not recommend.
All things considered, I couldn’t complain too much.