Six
The puck settles dead-center on my tape.
I fire it past our goalie, Karl Forsberg, beating his butterfly stance with a snap shot so hard it makes the water bottle explode off the top of the net.
Practice goal. Meaningless. Still feels good to hear that satisfying ping as it hits the crossbar and drops in.
“Jesus, Cas, it’s just a drill.” Forsberg retrieves the puck, his wide blue eyes blinking with a flash of youthful anxiety behind his cage as he shakes water from his blocker. “Save something for the Snipers this weekend.”
I skate past the young Swede without acknowledging the comment. My legs burn from the two-hour practice, but I push harder into the next drill, cutting through defenders with unnecessary force.
When Elias Andersson tries to angle me off, I drop my shoulder and drive through him, sending the veteran defenceman sprawling onto the ice.
“What the fuck, Castellano?” He scrambles to his feet, shoving me as I circle back. “We’re on the same team.”
“Then keep up,” I mutter, skating away.
Coach Wilson’s whistle pierces the air. “Castellano! Dial it back. Save the hits for the Snipers.”
My fingers flex. Perfect. Another lecture I don’t need.
I skate toward the bench and slam my stick against the top of the boards, the sharp crack echoing through the cold arena. Thompson watches me from the face-off circle, his eyes narrowed with that knowing look. Like he can see right through me.
Coach shakes his head. “Alright, bring it in,” he barks, waving us off. “That’s enough for today. Remember, we’ve got Seattle tomorrow. Rest up, stay focused.”
I stay out to skate one more slow, punishing lap, letting the rest of the roster head down the tunnel first.
By the time I push through the double doors, the loud post-practice banter is in full swing.
But the second my skates hit the rubber floor matting, the conversation drops dead.
Every guy in the room develops an intense interest in his skate laces.
I ignore the shift, stripping off my gear with sharp, angry movements.
I can feel the judgment radiating off them, but no one has the balls to say a word.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the penalty box,” Holt says, breaking the quiet.
A few guys chuckle, but the sound dies quickly when I don’t react.
“Seriously, Cas, what’s with you today?” Thompson asks, sitting down beside me. “You nearly took Andy’s head off out there.”
I yank a skate lace loose, the nylon biting into my fingers.
“I’m playing like we actually want to win a Cup,” I snap.
“I had the pleasure of watching last spring’s playoff reruns on loop at the bar the other night.
You guys might have survived Game 7 against the Marauders, but you got bullied out of the playoffs because nobody on this roster wants to get physical.
If we want a ring, start playing the body. ”
“Playing hard is one thing. Playing like you’ve got something to prove is another.” Thompson lowers his voice. “This about Westfield? Or something else?”
“Nothing to do with Westfield,” I snarl, throwing my skates into my bag.
It’s half true. Westfield and my father came up through college hockey together. Same line, same ceiling—until Dad’s knee went and only one of them kept climbing. Westfield got an empire out of the game. Dad got a limp and a friend who pays for things. I was the retry.
Andersson walks by, still looking pissed. “Maybe it’s that bartender. She’s still got him rattled.”
My head snaps up. “The fuck did you say?”
“The redhead from The Penalty Box.” Andersson smirks. “She’s living rent-free in your head, bro. Guess serving you that bottom-shelf piss really did a number on your ego.”
“That’s bullshit,” I growl, standing up. “Some random bartender isn’t affecting my game.”
“No?” Thompson raises an eyebrow. “Because you’ve been a complete ass since that night at Ivy’s bar. More than usual.”
The locker room has gone quiet, everyone pretending not to listen while hanging on every word.
“I don’t give a shit about Ivy Hayes,” I say, the name feeling strange and heavy on my tongue. “She’s just some local bartender who thinks she’s a hotshot now that she managed to ink a probationary deal with the Wolves.”
The words echo in the dead-quiet room. Thompson holds my gaze, an irritating mix of disappointment and pity settling in his eyes.
“Sure,” he says. “Just some bartender. That must be why you’re snapping heads off on the ice and shouting about her in the locker room.”
“I’m not—” I cut myself off, aware of how defensive I sound. “Look, if I’m distracted by anything, it’s having to babysit rookies who can’t keep up.” I glance pointedly at Forsberg, who flushes red.
O’Neill shakes his head. “Wow. And here I thought your reputation was blown out of proportion.”
That stings more than it should. I’ve worked hard to shed my prima donna image, but right now, I’m living up to every story they’ve heard.
“Whatever.” I grab my towel and head for the showers, needing to escape the judgment in their eyes.
Under the hot spray, I try to wash away the irritation that’s been clinging to me for days. It’s not about Ivy. It can’t be. She’s nothing—a blip, a minor inconvenience. The fact that I can’t remember our supposed previous encounter just proves how insignificant it was.
I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pound my shoulders. Maybe Thompson’s right. Maybe I am rattled. Not by her, but by the nagging feeling that I’m missing something important. Something that could come back to bite me.
By the time I get back to my locker, I’ve taken my time, hoping to find the room empty. No such luck. Most of the crowd is gone, but Thompson, Forsberg, and a few others are still pulling on hoodies and stuffing gear into bags.
O’Neill catches my eye and claps his hands together, the sound echoing in the half-empty space. “Righty-o, this is grim. We are not leaving on this note.” He gestures towards the door with his thumb. “First round’s on me at the Box. Let’s clear the air.”
My gut clenches. “Not interested.”
Thompson pauses, his bag half-zipped. “Come on, Cas. It’s the team bar. We’re supposed to show our faces, remember? New ownership, new image, all that bullshit.”
“Yeah,” O’Neill chimes in, grabbing his keys. “Plus, you owe Forsberg a beer after that display on the ice. A public apology wouldn’t hurt, either.”
I shove my shower stuff into my bag with more force than necessary. “I’m not coming.”
The finality in my tone makes both of them stop. They exchange a look—the kind that says Ah, there it is.
“So it is about the bartender,” O’Neill says, his jovial mask slipping to reveal a knowing smirk.
“It has nothing to do with her,” I grit out, my voice tight. “I just want to go home.”
“Right. And I’m sure your sudden aversion to the team’s official watering hole is just a coincidence,” Thompson says, his tone dangerously calm. “Look, we’re going. You can come with us and act like a professional, or you can bail and let everyone think you’re scared of a bartender.”
He zips his bag the rest of the way, the sound sharp and definitive. He’s cornered me, and he knows it. Showing up is painful, but backing down now would be admitting defeat.
I drag a hand over my face, the frustration simmering. “Fine,” I grit out. “One drink.”
O’Neill claps me on the shoulder as we head for the exit. “That’s the spirit.”
His cheerfulness is annoying. I grind my teeth as we step out into the sharp mountain air. I’m walking into her territory, on her terms. And I feel like I’m already skating on a two-man disadvantage.
The Penalty Box is busier than I expected for a Tuesday evening.
The crowd of locals mingles with what looks like half our team—Forsberg’s already nursing a beer at a corner table, Holt’s deep in conversation with some guy in a Vancouver Vanguards jersey, and a few other guys are scattered around, looking relaxed. Normal. Like they belong here.
I don’t.
“See?” I mutter to Thompson as we weave through the bar. “Told you this wasn’t a big deal.”
The lie tastes bitter, but I sell it with a cocky grin. My shoulders roll back, chin up—the same posture I use when stepping onto away ice in front of hostile crowds. Just another rink. Just another game.
But then I catch her eye across the room.
Ivy freezes mid-pour, the neck of the amber bottle hovering over the rim of the glass.
Her eyes go wide, a quick, sharp inhale lifting her shoulders.
But the shock only lasts a second. I watch her swallow it down and rebuild her face from the outside in.
Whatever just happened, she’s decided I don’t get to see it.
She finishes the pour without breaking eye contact, lifting her chin in a silent, icy challenge.
My pulse kicks up a notch.
Thompson nods toward four empty stools. “Perfect timing.”
We claim our spots, and I choose the one directly in Ivy’s line of sight. If she wants to play this game, I’m going to make her work for it.
She pivots away from us, all bright smiles and professional charm as she serves the customers flanking our little group.
A middle-aged guy in an Edmonton Eagles jersey gets the full treatment—eye contact, a laugh at his terrible joke, even a playful shoulder tap when she slides his beer across the bar.
“Be right with you guys!” she calls over, voice honey-sweet.
Thompson gives her a thumbs-up. Andersson scrolls through his phone. O’Neill drums his palms on the bar, keeping time with the frantic, driving guitar riff of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” filtering through the jukebox.
And I watch her ignore us.
She wipes down the same spot on the bar top for a solid ten seconds. Reorganizes the cocktail bitters that are already aligned. Takes her sweet fucking time checking inventory on a clipboard, the cap of her pen tapping a rhythmic, dismissive beat against her lower lip as she counts.