Chapter 2
Landon
The gate arm lifted as I rolled into the arena lot, and the security waved me through with a tip of his hat.
I pulled into the row closest to the players’ entrance and killed the engine, while Shawn’s SUV slid into the space beside me, Mason right after him.
Three doors opened, three gym bags came out, and just like that we were moving in the same direction.
“You catch the Kings game last night?” Shawn fell in on my left, swinging his bag higher up his shoulder.
“Why would I watch someone else play hockey?”
He snorted laughter. “To see what we’re up against, for starters.”
“The opposition should adapt to my game, not the other way around,” I said, and added a knowing wink for good measure.
Mason wore the same black sweats he always did on practice days, Surge logo worn thin at the knee. “You might want to at least pretend you know our standings.”
“Standings don’t mean anything until April.”
Shawn’s gaze shot to the huddle of fans crowding the entrance, growing more and more excited as we approached. “Well, it’s November, we’re nowhere close to where we need to be, and they sure as hell think that means something.”
“Fans love a meltdown,” I said with a shrug. “Gives them something to yell about.”
We crossed the painted lines of the lot, sneakers scuffing grit and old salt as the arena rose in front of us. I didn’t slow when I saw a cameraman and a reporter peel off from near the curb.
“Here we go,” I muttered under my breath, and had my game face firing on all cylinders in one second flat.
“Landon,” the reporter said, mic lifting, smile locked in.
She was cute, so that made it easier to overlook the way she’d shoved into my path.
“Rough start to the season. Tough loss to the Jets. There’s a lot of pressure on you this season, especially with everyone saying you’re the Surge’s ticket to making it two-in-a-row. ”
Shawn made a noise like he’d swallowed a laugh. Mason stopped walking altogether, arms folding, eyes on me now instead of the reporter.
“Pressure’s why I’m here,” I replied, easy as ever.
The cameraman leaned in a fraction, probably for that close-up. The reporter’s eyebrows ticked up, which meant she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. “So you don’t feel the weight of expectations?”
“I feel ice under my skates,” I said. “Everything else is just noise.”
Mason’s hand landed between my shoulder blades then, firm enough to redirect. “Practice. We’re gonna be late.”
We kept moving, and somehow the cluster at the doors seemed bigger than before. Fans pressed up against the railing, Surge jerseys layered over hoodies, phones already out. Kids, mostly. A few older faces mixed in, the ones who’d been around long enough to think that gave them a right to be here.
A boy with a fresh Surge hat shoved a puck through the bars. “Can you sign please?”
I took the Sharpie from the usher without breaking stride and scrawled my name across the rubber, flipping it back with a nod. Shawn was crouched, signing a stick blade, Mason keeping one eye on his watch as he autographed a few posters.
Another jersey, this one a little worn, sleeve stretched toward me. I signed that too. A phone followed, camera flipped, a girl grinning so wide it looked painful.
Then a voice cut through it, louder than the rest, pitched to carry.
“Enjoy it while it lasts. Last year was dumb luck.”
I glanced up. The guy wasn’t old, just bitter, patchy beard, cap pulled low like that hid anything. He wasn’t asking for an autograph. He just wanted a reaction.
“Luck runs out,” he added, once he knew he had my attention.
The kids went quiet. Shawn straightened, and Mason was already moving my way.
I gave the guy my best Sunday service smile. “Why don’t you put on a pair of skates and show us how it’s done, then?”
A couple of people laughed. Someone muttered something sharp and not friendly. But by then, Mason’s hand was back, steering me hard toward the door.
“Inside,” he said.
He kept his body between me and the railing as we passed through, ushering Shawn ahead, the doors swinging shut behind us and cutting off the noise. The sound changed immediately. Concrete, echoes, the thud of bags hitting the floor.
“You can’t mouth off at fans,” Mason said as we walked to the locker room. “You’ll have Holly so far up your ass, a hundred enemas won’t fix it.”
“Maybe it’s not a bad idea to set them straight now and again.”
Shawn shook his head. “I’d say you should know better, but then again, how could you?”
The locker room was already alive when we got there.
Music thumped from Tucker’s speaker. Sticks leaned in crooked rows.
Tape littered the floor near the stalls.
I dropped my bag, stripped down, pulled gear on in order without thinking about it.
That part was automatic. Around me, it was talk of the loss, the anniversary special events, traveling to Missouri so close after Thanksgiving…
I stayed out of it, and kept my head on the practice that was about to happen.
By the time we hit the ice, the banners were impossible to miss. Gold and blue fabric lining the rafters, dates stitched bold, reminders of what had been done here before I ever showed up. Faces of players past, names people said like prayers.
I didn’t slow under them.
McAvoy stood at center ice, whistle already in his mouth, eyes tracking us as we took our spots.
“First set,” he called. “Blue line to red, full speed. Pucks on the move. No coasting.”
I pushed off hard, legs burning right away, passing Shawn before we hit center, hearing his breath hitch as I opened the gap. The puck slid clean from my stick, tape to tape, back again, faster each stride. McAvoy’s whistle cut once, approving enough to keep me pushing.
We reset. Grayson skated past, captain’s C stitched heavy on his chest. “You hear the rumor? Granger’s supposed to be at the gala.”
Hunter whistled low. “His record is untouchable. Eight straight shut-outs.”
“History doesn’t play the game, boys,” I said, shimmying back and forth with the puck. “All it does is watch.”
“This one swallowed a philosophy pill for breakfast,” Shawn said, hiking a thumb in my direction. “You should’ve heard him outside.”
“What’s the tea party about? Did I call a break?” McAvoy blew the whistle, and I drove forward, already ahead of the thought, already chasing what came next.
“Just for that, you give me sprints, full ice. Go.” He circled on the spot, watching our form. “Then transition into breakaways. One-on-one, two-on-two, whatever it takes to get your heads out of your asses.”
I took off, my skates carving the ice. Mason, Shawn, and Grayson lagged, panting through the first set, while I was already halfway through the second sprint.
“Careful, Grandpa,” I called to Grayson. “You’ll pull a muscle if you try to keep up.”
He flipped me the bird and finished up without looking my way again.
Next drill, Coach had us weaving through cones with pucks, tight control, hard stops, slap passes on the move. I dipped low, dragging the puck between my legs, quick pull-backs, spin moves that had the defense almost colliding with each other just to catch me.
“Try not to embarrass yourselves,” I cackled, tapping the puck up and down on my stick as I skated backward. They exchanged looks, but Coach didn’t so much as bat an eye.
Drill three, he called for rapid-fire shooting. Hunter in the net, passes coming from all angles. I was stickhandling between two defensemen, one-timed a snap shot that hit the crossbar, then spun and sent a quick backhand to the other side. Goal.
“I’ll call Granger and tell him his record’s safe.”
Mason grabbed me just before I cut past the blue line to take my place in line and do it all again. “Take it down a notch. This is a team effort.”
“A team that’s nothing without me in it.” I pushed ahead in line, took another shot. Scored another goal.
They hated it, but if Coach didn’t care then neither did I. This game wasn’t about feelings. It was about winning, and doing what needed to be done to get that win.
I broke free again on a solo, eyes up, puck sliding perfectly off my stick as I flipped it into a high arc.
Left-hand snap, toe-drag fake, deked past Tucker in the corner, then spun and sent a cross-ice pass that Mason barely reached in time.
The flash of the net in my periphery? Delicious.
The others were catching up, gasping, sweating, and I was still skating like the whole rink was mine.
Then Tucker and I had the same idea about a loose puck in the neutral zone.
He went shoulder-in, but I went heavier.
The poor guy went sailing across the ice on his ass, and the puck was mine.
He looked to Coach, arms up, waiting for the lecture on the unnecessary hit.
But Coach moved to the next drill call without saying a word.
“Better luck next time, Tuck.” I extended a hand with my smirk fully engaged, but he swatted me away as he got to his feet unassisted. “So sensitive today. That time of the month?”
“Suck it, Cross,” he snapped, then skated off.
Final drill, and Coach had us running a two-on-two, keep-away with rapid-fire passing, then finish with shots from the slot.
I carried the puck like it was glued to my stick, spun through two defensemen, one quick snap to Hunter’s blocker side, then a fake and backhand flick to the other side.
Mason and Grayson followed the flow, trying to keep up, but I had the timing down to the millisecond.
Coach barked a few corrections, but I’d already reset for the next round, grin intact, adrenaline high.
At the end of it all, my lungs were on fire, legs zinging, the puck obeyed my every command, and I never felt better. “You look like you’re about to throw up. Should I grab a bedpan from medical?”
Donny, our new defender taking up Theo’s spot, grinned at me. His cheeks were flushed, and it looked like he was about two seconds away from passing out. “Why don’t you come over here and bend over? I’ll show you where I want to throw up.”
The others laughed, and Shawn even went so far as to cross the ice and high-five him.
“Touché, Donny, touché.”
We were all still shooting the shit when we stomped off the ice, and Coach rapped my helmet once, hard. He gestured aside when I looked at him, and I gave one last look at the guys disappearing down the tunnel before going over.
“I know things got a little sloppy on that last exchange, but the ice—”
“The best players know not to blame the ice when they mess up.”
I snapped my mouth closed, realizing this wasn’t just a usual check-in.
Coach fixed me with his famous stare-down, and went on.
“You’re a beast out there. I don’t need to tell ya.
But something you might not know since you’re only a season and a half into this…
No player’s beyond warming my bench, so you better watch yourself.
I won’t have that kind of attitude on the ice. ”
“There’s no attitude, Coach.”
“I didn’t ask for your input, Cross.” He glared at me, arms folded. “Now get your ass to the locker and gear down.”
He couldn’t see my smile as I started down the tunnel, helmet under one arm. Bench? Yeah, right.