Chapter Nine Distracted
JACYE
I make it back to Denver in time for our game Sunday.
Despite our win, I’m in a weird mood Monday when I go in for practice.
Walking down the stadium’s wide corridor toward the locker room, I’m in a bit of a daze.
The team is as energetic and loud as ever as we gear up for practice, but I stay quiet as my thoughts swirl.
No one says anything, because it’s not really unusual for me to keep to myself before we hit the ice, but today I’m barely paying attention to anyone else around me.
Even as I make my way onto the ice of the arena to start drills with the team, surrounded by the empty stands, I can’t get all the criticism my family laid on me at dinner out of my head.
Dad, Grandfather, and Ryan are all on my case.
Ryan especially.
Why now? Why is he pushing so hard to get me out of the lineup for CEO and primary shareholder of the company?
What’s his angle? He wasn’t always such a pain in the ass.
When we were kids, he looked up to me. Followed me around like a puppy and wanted to do everything I did.
I’m not sure when things started to change, exactly, but as we got older, things between us got competitive, and not in a healthy way.
He went from a little boy wanting to copy my every move to a young man wanting to show me up at every opportunity.
I don’t think it helped when Grandfather started paying so much attention to me when I got to high school. He wanted to start preparing me to take over the company early, and focused a lot on me, leaving Ryan on the sidelines a bit. I can only imagine how bitter that’s made my brother.
Regardless, on a purely professional level, Ryan has his strengths, but running a business isn’t one of them.
He’s much more concerned about the way people perceive him and his reputation than anything else.
Everything has to feed his vanity, and the only reason he wants the company is to boost his own ego.
He wants it for the sake of him, not for the sake of the company.
Still, he can put on a good show and since he’s around Dad and Grandfather more than I am, I’ve no doubt he can figure out ways to manipulate them into taking his side.
He’s already got Dad. Grandfather’s the holdout, and ultimately the only one who matters.
If I’m going to hold onto his favor and support, I need to give my A-game at all times.
Hockey is my passion, but I can’t do it forever. The company is my great-great-grandfather’s legacy, and I want to be the one to carry it into the future.
I step onto the ice, and as I fly forward—the scrape of my skates echoing through the stadium — all of these anxieties fall off my back.
For now, this is where I'm meant to be, with my teammates beside me, the cold air stinging my lungs as my muscles grow hot and flex beneath my skin.
We warm up, tracing tight circles around the net.
“Line drills!” Coach’s voice booms across the rink. We line up on the blue line, five deep, and I’m somewhere in the middle. “Hard down and back. Keep your heads up!”
The whistle shrieks and we’re off. My legs burn, blades biting deep as I drive forward.
Jensen’s a few strides ahead of me, perfectly balanced, his big body cutting sharp turns like it’s nothing.
His green eyes flash as he scans the ice, and I see him smirk beneath his brown beard.
I push harder, lungs catching fire—but my thoughts snag.
Ryan having me followed… Dad tearing into me about my private life… the pressure of knowing I have to be even more careful about what I do on my own time…
Sutton’s sweet moans as I fucked her under the moonlight…
I reach the far line, pivot, and nearly lose my edge. Carson, who’s next to me, gives me a surprised look, his blue eyes going wide.
“You good, man?” he asks, then blows a lock of his shaggy dark hair out of his face.
I nod and keep going. “I’m good, man.”
Carson shrugs, and we’re right back to the game. I can convince Carson I’m okay—he’s a chill dude who takes these statements at face value—but I better not fuck up around Wilder or Jenson, or they’ll see right through me.
I make it back to the start, chest heaving, and drop into the next drill.
Passing. We pair off—quick tape-to-tape passes down the length of the rink.
I’m partnered with Wilder, looking every bit the lumberjack with his giant body, shaggy dark beard and hair.
Wilder shouts, “Heads up!” and sends the puck flying.
It smacks my stick, but my grip’s too loose. It bounces off the blade and skitters away.
“C’mon, Jayce!” Coach snaps. “Wake up out there!”
My jaw locks. I nod, trying to shake it off, but my pulse spikes.
Another rep. This time I catch it clean, but the second pass I send rockets too high.
Jensen glances over from the next line, eyebrows lifted.
He doesn’t say anything, but his Captain look is enough.
I’m fucking up and everyone’s noticing, Carson included.
I dig the tip of my skate into the ice, frustration bubbling just under the surface.
We move into shooting drills next. I take my place in the rotation, watching one-by-one as pucks slam against Carson’s pads or ring off the posts. When it’s my turn, I circle wide, grab the feed, and rip a slap shot. It clangs off the crossbar and flies high. Again. Another miss.
“Keep it low!” Wilder calls. “You got this, bro.”
I breathe through my nose, reset, shoot again. This one hits Carson square in the chest. My stick feels heavier with every attempt. I know I’m better than this, but my focus is shredded.
Then comes the scrimmage. Blue jerseys versus yellow.
I’m on blue. The whistle blows and chaos fills the ice—sticks clashing, blades carving lines across the surface.
I chase the puck into the corner, body slamming into the boards with Zander.
My stick catches it, but I fumble the handle, lose control for a second too long.
Zander strips it and sends it up the ice.
“Move it, Jayce!” Jensen yells from center.
I nod, push after Zander, but my head’s not tracking the play right. The puck’s moving faster than my concentration. My muscles go through the motions automatically, but my brain’s running in so many directions I can’t stay focused.
Sutton. Again, I can’t stop thinking of Sutton. If I’m not dreaming about the sight of her blindfolded and spread out on the lounger next to my pool, then I’m instead thinking about how she so professionally dismissed my proposal and just walked out my door.
Damn. I hated seeing her go, but I loved watching her tight little ass as she left. I catch up just as Zander threads a pass across the slot — perfect setup — and I flinch, reacting a heartbeat late. The puck slides past me, seemingly in slow motion, untouched.
The whistle stops everything. My stomach twists.
Fuck. Fuck! I shouldn’t have missed that.
That was a rookie move and frustration and embarrassment crash through me.
My head’s not in the game. It’s too caught up in all my other bullshit, and that’s not normal for me.
When I’m on the ice, everything else doesn’t matter.
Except, today, I can’t shake that “everything else” like I usually can.
I skate to the bench, sweat dripping into my eyes, chest heaving.
Coach walks by, muttering, “Get your head in the game, or get off my ice.”
The words sting, but I deserve them. I grip the stick tighter, knuckles white against the tape. Thank God I was able to keep my shit together at last night’s game. Maybe it’s because the stakes aren’t as high for practice, but I can’t shake everything else enough to focus. That’s a real problem.
When the whistle blows again, I push off the bench and hit the ice, lungs burning, blades cutting deep.
I don’t want to have to prove that I belong on this team the way I have to prove myself to my family.
Forcing everything out of my head, I lock in on practice, praying I can get through the next few hours without falling flat on my face in front of the whole team.
After practice, everyone heads to the locker room. I drag my feet, following behind the rest of the team, feeling like absolute shit. Despite my determination to remain focused, I struggled the rest of practice and got an earful from Coach before he dismissed us all and stormed off to his office.
When I finally shuffle into the locker room, the guys are at their lockers or heading to the showers. Jensen looks up as I approach and frowns in concern.
“Hey, man, you okay?”
I release a long breath and shrug. “Yeah. My head’s just fucked up. I’ve got some personal stuff going on.”
“You don’t usually let those things get to you on the ice.
” Jensen regards me for a long moment, his gaze serious.
He’s an attentive guy and takes his duties as Captain very seriously.
We were drafted to the Night Hawks the same year, and even back then I could tell he was going to step up and lead one day. “You want to talk about it?”
I release a humorless chuckle. “It’s rich family stuff. You’d probably get it, I know you’ve got rich family shit of your own…. but I sure don’t want to talk about it.”
Jenson nods, understanding as usual.
“Then how about a guys’ night?” Zander suddenly chimes in from where he’s standing in front of his locker, shedding his hockey gear.
He runs a hand through his short dark hair, his emerald eyes sparkling with eagerness.
“You all can come over to my place and hang out, play some video games. Get your mind off your personal stuff for a while.”
The corner of my mouth twitches and I feel a stab of gratitude and relief. That actually sounds really great. Just some time with my boys, not worrying about anything but kicking their asses in Call of Duty.
“I’m in,” I say.