3. Blake
Chapter three
Blake
T he clock’s ticking down, five minutes. My legs are on fire, my lungs are working overtime, but I’m dialed in. Laser-focused. Scrimmage drills have got that sharp edge to them, fast shifts, full contact, and bragging rights on the line.
Brody’s pinned along the boards, grinding for space against Landry, who’s digging in like he’s trying to plant roots. The puck’s jammed between their skates, and both of them are grunting like pissed-off bulls.
I stay low at the top of the slot, watching.
Waiting. The ice beneath me is scarred and choppy, worn down from drills and more drills before this.
The boards creak under every hit. Overhead, the screens are dark.
There’s no crowd. No music. Just the raw sound of skate blades slicing, sticks tapping, and voices cutting through the cold air.
Everything echoes off the empty seats. This place, with twenty thousand fans, is a madhouse. Today, it’s a goddamn tomb.
“Move your ass!” Coach McCullum’s voice detonates from the bench. Gruff. Direct. The kind of tone that demands an instant response. The guy is built like a brick shithouse with a whistle, and even though he’s not skating, he could probably still put half of us into the boards if he felt like it.
He’s glaring straight at me, his eyes locked in like he’s hunting.
“Talk! Find your gaps! Peters, seal that lane!” That’s Danny, the assistant coach. He’s high-speed, always calm, but no bullshit.
Peters reacts and cuts off the passing lane like he’s reading the play a page ahead, forcing them to dump it.
Thumper gets there first, beating the winger by a skate length, and snaps a filthy backhand toward Bishy, who’s already halfway up the right side.
We’re flying now.
I drop back, my eyes tracking Vasko, part of our twenty-three-man Aces team, but right now, the other squad’s golden boy. He’s got slick hands, sharp instincts, and a permanent smirk I’d love to knock off. He’s drifting, waiting like a predator, guessing where the play will turn before we do.
I cut across the middle, my stick down, baiting the turnover.
Brody rips one from the slot.
Too high.
“Goddammit, Mason!” Coach’s voice booms out again. “Shoot the net, not the goddamn ceiling!”
Before Brody can recover, Davis swoops in on the loose puck and lets a slapper fly.
McAvoy sprawls out like a goddamn starfish and manages to kick the rebound straight into traffic.
Chaos erupts.
Vasko sees daylight. He grabs the rebound mid-stride and charges—fast.
No time to think. I meet him. Hard.
He tries to slip past, but I drop my weight and angle into him, my shoulder catching just enough to push him wide. He flings a pass to Monty, who barely touches it, and flicks it toward the net like a Hail Mary.
McAvoy flashes leather. Caught.
Whistle.
“Better, better!” McCullum’s pacing like he’s trying to wear a trench in the boards. “Mitchell, you need to adjust quicker next time. Feel that pressure.”
I nod. No excuses. Just adrenaline.
Two minutes. One more push.
Thumper wins the face-off clean. Flicks it back to Peters, who doesn’t waste time. He moves it up the ice like a damn Chess master.
I shift, my eyes on the lanes. Brody picks it up on the wing and sends a touch-pass to Bishy on the other side, smooth, tight.
Bishy sees the lane open, rockets up the ice, and lets it rip.
Ding.
Post. Damn well kissed the bar.
“That’s better, boys! Much better!” McCullum claps once, hard.
Thirty seconds.
They’re pressing now. Desperate. Bodies crashing. Sticks whacking. Puck hopping.
Vasko’s back. Always him.
He tries to pivot to change the angle. I don’t let him and knock his balance just enough that he flubs the play.
Monty dives, trying to get a stick on it, but it’s over.
Final whistle.
McAvoy flings the puck away like it insulted his family. Peters taps the end of his stick against mine, a silent ‘good job.’
McCullum actually smiles. First time all session. “That’s the intensity I want to see.”
Danny’s already halfway back to the tunnel. “Still work to do.”
Always.
I skate off with Brody, who’s still chewing on his damn mouth guard like it’s beef jerky. He slaps the side of my helmet. “Shit as always.”
“Speak for yourself.” My lungs are practically screaming as I remove my helmet.
Bishy and Thumper catch up, with Bishy laughing as usual.
“You were both shit, girls!” Thumper’s voice bounces down the tunnel like he’s announcing a title fight.
We head down the tunnel, still dripping, still buzzing. No fans. No lights. Just the team, and a scrimmage that might as well have been war.
The locker room door swings open and the smell hits like a goddamn freight train— sweat, gear, damp tape, and whatever Thumper’s feet have been marinating in.
Thumper’s the first to start peeling gear off as he yanks his jersey over his head and tosses it into his stall. “Anyone else smell that? Smells like Vasko’s ego just died in here.”
Brody slams onto the bench, pulls off his elbow pads, and lets them thud to the floor. “It’s you, man. Your gear smells like fermented ball sack.”
“Means it’s game-ready.” Thumper fires back with a big grin.
I start unlacing my skates, steam still rising off my shirt. Every guy’s doing the same— dropping pads, ripping tape off sticks. Some are shirtless, some are already in towels, all of them are loud as hell.
“Shut up,” I lunge at him as he pretends to block a punch with a shin pad. We’re half-wrestling when the door opens.
“Enough!” It’s McCullum with Danny right behind him, his arms full of clipboards and nervous energy.
Before either of them can say anything else, Thumper yells over the noise, “Yo! Vasko!”
Vasko is unlacing his skates slower than molasses.
Thumper grins. “You need any help with those laces?”
Vasko stands. The grin drops. “What’d you say?”
“I said,” Thumper stands too, stepping forward, “You going to be able to get those skates off all by yourself.”
Vasko gets in his face and they're chest to chest. Thumper’s still grinning like an imbecile, which annoys Vasko even more, so he shoves him.
Danny’s about to intervene, but Coach is already between them, his arms out. “Okay, girls, save the drama for the goddamn ice.”
He shoves them apart like he’s done it a hundred times. He growls, “Good scrimmage session.” Then glances at us like we better not make him regret saying that.
“Now get showered, and freshen up. You’ll all be pleased to learn that you’ve got a hot date with the media team.
” He checks his watch. “In one hour, to go over plans for new player-driven content, behind-the-scenes stuff, fan polls, and a series idea called ‘Roomies on the Road.’ So, stay engaged, and let’s see what they’ve got lined up. ”
Jesus. You’ve gotta be kidding me.
The showers are loud—water slamming the tiles, laughter, a few insults shouted over the roar. By the time we’re back out, everyone’s half-dressed or dragging on clothes, still yelling at each other.
In front of the mirror, I’m combing my hair. Neatly. It’s a routine. Doesn’t matter if it’s post-game or post-battle, the hair stays tight.
Brody shows up behind me and shoves a hand through it like he’s a drunk stylist.
“Asshole.” I twist, ready to swing, but he’s already laughing, backing up like he’s innocent.
“Wait—wait.” Thumper’s frozen mid-step, his eyes huge. “Oh, fuck. Blake.”
“What now?”
Thumper points. “Bend your head down.”
“No.”
“Bend. Your. Head.”
I lower it, annoyed. “WHAT?”
Thumper parts my hair on the crown with the care of someone inspecting roadkill. “You’re… you’re…”
“I’m what?”
Thumper elbows Bishy in the ribs. “You’re going bald.”
The whole room stops for half a second.
“No, I’m not.”
They’re already walking out, Bishy laughing so hard he nearly trips over Thumper’s gym bag.
I spin back to the mirror, craning my neck like a lunatic. Can’t get the angle. Try again. Fail. Then I lock eyes with my reflection and stare at my hairline like it just betrayed me.
Brody steps up beside me, laughing. “You’re not really. They’re just dicks.” He slaps the back of my head.
I shove him, hard. We start roughhousing, but it’s half-assed. I’m still thinking about my hair.
“Meet you there.” He tosses on a hoodie. “Gotta sort something out first.”
I walk the long hallway alone. It’s quiet now, just the distant buzz of the AC and my skates thudding in the bag over my shoulder.
Then I see Coach standing outside his office. He’s talking to someone. A woman.
I glance. Then glance again.
Oh, shit… not her. No. What the fuck is she doing here?
I slow my pace. Not consciously—my body just halts like it’s bracing for impact.
McCullum is in full drill-sergeant mode, his voice ricocheting down the hallway.
“You think this is some kind of joke, do you? Five AM you got in this morning. While you live under my roof, you abide by my rules. GOT IT?”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. Her arms are folded, her weight tilted to one side like she’s got all goddamn day. Her eyes? On me.
And shit, those eyes.
“You!” Her tone could slice drywall, and it certainly isn’t a greeting, it’s a shot across the fucking bow.
McCullum blinks and turns his head slowly between the two of us like we’ve just started speaking in code. “Sorry, do you two know each other?”
“What?” she snaps.
“No,” I fire back at the same time.
We both pause. McCullum stares at us like we’re juggling chainsaws. “Umm, well, this is my daughter, Cassy McCullum. Our new Media and Communications Manager.”
My spine locks up. The air feels too thick. I say nothing. I can’t say anything. My mouth is working, but all that’s going on in my head is:
No. No. NO.
Her working here, well, that’s not only a problem, that’s a fucking catastrophe. McCullum is the one guy on this planet I absolutely can’t afford to piss off. And now, the woman I had buried myself in two nights ago is his daughter.