9. Blake
Chapter nine
Blake
T he arena’s already humming like a beast waking up. Equipment staff are wheeling crates of sticks and pads past us. The sharp sting of disinfectant mixes with the smell of old sweat and stale popcorn from the concession stands.
Someone yells across the corridor about towels. A Zamboni horn echoes off in the distance. It’s loud, chaotic, and it’s home.
And I’m on cloud fucking nine. I’m actually going to be a Dad. Cassy’s having my baby.
Just as she’s about to head right toward Media and Comms, and I’m about to head left to the locker room, there’s this surge in me, like if I let her walk away now, I’ll regret it.
So, I grab her wrist and pull her back.
“What?” she starts, but I don’t let her finish. My hand’s already at the small of her back, pulling her into me.
I don’t give a shit who sees. Not the staff hauling gear past us, not the intern doing a double-take near the vending machine, not even Coach McCullum. None of them matter.
She’s warm in my arms. Soft. Mine.
And I kiss her. Not gentle. Not sweet. I kiss her like I haven’t had enough of her.
Like I won’t ever. She leans into it, her mouth parting against mine, and it’s this dangerous kind of perfect.
I can feel her fingers gripping the front of my hoodie, anchoring us like she feels it the same way, too.
We don’t break apart until—Bishy.
I hear the wad of bills before I even see it. The obnoxious flap of a fat cash bundle.
I pull back from Cassy like I’ve just been caught lighting a match near gasoline. She’s glowing. Flushed lips, messed-up hair.
And Bishy is just standing like a clueless idiot about to get me killed. “I think I owe you this,” he grins, holding the money out to me.
I shoot him a look. It’s not subtle. It’s full fucking volume. “No. Not now. For the love of God, not now.”
I’m barely shaking my head, low and slow, making sure Cassy doesn’t see, but knowing Bishy won’t miss it.
She catches the tension, though, of course, she does. “What’s that for?” Her voice is casual, but that edge is creeping in.
My mouth’s already opening, ready to spill something ridiculous, lost poker bet, March Madness brackets, fuck it, anything, when Bishy beats me to it.
“The bet we had.”
NO!
“Come on, Bishy,” I mutter, stepping toward him. “Time for drills.”
“What bet was that?” Cassy again. This time her tone’s colder.
Bishy shrugs like it’s nothing. Like we’re still in college, and the world can’t bite back. “The bet I had with Blake that night at Sin City. I bet him he couldn’t get you into bed.”
Just as the last word leaves his mouth, I stomp on his foot. Not lightly.
“OW!” He jerks back like I broke a toe. “What the hell, man?” He limps off, still holding the damn cash.
Cassy’s staring at me now. Dead silent. Eyes like thunder. “Fuck you.”
She doesn’t shout it. It’s worse than shouting. It’s surgical. Precise. Meant to slice right through. And she storms off.
I look around and realize the corridor’s full of spectators now. Staff with half-folded towels, one guy holding a clipboard in mid-air, and the intern who now has a coffee cup paused halfway to his lips. All of them are watching like we’re the next big primetime show.
“Cassy!” I call after her. I start moving. Fast. “Cassy, please, it’s not what it seems.”
She stops. Turns.
There’s a calculation in her stare now. No panic. No mess. Just fire and target. “What part of FUCK YOU do you not understand?” She bolts. Gone.
I’m left standing, jaw tight, fists clenched, staring down the hallway like I could catch her if I just moved fast enough.
I don’t. I turn and look at the back of Bishy at the other end of the corridor.
My blood’s boiling. He'd better start running.
I storm down the corridor like a damn freight train seeing red, passing staff who step out of my way like I’m radioactive. Doors blur past. I barely register the overhead PA barking out morning drills. I slam into the locker room door with my shoulder, sending it flying open.
The place is alive with noise, sweaty, testosterone-fueled, early morning chaos. The kind that reeks of liniment, wet gear, cheap deodorant, and the beginning of a long-ass day.
There’s a buzz of laughter. Peters and Davis throw socks at McAvoy, who’s sitting in his jockstrap and chirping about last night’s Tinder date.
Brody’s shirtless, taping his stick and talking trash about someone’s slap shot. Towels, jocks, and jerseys are everywhere. Helmets clatter to the floor. The low thud of bass from someone’s speaker pulses like it’s part of the floorboards.
I barely glance at any of them.
Bishy’s just walking to the bench, towel slung over his shoulder like an asshole.
Brody looks up, sees my face, and instantly shuts up.
I don’t stop. I don’t warn.
I storm straight past him and slam both hands into Bishy’s back, hard enough to send him stumbling forward into the bench.
He whirls around.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you some kind of idiot?” I’m loud. Deliberate. I want everyone to hear it.
Bishy clenches his fists. “What’s wrong with ME? What's your fucking problem this morning?”
He pulls out the wad of cash and holds it up between us like that’s supposed to mean something. “If you don’t want this five hundred bucks, I don’t care.”
I swipe the money out of his hand, crumple it, and toss it at his chest. “Did you have to offer me that in front of her?”
We’re squared off now. Two bulls in a cage. The room goes dead silent.
You could hear a skate blade drop.
I feel the weight of every stare in the room, but I don’t blink.
Bishy’s face is flushed, his jaw clenched, and veins popping in his neck. He steps in, way too close. “I don’t give a shit if you’re captain now,” his forehead crashes into mine. “And I don’t give a shit if I just broke up your and Coach McCullum’s stupid little daughter’s romance.”
My head’s locked with his. I push back, nose to nose, our breath mingling like we’re seconds from blood.
That’s when Brody wedges himself between us, shoving me back a step. “Come on, guys, we’re all on the same team here.” McAvoy’s up too, and wraps an arm around Bishy, pulling him toward the benches.
“Chill, man. Fucking calm down.” Brody’s holding onto my chest like he thinks I’ll lunge again, and maybe he’s not wrong.
I take a breath. And another before I lean into Brody. “If he even looks at me the wrong way…”
“I got it,” Brody mutters, his eyes darting to Bishy like ‘what the fuck was that all about?’
We move toward our stalls. Brody is already half in his gear and is lacing his pads. “Listen,” he says as I sit down hard, yanking off my hoodie. “You’re captain now. Just concentrate on that. What was that about anyway?”
I pull off my jeans and start working on my compression layer. “I’ll tell you later.”
We finish gearing up, pads, socks, garters, jock, shoulder pads, gloves tucked into our belts. The boys start filing out one by one, sticks in hand, visors on, and helmets clipped loosely as they head toward the tunnel.
Just as I go to stand, Bishy walks past me. “Pussy,” he snarls under his breath.
I growl, deep and guttural, and lunge forward in my seat just enough for Brody to shoot out a hand.
He’s fast and shoves me back with a look. “Come on. Let’s go,” he mutters.
We step out into the hallway, both of us fully geared up, sweat already forming under my chest protector. We start heading down the tunnel, where the familiar sting of ice hits my senses.
I don’t say anything. But I’m not done with Bishy. Not even close.
The dull scuff of our skates on rubber echoes through the tunnel, steady and deliberate. Brody keeps pace at my side, his gaze flicking toward me like he’s waiting for something to explode again. I don’t give it to him. Not yet.
The air down here always stinks of something, melted ice, worn leather, or sour sweat baked into the walls. But it’s the cold creeping into my lungs that anchors me. Keeps me from thinking too hard.
The tunnel widens.
The arena opens up like a gaping mouth ahead of us—dark, quiet, expectant. Rows of empty seats vanish into the shadows. The jumbotron’s off. The boards stand still like they’re bracing for impact. Something about it makes your gut twist, like the calm before the hit.
I step onto the ice.
That cold rush blasts up through my skates, straight to my spine. It’s a slap in the face.
I need it because my brain just won’t shut up. Cassy. Her face. Last night. The way her eyes lit up when she told me she was pregnant.
I’d never felt anything like that. Like the whole damn world had finally tilted into place.
Then, after Bishy... she was gone.
I try to shove it down, bury it under drills, discipline, and this goddamn captain’s duty everyone keeps talking about. I’m the Aces’ captain now. I have to look like it. Lead like it. Pretend like nothing’s clawing at my chest.
The surface is glass-slick, broken only by a few lazy arcs from the rink crew. One of them gives the net a final yank, testing the posts. Everything else is untouched and waits to be wrecked.
From the bench, McCullum’s voice cuts through the silence like a whip.
“Okay, this morning, we’re starting with skating drills, twenty minutes.
Then stickhandling. After that, the usual passing drills.
We’ll finish up with defensive work. And you better train like champions and not school kids. GOT IT?!”
There’s a mumbled wave of “yes, okay,” like no one wants to be first to make noise.
I glance at the guys. Brody is already stretching out on the line, and McAvoy is fiddling with his visor.
I barely look at Bishy. He’s at the far end, grinning like none of this morning happened, shooting the shit with Peters. He looks too relaxed. Too smug. It grates under my skin.
The whistle blows.
First, push off.