Chapter 12
Levi
“Nixon, move your ass! This is practice, not a free skate!” Coach Davenport barked from his spot near the boards, and I pushed harder, my skates carving into the ice as I increased my speed.
Today’s focus was on the breakout. Coach chipped the puck into our defensive zone, and the five of us dressed in blue practice jerseys had to chase it down, while five of our teammates in white attempted to block our attempt to execute a breakout that would have us moving through the neutral zone.
The top line—which I was a part of—didn’t have much of an issue executing seamless passes to exit the zone.
But the rest of the team was a fucking disaster.
Guys were running into each other, throwing blind passes to no one when pressured, and more often than not, lost puck possession to the opposing “team.”
Davenport must’ve gotten his fill of watching the absolute shitshow and blew his whistle sharply.
“Everyone at center ice. Now!” When we gathered around him, taking a knee, he shook his head ruefully.
“Fucking pathetic. You’re goddamn professional hockey players, but I bet if I put you up against a 16U or 18U AAA team right about now, they’d kick your asses.
I get some of you are only biding your time, waiting until your contract allows you to get the hell outta here, but where’s your fucking pride?
You should be embarrassed that you can’t make tape-to-tape passes.
That’s Hockey 101, a basic fundamental skill that comes right after learning how to skate.
Do you think I enjoy breaking down this game and treating you like a bunch of four-year-olds who just learned to hold a stick?
Because I don’t. I’d much rather be working on special teams, puck battles, and shooting under pressure.
But until you master something as rudimentary as putting the puck where it needs to go, we can’t move forward with anything more complicated.
So, buddy up. The rest of practice will be spent passing to your partner.
And if you can convince me that you can handle that while stationary, we can transition to drills that require you to move. ”
Another blow of his whistle and we did as he commanded, lining up down the ice with a teammate and passing back and forth as our coach screamed at anyone who missed.
This was beyond humiliating, but I was stuck here, so there was no use in complaining. The only silver lining was that this torture would end when the season ended in three weeks, and we got a break until September.
I’d be counting the days.
Sweat ran into my eyes, the sting of it familiar after all these years, but I hated how it blurred my vision. I needed to stay sharp, especially since we were actually playing competitively against the California Cougars, our divisional rivals up the road in LA, on their ice.
A win wouldn’t do jack shit to move the needle on our position at the bottom of the league, but it would be a huge boost for morale. If we could beat a team that was playoff-bound, the guys might start to believe it was within our power to conquer any opponent.
Confidence was nine-tenths of the law in hockey. The players who had big dick energy on the ice were the ones making the highlight reels. Teams that won championships featured a whole team of guys like that.
That kind of mojo could spark a momentum shift for the Surf.
Crew gained the red line, dumped the puck into our offensive zone, and I chased.
“One, one, one!” Cole yelled from behind me.
Translation: There’s a man on your ass.
The second my stick blade touched the puck behind the Cougars’ net, I rang it around the boards toward where I trusted Jagger would be stationed at the blue line.
Within the next breath, a body slammed mine into the glass, and I let out a grunt, shaking off the defender and positioning myself in front of the goalie.
We maintained possession within the zone, Jagger making a D-to-D pass over to Crew, who reared back for a high-powered slap shot. I barely managed to move out of the way in time, and it made a ringing sound as it hit the crossbar.
Fuck, an inch lower and that would have been a goal.
As Cole gathered the puck, I drifted backward on my skates, creating some space from the Cougar player covering me in the blue paint of the crease, my stick pressed hard to the ice, ready for a hard pass from my center.
The sneaky bastard looked in the other direction, drawing attention away from where I stood on the back door, right before sending the most gorgeous sauce pass—where the puck hovered over the ice—that sailed over the stick of the defender between us.
I was ready and waiting, so as soon as the puck landed perfectly on my stick, I slammed it home.
A surge of exhilaration I hadn’t felt in way too long lit me up from within, and I dropped my head back, letting out a scream of triumph. My linemates rushed me to celebrate, and I yelled, “Fucking right, boys! Let’s do it again!”
Before we could head to the bench for the customary fist bumps after scoring, I caught the defender, Lukyanov, breaking his stick against the goalpost.
And because I just loved poking the bear—a great big Russian one in this case—I skated over and chirped, “How’d that beauty look from your front-row seat?”
His nostrils flared. “You wanna go?”
My gloves hit the ground. “A goal and the chance to kick your ass? You’re fucking right, I wanna go.”
In the next instant, we were on each other, fists flying, and the roar of the crowd grew deafening.
I landed a punch to his jaw, throwing him off balance, but he came back swinging, managing to knock my helmet off.
All the while, refs tried to pull us apart, screaming that it was time to break it up.
Of course we didn’t listen, continuing to pummel our opponent until, finally, I got the upper hand and knocked Lukyanov to the ground, officially winning the fight.
My teammates were banging their sticks on the boards in approval, and I was grinning from ear to ear, blood trickling from a corner of my mouth, while being escorted to the penalty box and given five minutes for fighting.
Since my sparring partner received the same penalty, it offset mine, so neither team received a power play, and play continued five-on-five.
With a clear view across the ice to the benches, I expected Davenport to be pissed, but instead, the tiniest hint of a smirk curved onto his lips, and he dipped his chin as if to say, Well done.
The fight got my guys’ blood pumping, and they were skating like lightning, laying monster hits and nailing every pass as I watched on with my hands tied, stuck in a glass box for a minimum of five minutes—Lukyanov and I wouldn’t be let out until the whistle following the expiration of our penalties; otherwise, there would be six skaters on the ice for each team.
And wouldn’t you know it, we scored twice while I was in the sin bin, which ultimately led to a victory over the Cougars by a score of 5-3.
Hell fucking yeah.
Rubbing a towel over my hair to dry it after my post-game shower, I turned to where Cole and Crew sat at the two stalls to my right inside the visitors’ locker room.
“You guys got anything going on tomorrow night?”
Cole shook his head. “Post-divorce life is surprisingly quiet. Who knew?”
Crew scowled at the mention of his twin’s failed marriage, but chimed in, “Nothing for me.”
I threw on a Surf-branded T-shirt. “It’s not every day we pull off a win, so I was thinking of celebrating with a grill-out at the new house, maybe a bonfire on the beach after the sun goes down, if you wanted to come over.”
Crew lifted a shoulder. “Sure, sounds fun.”
“I’m in,” Cole agreed.
“Great. I’ll text you the address. What do you say around six?”
“Works for me.” Cole stood, gathering his personal items and stuffing them in his travel bag for the short trip back home from LA.
“See you then.” Crew waved over his shoulder on his way out of the locker room.
It was a good thing they were both available; otherwise, I would have made a fool of myself by inviting random teammates over to my place tomorrow night until two agreed.
Moving to a new city made it really hard to find witnesses when you decided to get married in a rush.
The following evening, I opened the door to our unwitting wedding guests, and they instantly grew suspicious when they saw that I wore a tan-colored suit with a plumeria blossom affixed to the lapel.
“Little overdressed for a barbeque, don’t you think?” Crew teased.
“Yeah, about that . . . I might’ve undersold the agenda by just a smidge.” I held my fingers a millimeter apart.
“Undersold how?” Cole questioned.
I shifted on my feet. “I’m, uh, getting married. On the beach. In about thirty minutes.”
An uncomfortable silence stretched between us as both men stared at me with wide eyes.
Crew managed to recover first, exclaiming, “Holy shit, Nixon, way to bury the lede!”
In the short time that I’d known them, I’d learned that Cole was the more perceptive of the Astor twins, and his response to my news proved that.
“When a trade comes in, management lets me know if I need to make introductions between the new player’s significant other and the other wives and girlfriends.
You didn’t have one as of two months ago, and now you’re having what feels like a secret wedding? Did you get a girl pregnant?”
While he’d hit the nail on the head, he was off by about thirteen years.
Cringing, I confessed, “Kinda.”
Eyes bulging, Crew shouted, “Kinda? How do you kinda knock someone up?”
“Why don’t you come in, and I’ll show you?” I stepped back to allow them entry.
They followed me into the house, the path I took leading us to the kitchen. Maisie came into view, seated on a stool at the island, looking way too grown-up in an aqua dress with her hair curled, a flower that matched the one on my suit jacket tucked behind her ear.
“Guys, I’d like for you to meet Maisie. My daughter.”
“Whoa,” Crew breathed. “That’s not a fetus.”
“You’re an idiot,” Cole muttered at his brother before stepping toward my daughter with a smile. “Hi, Maisie. I’m Cole. Me and my twin, Crew, play on the Surf with your dad.”
“Hi,” she squeaked, blushing like the preteen she was when faced with arguably the second and third most attractive men in the room—though technically, since they were identical, they could probably claim a tie for second.
He pretended not to notice her reaction, continuing to make conversation. “Bet you’re excited your parents are getting married.”
Maisie’s forehead creased. “Arizona’s not my mom.”
Cole spun on me, wide-eyed. “Arizona? Please tell me she doesn’t mean Arizona Cleary.”
A shit-eating grin split my face. “She won’t be a Cleary for much longer.”
“How? When?” He placed a hand to his forehead. “You can’t marry her; you just met!”
Crew scoffed. “Look at this guy throwing stones when he lives in a glass house. You wanna know how long he knew his ex-wife before they tied the knot?”
His twin glared from across the kitchen. “Don’t.”
Undeterred, Crew answered his own question. “Six weeks. So he’s not in any position to judge. If anything, his situation should serve as a cautionary tale. Pregnant or not, you should probably take a beat, make sure you’re compatible before making it legal.”
“Arizona’s pregnant?” Maisie cried.
“No, she’s not.” I shut down the misconception for everyone in the room.
“Then what’s the rush?” Cole asked.
“Long story short, Maisie recently came into my life, and I’m her only living relative.
Her witch of a social worker would love nothing more than to send her back to her foster family in Kansas, instead of letting her stay here with me.
Arizona offered to become her temporary guardian while I fight for custody, and I might have volunteered that she was my fiancée. ”
The pieces fell into place for my captain. “But she wasn’t your fiancée.”
“Nope.” I popped the P. “But once those words left my mouth, they were impossible to take back. Getting caught in that lie would be enough for me to lose Maisie and for her to lose Austin, so we—and when I say we, I may have had to strongarm Arizona into it—agreed that a real marriage, even a short one, was the only option.”
Cole’s brow furrowed. “Who’s Austin?”
“Arizona’s younger brother. Her mom’s sick, so she’s his guardian as well as Maisie’s at the moment.”
Crew leaned his forearms on the island. “That’s a lot.”
“Tell me about it,” I huffed. “And hopefully it goes without saying that you can’t tell anyone about what I just shared. No one can know that this union, while legal, isn’t exactly what most would consider real.”
Head tilting to the side, Cole asked, “If it needs to stay a secret, why invite us?”
Shrugging, I replied, “Needed witnesses I could trust.”
Crew straightened. “We’ve got your back. Maisie’s too.” He tossed her a wink, and her face turned scarlet again.
“Levi?” Austin’s voice near the entrance to the kitchen drew my attention away from my guests.
Like Maisie, he was dressed up for the occasion, in a pair of khaki pants and an aqua polo.
“What’s up, bud?”
“She’s ready,” he announced.
With a clap of my hands, I spoke to those gathered. “All right, people. It’s showtime.”