CHAPTER 2 SCRIMMAGE
TALON
The laces pressed into the top of my feet as I jumped up and down.
We may have won yesterday, but our defense needed some work.
We let far too many shots get passed us, and any one of them could have easily resulted in a goal.
Mistakes ate at me, especially if they were my own.
And I’d made plenty of my own mistakes during yesterday’s game.
Three games into the season, and I was already fucking up.
No one else would notice. Coach hadn’t even said anything, but I knew where I failed. I could and would do better.
Dragging my fingers through my hair, I made my way onto the ice.
This wasn’t practice; it was supposed to be a rest day.
Ice was my drug though; I couldn’t stay off it for one day.
It would be a quick skate, under thirty minutes.
The goal was purely to get my irritation and agitation out.
A few slap shots and stick drills, and I’d feel right as rain again.
Or as good as I could feel on a day off.
The off season nearly killed me every year.
The puck pinged into the goal—an overly easy shot without a goalie.
I lined up about ten pucks and started to shoot, putting all my frustration into my swing.
All ten shots easily sailed into the defenseless goal.
It only sort of helped, so I moved on to stick drills.
I could handle a puck similarly to how Leo Messi handled a soccer ball.
That wasn’t me bragging; it was just a fact of elite athleticism.
Hockey came as naturally to me as breathing.
It made sense when the rest of the world often didn’t, and the world so rarely made sense.
“Walker!” Zeke, my goalie, yelled, his voice echoing off the wall. “Do you not understand how a day off works?”
I stopped on my skates, flicking my eyes to him as I leaned on my stick. “Chill. I’m done.”
Anyone that knew me, knew I was a man of few words, and I always had been.
I much preferred to listen. Listening often led to being told things people probably didn’t want to reveal.
It also meant I didn’t have to talk much, which was fine by me.
There were very few things in life that made me uncomfortable but talking about myself was one of them.
Everyone wanted to know a professional athlete but didn’t really want to know us.
What 21 was the point in speaking if they didn’t want to know the real me? Was that jaded?
“You coming out with me and Jefferson?” Zeke met me at my hockey bag. “He misses you.”
Jefferson was Zeke’s kid brother. He was attending the University of Chicago on a baseball scholarship.
He was extremely talented but incredibly loud.
There was no doubt in my mind that the kid would get drafted next year.
The dude practically had a cannon for an arm and fielded better than any other short stop in college baseball.
It didn’t matter what team he landed on; I would root for him.
Zeke and Jefferson were my brothers even though we didn’t share blood.
They had seen me at my lowest and highest points, even times my biological brothers hadn’t seen. These were guys I trusted with my life.
“Yeah.” I nodded my head, quickly unlacing my skates. “What exactly are we doing?”
“Jefferson and Davis got roped into a soccer game.”
I froze. “Can the kid even play soccer?”
Jefferson was extremely athletic, but soccer was totally different than baseball.
Never once had I even seen Jefferson get on a field.
He was really only at home on a baseball pitch.
The kid was talented, but soccer? The very idea was laughable.
Frankly, the thought of watching Zeke’s little brother play a pick-up game eased all my previous irritation.
Zeke shrugged. “Hell if I know, man. Somehow, he managed to convince some of the PhD and Master level students to play, which is how Davis got roped in. I guess there’s some sort of bet going on. Does it really matter?”
We walked out of the Chaos Coliseum together,
Zeke chattering away at my side. That was Zeke to a T: a chatterbox.
He was one of the only goalies I knew who also managed to be a pest.
Somehow, he could so easily get under an opponent’s skin.
Zeke was loud, bold, and obnoxious. On the other hand, I was taciturn, intimidating, and surly.
We were often referred to as the Labrador and the feral cat.
I was half convinced if Zeke hadn’t body checked me in middle school hockey, I would still be completely friendless.
It wasn’t like I was rude; I liked my teammates well enough.
I just didn’t like to talk. Besides, if it wasn’t sports related, what was the point in talking anyway?
Zeke carefully pulled his SUV into a parking space,
looking around for his little brother. The soccer field was covered in mud, clearly impacted from last night’s rain.
My brows raised. Were they still going to play in the mud?
My idea of graduate students were all prisses who stayed inside— nerds to be blunt.
I barely made it through my own degree, only completing it for my dad’s sake.
Shaking my head, I slammed the door closed and followed my orange-haired friend to his brother.
Jefferson smiled at Zeke. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought the two were twins.
They both had bright, orange hair like Rupert Grint or Ed Sheeran.
Freckles smothered their faces, making them appear slightly tan.
The only difference between the two was their height, bulk, and eyes.
Zeke was stockier, more muscular, and had hazel eyes.
Jefferson was tall, slim, and had weirdly piercing green eyes.
I’m sure he made men and women swoon with those damn eyes.
Once the Carter boys separated, I felt myself being embraced by Jefferson.
A little grin crept onto my face as I patted his back; Jefferson was like my little brother too.
Him and Zeke were two people I’d go to the end of the earth for, though neither one of them would ever hear me say it aloud.
They would never let me live it down. I was the tough guy in our little group, and I preferred it that way.
“You really going to watch our silly scrimmage?”
Jeff asked me, walking me over to the metal bench Zeke was already at. “I mean, you guys are pro athletes for Christ’s sake.”
“Any excuse to watch you slip on some mud and lose,” I said with a smirk on my face. “Go warm up, kid.”
He nodded and raced to join his friends. Zeke and I may have been professional athletes, but we weren’t as easily recognized as someone like Tom Brady or Lebron James. It was something I was thankful for because I strongly valued my privacy.
Sitting next to my friend, I looked at the other players.
Jefferson’s team seemed to be composed of other Division One athletes; some I even recognized from the football and baseball teams.
The other team looked small in comparison, filled with people far too focused on their degrees.
They also probably didn’t seem as competitive as Jefferson and his team.
My eyes landed on one grad student in particular.
Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into a braid that went down her back.
She wore a long-sleeved black shirt like the rest of her team and red shorts.
The blonde was tiny but clearly muscular.
I could see her calf muscles from the bench.
She wore a cautious smile on her face, like 24 she wasn’t entirely sure she should be there.
The most surprising thing was she was the only woman out here.
My eyebrow quirked up. Was she any good?
Zeke nudged me, drawing my eyes away from the woman and to him. “Davis is headed this way.”
Davis had played hockey with us in college.
He was an athletic guy but clearly had no passion for sports, at least not after his injury.
He’d been a halfway decent center, but there was no real drive to his game after he got hurt.
That was okay. Not everyone had the ambition to play sports professionally, but Davis did love school.
It was probably why he was pursuing a PhD in education and social work, I think.
The man was wicked smart and also a good friend.
Somehow, he’d weaseled his way into my heart.
“Wow.” Davis fist bumped us both. He was not a hugger. “You rooting for me or Jefferson?” He pointed his thumb in the vague direction of the baseball player.
“Both.” Zeke shrugged. “Who brought the chick?” Davis shook his head. He’d always hated the numerous nicknames Zeke had for women. “I did. Trust me, you’ll understand soon enough.” He fist bumped us again before heading back to his side of the field.
Davis’s words rang in my ears because I couldn’t keep my eyes off the blonde woman.
She was fast, had good ball control, and an eye for the game.
She chose to play defense and had quickly proved her skill.
She was aggressive, unafraid to push the boys around and get dirty.
At one point, she’d even knocked Jefferson on his ass.
With her on their team, it really was no surprise the grad students were winning. Her competitiveness was unmatched.
Her movements were so fluid; she’d clearly been playing for years and competitively at that.
I hated how my eyes constantly drifted to her even when she wasn’t near the ball.
I felt flustered in a way I never had felt.
Blinking hard, I forced myself to look at the game.
The grad students were kicking the undergrad’s asses, and I genuinely felt it had to do with this woman.
“You’re staring, TJ,” Zeke said loudly.
I looked over at him to see him wearing a smirk.
“How are you not?”
“Oh, I am.” He laughed. “You’re just not usually so pulled in by a girl. Of the entire team, you ignore women and hell, even other men, the best.”
I shrugged. Zeke was right. I wasn’t a one-night stand or relationship type of guy, not anymore.
Sure, sex was great, but the last woman I had been with completely soured my attitude toward women and any kind of relationship.
My life was mine, and I was careful who I shared it with.
That woman had been a mistake—an extremely public one.
I didn’t want to get involved with anyone, so I chose to play into my silent, brooding stereotype and continued to ignore any and all sexual or 26 relational offers.
However, I still looked, especially people I found attractive. Like the blonde woman.
“Not that I’m blaming you. She’s fucking talented!
Her ball control is unreal.” Zeke motioned at her most recent play. “She could be on the national team.”