Chapter 1 Easton
ONE
EASTON
Losing a game on home ice is one of the worst feelings in the world.
It’s a kick right to the dick knowing you’re down in points as the clock is running out, and no matter how many plays you and your boys try to make happen nothing is connecting.
Even more rage inducing is when it all goes down against your goddamn rival.
Ryan Donnelly’s punchable smirk makes my blood simmer while the two of us face off for the puck drop.
“Ready to dance again, Blake?” he taunts. “If the NHL doesn’t want you, I’d say you have a fair chance twirling around the ice in tights. Magic on Ice is calling your name.”
This fucking guy. He’s been a thorn in my side since junior league.
My teeth clench hard enough to send an ache throbbing through my jaw.
I won’t let him get to me. His game is cockier than ever since he was a second round draft pick over the summer during the off season.
The only consolation is that the team who picked him has not offered him a contract yet.
They must want to keep him in the NCAA for further development.
I’m still fighting for my dream of being drafted by the NHL. It’s the goal I’ve been striving for as hard as I can.
This is my damn year. I’m making sure of it, taking every chance to prove myself.
Freshman year I didn’t meet the eligible age requirements.
I’m still getting over the fact that no teams bit for me as a prospect during this chance, yet they did for Donnelly.
Even though Heston U beat Elmwood in the championship to maintain our school’s unbroken streak of winning Frozen Four.
Punching this asshole for having a better chance at making it to the pro league than I do won’t get me any closer to it, only an ejection from the game I love more than anything for misconduct.
I can’t change that he got drafted before me, but I can still beat him here and now.
It’s the last period. With minutes left to spare, I don’t have time to fuck around anymore. We need to put up points against Elmwood University to take the W.
“It’s okay to admit you fantasize about guys in tights, Donnelly.
” I grin when he jerks his head. “Last I checked, you need to sign a contract. Any official offer from Buffalo yet?” His gloves tighten on his stick and I laugh.
“Don’t sweat it, man. You can still make it on a team as a free agent after graduation when their hold expires on your signing rights. ”
Donnelly narrows his eyes, lip curling back with a growl. The ref’s whistle blows and we sink into position for the face-off.
The puck drops to the ice and our sticks clash together. I win the battle for possession and dart around him. It’s feeling good. My linemates are in strategic positions, evading our opponents’ defense.
I’m flying down the ice toward Elmwood’s goal when my attention snags on a flash of red in the corner of my eye. It interrupts the sea of dark blue and green in the Heston student section.
What the—?
It’s not just someone wearing red in our student section. The brunette in the front row is wearing an Elmwood jersey with Donnelly’s number emblazoned across her chest.
What the fuck?
Our eyes meet and I barely feel it when Donnelly checks my side hard, the momentum slamming both of us against the boards right in front of her.
Time seems to freeze. My heartbeat drums in my ears, drowning out the sounds in the arena. It’s strange. I’ve played games where I felt like I was at the top of my performance level—skating better, shooting on the net more accurately, and connecting with my teammates.
This isn’t like that. The audience’s energy is something to feed on, but I’ve never let them distract me while I’m on the ice. Never picked a girl out of the blur of faces in the stands.
I need to move. Get Donnelly off me and make this play instead of gaping at the girl who sticks out amongst the Heston fans.
Her lips part and form the shape of a name. My attention falls to her mouth.
He manages to swipe the puck from me with the tip of his stick and skates away.
“Fuck!” I shove off the boards and dig hard, willing my legs to move faster to get it back. “We have to stop him! Get in there!”
Two of my teammates converge on him. He avoids them one after the other, making it all the way to our end of the ice.
My chest constricts as Donnelly slaps a shot on our goal. He’s good, but our goalie is better, stopping the puck in its tracks with his leg pads. Our defense picks up the rebound and passes it to the left winger for a counterattack.
We have to win this.
We lost.
“Damn it,” I mutter on my way out of the showers.
My jaw locks, then I let out a heavy exhale to release the tension in my sore muscles, making my way to my spot in the locker room after the game. Despite the shower, the imaginary stench of our failure lingers on my damp skin. Coach already gave us a lecture before he sent us off for the night.
We might have gotten our offensive and defensive line chemistry working enough to score a goal in the final period, but all it did was tie us up. Elmwood—Donnelly—lit up the lamp in overtime first, clinching the win.
If that girl in the stands hadn’t distracted me, the play would’ve gone differently. The strange moment our eyes met continues repeating in my mind.
I shake her from my thoughts and grab the jeans in my cubby. Coach likes us to arrive to games cleaned up, but we’re free to leave in casual clothes.
Some of the guys are talking while they check out their new bruises and wind down. The vibe in the room is somber, but not as heavy as my own disappointed mood. It’s not like me to keep my head down after a loss.
Not a great look for the team’s new captain. I’ve only had the title for a few months.
My last play against Donnelly replays over and over as I search for what I should’ve done differently. My dad always taught me the importance of moving on after a bad game outcome. He’s one of the reasons I’m chasing this dream so hard, so for his memory I have to put this behind me.
This is my year. I want that draft pick rather than graduating without any NHL recognition and choosing to go the free agent route to make it to the pros.
These days being drafted doesn’t mean you get called up right away without finishing college like it was in my dad’s era.
Some do—Alex Keller, one of our upperclassmen teammates, signed with the NY Islanders last summer and he killed it during his rookie season.
It’s becoming more common for drafted players to finish out their development in the NCAA and graduate before they’re called up to play professionally.
Sports blogs speculate it makes for a more well-rounded player.
Still doesn’t make me hunger for that pick any less.
And if I get an offer, I’ll leave school early in a heartbeat. I like my classes fine enough, but finishing my degree isn’t important to me if I have the opportunity to achieve what I want.
It’s got me impatient to get out there on NHL ice where I know I belong. I came to play for Heston University with that in mind when UMass passed me over.
Heston Lake, Connecticut is a small college town not far from Hartford.
This close to any of the major teams in the northeastern division, players usually vie for spots on the UMass, Elmwood U, Boston College, and UConn hockey teams. But this is the right team for me, and I show UMass what a mistake they made every time we’ve wiped the ice with them in the last two years.
I heave another sigh, then rake my fingers through my disheveled hair, sending water droplets at my locker neighbor, Cameron Reeves. He whips me with his towel, clearly in better spirits than me.
“Do I need to tell you to turn that frown upside-down like my mom always does?” he jokes.
My lips twitch, but I can’t revive the determined smile I gave him before we hit the ice. “Shut up, man.”
“Not doing it for you? Well then, my other sage advice is to hit up The Landmark for a drink and get laid.”
Noah Porter and a couple of our other D-men chime in with their agreements. This time my smirk comes a little easier because I’m with them on that cure, too. It’ll take nothing to find a girl to help me forget the sting of losing against our rivals tonight.
Once I finish getting dressed, Cameron nudges me with his elbow before tugging on his worn Heston U baseball cap backwards over his mess of thick dark brown hair. Win or loss, it’s his ritual after a game to reset himself for his next time defending the crease.
Hockey players are some of the most superstitious people on the planet. We’ve all got our little quirks to keep our focus dialed in on the W.
“Hey, captain?” Elijah Adler, one of our freshman players, hovers behind us.
“Careful, rookie,” Cameron warns. “He’s in a mood.”
I shoot my best friend a flat look. His gray eyes glint with amusement and his easygoing grin widens as he finishes tossing his goalie gear into his bag.
“Relax.” He drops to the bench and slings an arm over my shoulder. “We’ll get Elmwood back when we play them again.”
My jaw works. “I wish it was tomorrow night instead of us playing another home game.”
“Me too,” he says. “Damn scheduling. But when we do have our second game, we’ll get our revenge.”
I give an affirmative grunt in response. He’s right. Everything this year feels more intense with my last chance at the draft looming over my head. It’s all on the line this season.
“For fucking sure, man.”
Cameron clamps a hand on my shoulder and jostles me to get me to loosen up. “There you go, bro. It’s early in the season still. It’ll be us on the ice at Frozen Four for sure after we kick ass for the next thirty games to make the playoffs.”