Strictly Fauxmance (Hammerheads Hockey)

Chapter 1

SKATE. FIGHT. DANCE?

Nate

“People think I’ve got anger issues. I think I’ve got idiot issues. Guess which one’s harder to fix?”

He was already bleeding before he realized he was smiling.

Just a split knuckle. Skin torn clean where fist met bone.

The sting cut through the fog in his head like a blade, sharp and welcome.

The ice under his skates was chewed to hell, torn up by drills no one bothered finishing anymore.

Nate barreled straight into Mason Moore, one of the Hammerheads’ rookies.

The kid went crashing into the boards, the glass rattling like a warning shot.

Someone whooped from the far end of the rink. Someone yelled Nate’s name.

Too late.

Mason swung back, high and wild. Rookie mistake. His fist clipped Nate’s jaw, not hard enough to hurt, but enough for a tooth to catch the inside of his cheek and draw more blood. Nate tasted it and laughed under his breath. Finally. Someone on this gutless team had the balls to swing back.

“About time,” he growled. And then he launched.

They tangled in skates and adrenaline, gloves skidding across the ice.

No one stopped them. The Hammerheads hadn’t looked this alive in months.

They were a joke, and everyone knew it. Shit arena.

Shittier record. A team other franchises used to pad their stats.

They didn’t have finesse. They had bruises. They had blood. And they had him.

His stats were a mess. He racked up penalties like a body count. The only thing he led the League in anymore was misconducts. So he did what he did best and hauled Mason up by the jersey. Mason sagged against him, chest heaving. Blood dripped from Nate’s knuckles and froze where it hit the ice.

“You’re fucking unhinged,” Mason gasped.

Nate shoved him off. “Still our best shot at a win.”

“Jesus Christ, Eriksson! This is practice, not a goddamn cage match.”

A whistle cut through the noise, and everything froze.

Jaime McAllister ground to a halt at the sprawled rookie’s side.

A former NHL golden boy, Jaime had the rather unfortunate task of being the captain of the New Haven Hammerheads.

He was big. Mean. Played center once upon a time, but had been shoved into defense after an injury decimated his scoring average.

Now? He lingered in the defensive zone and checked people for fun.

And he was one of the only guys on the team who could handle Nate at his most feral.

He straightened, breath steaming in the chilled air, pulling off his gloves like he was unwrapping a gift labeled ‘violence’. His eyes locked onto the kid still writhing on the ice.

“Kid’s gotta learn,” Nate sniffed, jaw tight, pulse thudding at his temples.

“And he’s gonna learn from you hitting him like a fucking freight train?” Jaime’s jaw ticked. “Reed and Malachi are still on injured reserve. Use your head, Nate.” Jaime grit his teeth. “Fuckwit.”

“Better he get used to taking it from me than some dude from another team.” Nate shrugged.

Jaime’s glare was glacial. “Let it go.” Unspoken. Captain’s orders.

But Nate wasn’t wired to let things go. He wasn’t apologizing for knocking some brat back to juniors.

The kid had swaggered in like he owned the place, all shiny teeth and TikTok abs, acting like vets like Nate and Jaime had nothing left to give.

And the thing that stung, under that thick skin of his, was that maybe they fucking didn’t.

The New Haven Hammerheads were the poor cousins of the NHL.

Their smaller, broken-down arena. Their practically non-existent fans.

Fuck all marketing, zero sponsorship deals.

And a bunch of guys who felt like their careers were circling the fucking toilet bowl.

And Nate? Yeah. He was at the top of the shit list. A position that was elevated when the rink door clanged open.

Coach Dominic “Sully” Sullivan stood rigid by the bench, gripping his clipboard like he wanted to snap it.

Beside him was Bryant Delaney, the team owner.

Polished smile. Designer suit. A man who had no business standing in a rink that smelled like sweat and old tape.

One look from Coach and the rest of the team scattered like roaches.

Even McAllister gave Nate a grim shake of his head before skating off, that smug golden boy aura dimming just enough to be insulting.

Practice was over.

Nate peeled off his helmet and raked a hand through his dark curls, sweat already cooling on his scalp.

He coasted over to Sully and Delaney, leaning into a sharp stop just shy of the boards.

Ice sprayed up, dusting their shoes. Sully didn’t blink, but softboi Delaney flinched. Nate’s answering grin was feral.

“Coach.”

“The Players’ Association called,” Sully said. No greeting. No bullshit.

Nate leaned on the boards like he was waiting for his nails to dry. “And?”

“Suspended,” Delaney said. “Three months.”

Nate scoffed. “That’s bullshit.”

“You put a guy in the hospital,” Delaney snapped. “Orbital fracture. Concussion. The League’s calling it reckless conduct.”

“He had his head down,” Nate said, jaw tightening. “That’s survival.”

“Nate,” Sully said, his voice low, “you hit him like you wanted him dead.”

Nate dragged a hand through his damp hair, muscles thrumming with fury. His team nickname was ‘The Wall’. Brick. And no one minded him being blunt, brutish and brutal when it suited them. And when it didn’t? He was the fucking fall guy.

“So I’m the bad guy again,” he said with a breath of unamused laughter. “You want me to kiss the guy’s booboo? Buy him an ice pack?”

Silence fell, heavy as a puck drop.

“This is your problem, Eriksson,” Delaney said. “You don’t know when to stop.”

Nate smirked. “That’s why you signed me.”

“We signed an enforcer,” Delaney shot back. “You’re a goddamned liability.”

The word landed hard. Nate straightened, posture snapping sharp as a whistle. The smile vanished. Three months off the ice was bad enough. Being dead weight on a sinking team was worse.

“I’m done listening to this bullshit. So what? I sit out until next season? Great. I’ll work on my knitting.”

Sully cleared his throat. “We’re sending you to LA.”

Nate stilled. “Why?”

“A little brand rehab,” Delaney said, as if that explained anything. “Prime-time redemption arc. PR gold.”

Sully grimaced. “You’re going to sign a contract for Take the Floor.”

Silence. Nate blinked.

“The dance show?” he said, voice low with disbelief.

“The dance show,” Delaney confirmed, smiling now, the bastard. “You’ll partner with a professional, go through the weekly eliminations, build your sob story. America loves a reformed bad boy.”

“Let me get this straight.” Nate took a step forward. “You want me, a six-foot-four, 220-pound enforcer with two missing teeth and a minor assault charge, to waltz my way to career salvation?”

“Exactly.” Delaney handed him a glossy folder. Bright logo. Too much glitter. Take the Floor. Smiling faces, rehearsed joy, teeth that hurt to look at. “You want to stay here? This is the price.”

The rink felt smaller. Three months benched. A team circling the drain. His future balanced on fan votes and fake smiles.

“And if I won’t?” Nate asked.

“We won’t renew,” Delaney said, eyes gleaming.

Shit.

Nate huffed a laugh under his breath and pushed up the sleeves of his jersey. His Nordic tribal tattoo sleeves looked stark under the bright lights of the rink. “You’re insane.”

“No.” Sully’s voice cut sharp. “We’re your last chance. You don’t do this, you’re not just benched. You’re done. The board won’t touch you. The sponsors won’t come near you. And you’ll be lucky to land a commentary spot back in fucking Denmark.”

Nate’s jaw locked so hard it hurt. His fists clenched, his shoulder throbbed, and something in his chest twisted with the familiar ache of inevitability. He could take a hit. He could throw one harder. But this? This one slipped through the ribs.

Sully met Nate’s gaze, tired and unflinching. “Your flight leaves tomorrow,” he said. “Come back better, Brick. Or don’t come back at all.”

@TLFTea on X:

If Nate Eriksson doesn’t pick up his dance partner like a Zamboni and throw her into a perfect lift, I will RIOT.

ESPN Online:

brEAKING: Three-Month Suspension for Hammerheads Nate Eriksson

The New Haven Hammerheads’ most notorious player is off the ice and possibly out of time.

After a brutal on-ice clash left New York Warriors rookie forward Alexei Voskoboynikov with a fractured orbital socket and a severe concussion, the NHL has handed Eriksson a three-month suspension.

A spokesperson for the League called the incident ‘reckless, dangerous, and unbecoming of a professional athlete.’ Sources close to the Hammerheads say Eriksson may face further consequences if his behavior doesn’t change… READ MORE→

@HammerDown77 on Reddit (r/hockey):

Eriksson’s going to rehab his image on a ballroom dance show??? Bro couldn’t even spell cha cha. Man's gonna spin some poor pro dancer into a wall like it’s a breakaway. This is either the best PR move ever... or the end of his career.

@smorgasbrod_dane (reply):

At least Denmark gets him back if this flops. We’ll throw a parade. With jazz hands.

@itsChloeValdez on Instagram

(former TTF semi-finalist):

Just heard Nate Eriksson is joining #takethefloor. If you thought competing with an Olympic gymnast was rough, try dancing next to a man who could bench press you and still throw a punch mid-pirouette. GOOD LUCK to whoever pulls that assignment