2- Grayson
Grayson
The first thing I hear when I step out of Coach’s office is the hum of the arena waking up.
It’s still too early for most of the guys, judging by the empty hallway and the quiet. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the air carries that familiar mix of sweat and fresh ice.
Practice isn’t until ten, but for me, Monday mornings start early. The coaching staff meets at seven, and when Coach named me captain three years ago, he gave me a standing invite. I’ve never missed one.
Today, we ran through lines for the better part of an hour. He doesn’t need to ask my opinion, but he always does because I know this team on the ice and off of it.
I can tell you who hangs out together and who secretly hates each other. Hell, I could probably tell you which guys have slept with the same woman before they’ve figured it out themselves.
We discussed the rookies and their pairings to see who’s ready for more time and who needs a little less.
It’s not the glamorous part of being captain.
No one’s interviewing me about depth charts or defensive rotations, even if that’s what actually wins games.
It’s the difference between a team that looks good on paper and one that works when the puck drops.
We won the Cup my first year on this team, four years ago, and I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since. This time, as captain, I want to be the one to lead us there, so mornings like this are a part of the deal.
I roll my shoulders as I head down the hall to the locker room, stiffness already creeping in from sitting too long.
Getting here three hours before practice used to annoy me. Now, I like it. There’s a rhythm to mornings like this. I show up early and get my head right, making sure everyone else has what they need before they even realize they need it.
That’s how Nathan’s tape, the only kind he’ll use, shows up on the bench by his stuff. It’s how Wyatt’s superstitious granola bars, the ones he ate before a big win and now refuses to play without, never stop replenishing in his locker.
No one notices, but I do it anyway. Hell, even if I weren’t captain, I probably still would.
According to Coach, I’m easy to like, which is why I was named captain when most defenders are never looked twice at for the role.
I almost laugh under my breath at the thought.
Easy to like.
For most people, maybe.
Not for Avery Holt.
The thought comes uninvited, but once it’s here, it sticks.
Between the two of us, there’s only one unlikable person.
She’s loud, hostile, and blunt in a way that borders on reckless.
She moves through the world on impulse and gets away with it.
Maybe it’s because she owns every room she steps into by flashing her smile or shimmying her hips, distracting everyone in a way that even I’m not entirely immune to.
And for whatever reason, she’s decided she doesn’t like me. She’s hell-bent on making her hatred very clear in every single interaction.
Every. Single. One.
My jaw tightens, mind flashing back to New Year’s while I push through the locker room doors.
I’d thought, for a breath, that maybe we would call some kind of truce. Instead, she’d looked at me like I was the last person on earth she’d ever want to put her mouth near, panicking so fast that I couldn’t even react before she shoved her tongue down Liam’s throat.
I toss my bag onto the bench harder than necessary, the sound echoing off the walls.
Making her uncomfortable wasn’t the plan. I didn’t want her to kiss me if she didn’t want to. Actually, I didn’t want her to kiss me at all, but it still hurt my ego a bit more than I wanted to admit.
Sue me, I like being liked.
A couple of the guys are already here, scattered around in various stages of waking up before heading to the trainer. Someone grunts a greeting, and I nod back.
“Morning, Cap.”
“Morning.”
I don’t linger this early because quiet is part of the appeal.
I change quickly, but my head isn’t in it anymore. After two weeks, I should be over her rejection, but I’m somehow more pissed off.
“Working overtime already?” Liam asks as he strolls into the room.
“Something like that,” I mumble.
He hops up beside me, still in his sneakers with a grin plastered across his face.
“You’re making the rest of us look bad.”
“As if you need help in that department.”
He huffs out a laugh, stretching his arms over his head.
It took time to get quick enough to spar with Liam, but now it comes naturally.
“Where were you Saturday?” He asks.
“At home.”
“Yes, but why?”
I exhale slowly, already annoyed. “Wasn’t into it.”
“Because the soccer team was going to be there?”
I grit my teeth, forcing calmness into my voice. “I thought we’d get a reprieve, considering Nathan and Wesley called it off last week.”
He shrugs. “Everyone knows that won’t last. Those two are meant to be together.”
I snort. It’s true, even if they both don’t see it yet.
“And,” he adds, nudging my shoulder, “you’re saying a certain redhead had nothing to do with it?”
I don’t even hesitate. “I’m positive.”
“Because she was there.”
No shit.
“I don’t care.”
It comes out too stiff, and Liam’s grin widens.
“She asked about you.”
My head snaps toward him before I can stop it, and he loses it, doubling over laughing.
Asshole.
“Oh, fuck you,” I mutter, glaring at him while I stand from the bench.
“You should’ve seen your face.”
“You guys seriously need to quit with this shit,” I sigh.
He reins in the smirk.
They’ve all been on this kick since November. I hit on Avery one time, got shut down, and that was the end of it. What they think is a crush is actually me trying to figure out why she’s so set on hating me, and why it bothers me when it shouldn’t.
“You really don’t like her?”
“I would never like someone that…” my voice trails off as I pick through the words.
“Loud,” I say finally.
“Yeah, I guess she’s not your usual type.”
“Not even close,” I agree. “Besides, I told you after Rachel, I’m steering clear of women for a while.”
Rachel, my latest ex in a long string of exes, told me that our relationship was stale, as if we were a bag of chips left out on the counter. She wasn’t wrong. It was as if we were together only because it felt like we should be.
Looking back now, I realize how pathetic that is for a twenty-six-year-old to settle into.
The breakup forced me to look back at my past relationships, and when I couldn’t think of a single one that felt passionate in any meaningful way, I decided to take a break altogether.
It’s been odd. I’m a relationship guy. I like having a girlfriend, and I want the kind of relationship my parents have. But I’m focusing on my game and proving to myself that I’m whole even if I’m alone.
Liam studies me, then smirks again. “So, you’re still on the whole no women kick?”
I grab my gloves, forcing my expression to stay neutral.
“Yeah. For now.”
“No part of you cares that I kissed Avery?”
“Nah.”
“Good because she does have it out for you.”
“She’s made that clear.”
It was one thing when she hated the whole team; I could chalk that up to a hockey player thing. But lately, she gets along with all of my teammates except me. I try to be friendly and ignore her constant goading, but she still refuses to change her opinion.
“That woman is one hell of a kisser.” He touches his hand to his mouth as if remembering it.
My jaw tightens. “Good for you,” I mutter.
He laughs, clearly satisfied with himself, then claps me on the shoulder. “I’m hitting the trainer before practice.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Do that.”
He hops off, still grinning, and I watch him go.
Grabbing a stick, I head for the ice desperate to get out of my own mind. The Zamboni is long gone, leaving behind a clean, untouched sheet that begs for first cuts.
I curse under my breath when I see someone already out there.
Drew Barrett.
The kid’s got his helmet on, gloves half-strapped, skating slow circles near the blue line like he’s trying to wear a groove into the ice before anyone else gets here. I forgot I told him I’d help him out with his one-on-ones. There goes my quiet morning.
I hop the boards and glide out, the cold hitting my face. Drew looks up when he hears me, straightening like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
“Relax.” I stop in front of him. “You’re early, not late.”
He huffs out a breath, pushing over toward me. “Figured I could get some extra reps in until you got here.”
He’s got the skill. Anyone can see the quick hands and a shot that’ll turn heads if he keeps developing it.
But right now, he’s thinking too much. You can see it in the way he hesitates before committing.
That might’ve been fine in college, but in the NHL, second-guessing mid-play is going to get him burned every time.
I skate backward a few feet, setting my edges. “Alright. Let’s go.”
“Now?”
“You got somewhere else to be?”
“No. I’m good.”
I tap my stick once on the ice. “Puck’s yours. Start at center, and come at me like it’s game speed.”
He pushes off, collecting the puck and circling back. I watch the slight shift in his weight, the tell in his shoulders that he hasn’t even realized he has yet.
Rookies always have tells. Don’t get me wrong, most veterans do too, but they usually hide them better.
Drew comes at me fast, crossing the blue line before trying to cut inside. It’s not a bad move, just predictable. I angle my body, close the gap, and poke the puck clean off his stick before he can finish the deke.
“Too slow?” He skids to a stop, frustration flashing across his face.
I nudge the puck back toward him. “You’re waiting for me to react. Don’t. Make me react.”
We reset.
This time, he comes in harder, faster. There’s still hesitation, but less of it. I force him wide, leaning in to throw him off balance, knocking the puck loose again.
“Better,” I say. “But you’re still thinking about what I’m going to do instead of what you’re going to do.”
He drags a hand down his cage. “I don’t want to screw it up.”
I skate a little closer, lowering my voice even though we’re alone.
“You will,” I tell him. “A lot. That’s what no one wants you to realize. Watch Nathan’s game tape from last season. You’ll see a ten-year veteran in the league fuck up often. He’s still one of the best.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, but we both know it’s true. Up until he met Wesley, Nathan was at serious risk of losing his contract.
“Look,” I continue, tapping my stick against his. “You’ve got the skill. But at this level? Everyone’s skilled. You have to trust yourself. Worst case, I take the puck. Best case, you make me look stupid.”
That earns me a grin. “Alright, I can do that.”
We reset again, and this time, there’s a shift. It’s subtle, but it’s there: less hesitation and more intent.
He fakes outside, cutting in quicker than before, and I actually have to adjust. I still get a piece of the puck, but not cleanly. It ricochets off my stick instead of settling, sliding past me and giving him time to recover.
He doesn’t score, but he does get by me.
Drew coasts to a stop a few feet behind me, breathing hard.
I turn, nodding once. “There it is.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah?”
“Again.”
We go on like that, rep after rep, until Drew’s movements are sharper. I skate toward the bench, resting my arms against it as I catch my breath. Drew follows behind me, pulling off his helmet.
“Thanks,” he says. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
I shrug. “It’s part of it.”
He shakes his head. “Still. You’re a good guy, you know that?”
A good guy.
It doesn’t feel like a compliment. It feels bland. Boring.