Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Leif
No Overtime Required
The ice grips under my skates as I push off, testing the give beneath me. It’s crisp, untouched, waiting to be carved up. The boards around the rink gleam under the bright overhead lights—a familiar arena but not yet mine.
Two weeks in, and I should feel settled. The Vipers are a good team. The system is structured. The coaching staff knows what they’re doing. But that new guy feeling sticks to me like a poorly fitted jersey, and I hate it. There’s no routine yet, no muscle memory of where everyone will be at any given second. No instinct, just thinking. And thinking? It gets in the way.
Jason glides up beside me, knocking his stick against my pads in greeting. “You’re up early.”
I adjust my gloves, flexing my fingers inside the material. “So are you.”
He grins, all easy confidence. “Unlike you, I need warm-ups. Can’t coast on raw talent alone.”
I snort. “I’ll let you know how that works out for me.”
He tosses a puck onto the ice, watching it skid toward the boards. “One-on-one?”
It’s not a question, not really. We’ve been doing this since we were kids, since he used to show up at my house after school, dropping his bag in the mudroom like he lived there. Papa’s rink was always open to us. A place where we didn’t have to think about scouts or rankings or any of the big stuff. Just two kids, a puck, and hours to kill.
We even fought over who got to drive the Zamboni after.
Jason lines up at center ice, tossing the puck between his hands, rolling his shoulders like we’re about to square off in some epic battle.
I tap my stick against the crease. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”
“Oh, buddy.” He laughs, skating toward me. “That’s my line.”
He makes the first move, cutting in fast, but I read it before he even sets his blade. He always likes to fake left and then slip right—except he forgets I’ve had his plays memorized since we were fifteen. I track him, shift, block the shot with my glove. The puck smacks against the leather, a solid, satisfying stop.
Jason groans. “That was textbook.”
“For you, maybe,” I say, flicking the puck away.
He circles back, tapping his stick against the ice. “I’m starting to remember why I hated practicing with you.”
“Because I never let you score?”
“Because you’re a freak.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve been told that enough times by teammates, coaches, analysts. Even for a goalie, my skills are next level. I like the cold, the solitude of the crease, the impossible angles and split-second decisions. The whole world shrinks down to instincts and reactions, and nothing else matters.
Jason tries again, this time coming in with more speed, attempting to slip the puck into the five-hole. I close the gap at the last second, my pads sealing off the opening. The puck deflects, sliding harmlessly toward the boards.
Jason groans. “God, you suck.”
I smirk. “That was a warm-up, right?”
“Remind me why we’re friends?”
“Because you have terrible judgment.”
He grins, skating back to center ice. “One more round?”
I nod. We could go all morning, just like we used to, trading shots and chirps, skating until the world outside the rink felt far away. It’s different now—contracts, expectations, the weight of being someone’s trade acquisition—but on this ice, with Jason grumbling about my inhuman reflexes, it almost feels like home.
A couple of hours later, the real training starts.
I move into position, knees bending, stick tapping against the goalposts. Left. Right. Left again. A habit that’s as much a part of me as breathing.
The first round of shots comes fast. My eyes track each one, cataloging every angle, every shift in a skater’s stride that hints at their release point.
Blocker save. Glove deflection. Rebound control.
Nothing gets past me. Not yet.
When it’s Jason’s turn, he challenges me with a real slapshot. I’ve seen him wind up for years, know exactly how he sets up his body before he releases.
He’s deceptive. He wants the goalie to bite, to react too soon.
I don’t.
The puck rockets toward the top corner, but I’m there before it lands. My glove snaps around it, absorbing the sting. I drop the puck onto the ice, flicking it back toward him.
“That all you got?”
Jason shakes his head, skating past. “I keep forgetting how much of a smug bastard you are, fucker.”
Practice moves fast, the rhythm of the team kicking into place. I see the patterns, the chemistry forming, but I’m still on the outside of it. The other guys have their flow, their inside jokes, their tells. I’m learning them as much as I’m learning the plays.
Ty Rourke, one of the wingers, coasts up next to me while waiting for the next round of drills. “You always that dialed in?”
I adjust my mask, rolling my shoulders. “Only when I’m on the ice.”
Jason scoffs from behind us. “He was born like this.”
Rourke lifts a brow. “You always do the goalpost tapping thing?”
I stare at him. “Yes.”
“And if you don’t?”
Jason laughs, answering for me. “He does. Trust me. He made our high school team restart warm-ups once because his skate felt off.”
Rourke whistles low. “So, rituals, huh?”
“Routine,” I correct.
“Same thing.” He grins, skating off.
Jason leans in. “They’re gonna love you.”
I flip him the finger. The scrimmage drills ramp up the speed. The team is adjusting, pushing the pace, and I push with them.
Jason and Rourke break out on a two-on-one rush. Jason handles the puck, his posture calm, but I know him too well. I track his stick, not his eyes. He fakes a shot, but I don’t commit. When the real release comes, I explode across the crease, cutting off the angle. Nothing gets past me and that’s how it should be, always.
By the time practice ends, my body hums with exhaustion—the deep, satisfying burn that comes from pushing every muscle to its limit. I strip off my mask, running a hand through damp hair as the team trickles off the ice.
Jason lingers. “That felt good.”
I nod, rolling out my shoulders. “Yeah.”
He grins. “We’re gonna get the fucking Cup this season.”
I smirk, gripping my stick a little tighter. “Damn right we are.” Things are starting to turn around, I think, at least I hope. The girl is mine, the team is right . . . there’s just something missing. I don’t know what, but I’ll figure that out soon.