4. Chapter 4
Chapter four
~ZED~
“Move your feet, Addams!” Coach is barking from the boards before the puck even drops.
I settle deeper in the crease and roll my shoulders once, resetting against the post while the next line gets into position.
Dominic stands at center ice, captain stamped into every inch of him whether the jersey’s got a C on it or not. Jace Colton is beside him, tapping his stick against the ice with his permanently punchable energy and smiling too much for somebody currently fucking the captain’s sister.
To their left, Tanner and Matt wait for the drill to reset. Addams is wider out, in the winger position, coiled and ready.
As soon as the whistle blows, they start moving.
I focus on Dom, who catches a pass, drags it around a rookie defenseman whose name I’m still not interested in learning, and snaps it top shelf with enough force to hurt as I catch it.
“Fucker.” He grins at me as he skates back.
I toss the puck off to the side and reset.
The next one comes quicker. Tanner drives in, Matt trailing, a rookie on the wing trying to screen me and doing a dogshit job of it. I track the puck, drop with it, seal the post, and kick the rebound away before anyone can get clever.
“Bailey!” Coach snaps. “If you’re gonna screen him, commit to it. You’re hesitating!”
The kid mutters something under his breath and skates back into line.
I tap my stick once against the ice.
The whole rink is noise: pucks hammering off sticks, men cursing, and Coach barking.
It’s not full-contact practice, not really, but this close to the season, nobody knows how to do anything halfway.
Not Dom. Not Jace. Not Addams. Not any of the younger guys trying to prove they deserve air in here.
And me in the crease, doing the job. Hating doing the job.
Coach resets the drill, and the line comes again. The whole thing comes at me fast and familiar, and none of it matters because I’ve seen every version of this a thousand times before.
First shot, blocker. Rebound, kicked out. Second chance, sealed.
Whistle.
Again.
Whistle.
Repeat.
I’m currently the best goalie in the league, and I hate every fucking second of this.
This isn’t an opinion of mine; it’s a fact. I’m good enough that they built half their season plans around me the minute I got here two years ago, and everybody on this ice knows it.
People love saying men like me live for the game.
Bullshit.
I’m simply good at it. There’s a big difference. I don’t step onto the ice and feel my heart swell. I don’t hear the crowd and feel anything holy crack open in my chest. I come here, stop pucks, and leave.
Wins go in the win column, and losses get picked apart on video until fingers start getting pointed and everybody’s pissed off enough to play better next game.
Everything in between is just more ice under my skates and more time spent in the one place that should’ve killed me a long time ago.
That’s the joke of it.
Most people come to the rink for joy, money, obsession, ego, whatever. To me, it’s just a job. And a sentence I’m still serving.
Dom skates backward through center ice, stick in one hand, talking while the rest of them reset around him.
“Again,” he barks. “Tanner, you drive middle and pull the defense with you. Matt, stay wider until Jace opens the lane.”
Coach stands by the boards with his arms folded, letting Dom run it. He could bark the whole thing himself, but this is half the point. Let the captain captain.
I settle deeper in the crease and track the setup.
Tanner up the middle, Matt wide right, Addams hanging left, ready to cut in when the seam opens.
Jace skates backward through the slot, talking shit to Addams, who answers by shoulder-checking him hard enough to send them both off balance.
Can’t deny he’s the best defenseman in the game.
Annoying as genital herpes, but an impressively good athlete.
Dom is at the top, reading all of it before it happens while the rookies fill the weak spots and try not to look too terrified.
Whistle.
They move.
Dom carries in and shifts the puck to Jace. Tanner drives hard through the middle, dragging one defender with him. Matt stays outside, just where Dom told him to. Addams waits a second longer this time before cutting into the space Tanner’s opened.
Better.
Jace sends it low. Dom gets it back for half a second and snaps it across. I push hard left just as Dom gets the shot off, quick and high blocker side.
The puck slams into my chest before I can fully seal it. Pain blooms hot and mean through the protector anyway.
Fuck.
I stay on my feet, find the rebound at my skates, and kick it out before Tanner can bury the second chance.
I straighten slowly, dragging one glove across the center of my chest once, where the pain is still spreading, already knowing it’s going to bruise.
“You good, Z?” Dom glances my way from the slot.
“Did it go in?” I look at him.
“No.” His mouth twitches.
“Then I’m good.”
Jace barks out a laugh. “Very inspiring stuff, Z.”
I tap my stick against the post once and reset.
Dom turns back to the group. “Again. Same entry. Faster puck movement. Matt, don’t drift. Tanner, commit when you drive or don’t bother. Addams, good cut. Everyone else, wake the fuck up.”
Everybody’s alive in it. Good for them, truly. They get to walk into a rink and feel the excitement and passion.
I feel better anywhere that isn’t here. I walk into a rink and re-enter a crime scene each time.
Truth is, I should’ve walked away from this sport years ago, but leaving would mean I’m allowed to move on, and I’m not.
I don’t get to decide I’ve paid enough. It’ll never be enough.
If there’s any justice in this world, I should have to feel every fucking second of it.
“By the time I leave the ice, the sun’s dipped low enough to blast through the lounge windows.
It hits me the second I step through the doors, forcing a squint out of me.
I need a protein shake from the bar before I hit the team’s gym.
Practice didn’t burn off enough energy. I’ve still got too much adrenaline sitting under my skin, and if I take it home with me, it’ll keep me up half the night.
The lounge’s half full. A couple of staffers are parked on the couches with laptops open, and a trainer is talking to somebody near the coffee machine. Nothing worth looking at.
My eyes sweep the area, instinctively drifting to the coffee tables off to the right. Something in me senses her before my brain catches up, and I turn my head.
A flash of blonde hair draws my eye, the sun picking out the natural gold woven through it. My gaze follows the loose braid trailing down the back of her baby-pink shirt.
There you are, Snowflake.
She’s sitting at one of the tables, squinting at the glaring screen of her open laptop. Her charger is stretched to its limit from the only available outlet, trapping her in this seat. She’s fighting the glare of the low sunlight with a stubborn little crease between her brows.
I stop walking.
This should’ve worn off by now. The effect the sight of her has on me.
But it seems to be exactly the opposite.
Every time she turns up in front of me, I feel my insides squeeze painfully.
I know what attraction feels like. This isn’t just that.
I have an appetite for this girl I haven’t felt toward anyone. And it feels… good.
The hallway rushes back to me. She was nervous to approach me, and I made her uncomfortable.
I know I did. I have a habit of making most people uncomfortable.
But I also don’t believe for one second that she got to the rink that early and just happened to run into me.
I know interest when I see it. And that’s not me jerking myself off in my own head.
It’s a fact. I know what happens when people recognize me.
The jersey, the name on my back, the position I play—it gets attention before I’ve even said a word.
It opens doors without anyone ever thinking to ask what’s behind them. I’ve used it before to get what I want.
And what I want just happens to be conveniently showing up in my place of work.
I want her. The girls gorgeous enough to make any red-blooded man to look twice. But I also want what happens in me when she’s near me. Something in me actually wakes the fuck up when she walks into view.
That hasn’t happened in years.
Most things don’t land anymore. Wins don’t.
Women don’t. Then she shows up, and suddenly I’m interested in something again.
Interested enough to stop in the middle of a room and stare at her fighting with a laptop screen.
Interested enough for my mind to actually consider joining the kids on the ice with her just because she asked me to.
She tips the laptop again and squints. I can see the problem from where I’m standing. The sun’s coming in low through the windows, and she keeps trying to work around it, but there’s nowhere else for her to go.
I look from the windows to her screen, then to the open stretch of floor between them and the table. It takes maybe two seconds to figure out where I’d have to stand to cut the glare.
So I move.
She’s bent over her bag when I get there, digging around for something, and before she straightens back up, I’m already in position, leaning against the table behind her with both hands braced on the edge, my body angled just right to break the light before it hits her screen.
The glare disappears just as she straightens with a notebook in hand and goes back to work. There’s no moment where she realizes I’m the reason the problem just stopped being a problem.
So I stay there, minute after minute, as she types away. I’m too far in to pretend I’m not exactly where I want to be.