Chapter 7 #2
It’s been a hectic week. Early morning runs, brutal practices, and tolerating Ethan’s temper tantrums ever since I told him he can’t go to the park to play again.
Getting recognized is dangerous. I was careless that first time, and I recognize that.
Taking him out to eat is a different story.
I choose timings when the restaurants won’t be crowded and make sure we stay discreet.
My eyes flit to where Miranda is standing. She’s wearing a baseball cap. It’s not the one I signed for her. That one is in Ethan’s room. She’s wearing those damn shorts again that show her long legs that just go on and on. The T-shirt she’s wearing is fitted and shows off her generous chest.
Fuck.
Couldn’t she find anything else to wear?
The arena is cold. She’s not even wearing a jacket.
She’s standing at the boards with her clipboard, her first real session on the job, and half my team has already found reasons to skate within her eyeline since Coach finished introductions twenty minutes ago.
She’s not smiling at them, not encouraging it, just standing there doing her job. But nobody cares. The first time she had been here with me, so no one had dared to look at her. But now that our alpha has approved of her, these fuckers are acting like vultures.
“Wolfe! Set up!”
I push off hard, legs driving, and take the pass from Samuel at the blue line. The puck connects with my stick cleanly. I read the defense, fake left, cut right, and fire a snap shot that catches the top corner before Eric can react.
The net ripples.
“Finally,” Brody calls out. “He’s awake.”
I’m already looping back for the next line change when I catch Josh breaking from the formation. Not toward the goal. Toward the boards. He skids to a stop right in front of Miranda, spraying ice up against the barrier, and leans in with that grin he thinks works on women.
I cut across the ice before he can open his mouth.
I grab him by the back of his collar and haul him backward two full steps.
“Hey!”
“You’re supposed to be on the left wing,” I say. “Not chatting up the pretty nurse.”
“I was just saying hello.”
“Say hello on your own time.” I release him and look at Miranda. Her cheeks are pink. When her eyes meet mine, she looks away immediately and frowns down at her clipboard.
The frown is too fast. Like she slapped it on over something else.
I skate back to center and try not to feel so smug.
“Smooth,” Samuel says, pulling up alongside me.
“Run the drill.”
Coach blows the whistle, and we go again.
This time I lose myself in it. The next twenty minutes are hard and physical, the kind of skating that burns through the thighs and demands full attention.
We run a power play unit, cycling the puck down low, working the corners.
I take a pass off the half wall and thread it through traffic to Samuel cutting to the net. He buries it.
“That’s the one,” Coach calls from the bench. “Again.”
We reset. Same play, sharper execution. The puck moves faster this time. I’m reading the ice better, anticipating the gaps. Samuel takes a hit and still manages to get the pass off. Eric barely moves.
“Run it back,” Coach says.
On the fourth rep, Brody goes down.
No collision. No contact. He clips his own skate, loses an edge, and hits the ice in a crash that echoes through the whole building. He lies flat on his back, one arm thrown wide, staring up at the ceiling like a man who has accepted death.
“Oh no,” he says loudly. “My ankle.”
I stop and look at Samuel. Samuel just pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to hide his snort.
“It’s bad,” Brody announces. His eyes drift meaningfully toward the boards. “I think I need someone to take a look at it.”
I skate over and crouch. “Let me see.”
“Grayson, maybe Miranda should—”
I grab his ankle through the skate. He yanks it back instantly, which tells me everything.
“How bad does it hurt?” I ask, sincerity dripping from my voice.
“Very bad.”
I pull back and kick the sole of his skate. Not hard. Just enough.
He yelps. Then, on pure reflex, he grabs my jersey and swings. His fist catches my jaw. I catch his arm before he can get another one in and pin it, but he’s already wiggling away and gets a second shot to my cheekbone before I’ve got him fully.
“There it is,” I say.
“You kicked me!”
“You were faking. If it was actually hurt, you’d have braced instead of swinging.” I let him go and stand. “Get up.”
Brody sits up, looking caught. He rubs his arm, then looks past me toward the boards.
“You don’t have to be weird about it,” he mutters. “Why don’t you just go pee on her so the rest of us know to stay back.”
I smack the back of his helmet hard enough that it tips forward over his eyes.
“Ow!”
“She’s off limits,” I say. “Get up and back on the line.”
“Was that so hard?” Samuel calls.
I don’t answer. I point at Brody until he gets to his feet, then push off back toward the center circle. Coach has already reset the drill. I take my position, tap my stick on the ice, and wait for the pass.
It comes hard and flat. I collect it on the backhand, spin off Samuel’s shoulder, and drive the net. Eric comes out to challenge. I fake the glove side, pull it back, and tuck it under his blocker arm.
“Lucky,” Eric says.
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” I sneer at him.
Coach blows the whistle. “Line change. Wolfe, Brody, Samuel, stay on.”
We run a breakout sequence next. I read it from the back, watching the opposing line set up. The moment there’s a seam, I go. Samuel hits me in stride at the far blue line, and I’m in alone. One stride, two, the defenseman closing hard. I deke once and wire it top shelf.
The arena speakers haven’t been turned on yet, but three players on the bench still bang their sticks on the boards.
I circle back and make the mistake of looking at the sideline.
Miranda is watching me. Her pen has stopped moving. The clipboard is lowered an inch. The professional expression she’s been wearing all session has slipped just enough to show something underneath, and I catch it for exactly one second before she registers that I’m looking back.
She drops her eyes to her clipboard and writes something.
I skate back to position and give myself the same lecture I’ve been giving myself all week.
She’s good with Ethan. The best thing that’s ever happened to that kid, and nobody on this team is going to ruin it by being an idiot around her.
That’s the only reason I pulled Josh back.
That’s the only reason I’m paying attention to who’s drifting toward her or what expression crosses her face when she thinks no one’s watching.
It’s all for Ethan.
“You’re doing it again,” Samuel says, drawing up beside me.
“Running the play?”
“Looking at her.”
“I’m looking at the boards.”
“How convenient that she’s standing in front of the boards.”
I turn to face him. “I have an itch to slam this hockey stick in someone’s face today. You want to volunteer?”
He raises both hands, grins, and skates away.
Coach blows the whistle for the last sequence, and I push off so hard the ice chips under my blades.
The puck drops, and I’m on it immediately, burning hard up the left side, shoulder dropping as I take the hit from Brody and hold the line.
I feed it back, loop behind the net, take the return pass, and snap it home before the defense resets.
It’s a good goal. Clean and fast.
I don’t look at the sideline afterward.
I will not look at the sideline.
I look at the sideline.
She’s watching me.
I look away, pleased.
By the time Coach blows the final whistle, I let the momentum carry me into the boards, breathing hard.
My legs are burning in the good way, the way that means I pushed hard enough to matter.
Around me, the team starts coming off the ice, sticks clattering, someone arguing already about a missed call from the scrimmage. The usual noise.
I pull off my helmet and tuck it under my arm. My pulse is still elevated, and I tell myself it’s from the skating.