Chapter 4
Chapter four
Colby
“Short shifts,” Coach Hale snaps, voice cutting through the noise. “Smart changes. We don’t get cute in a day game.”
“Define cute,” Dex says from somewhere to my left. “Because I feel like my whole brand is cute.”
Coach doesn’t even look at him. “Your brand is exhausting.”
A few guys laugh. Someone taps a stick against the boards.
I lean forward on the bench, elbows on my knees, eyes on the ice. “First line, be ready,” I say. “They’re going to come out fast.”
Dex grins at me. “See? Captain agrees. Fire drill early.”
“Contained,” I say.
The horn blares. The puck drops.
The puck is already loose when I get there.
My body reacts on instinct. My head locks onto the pace.
White ice. Bright lights. A roar that rattles through my cage and into my teeth.
Day game.
It’s different. Brighter. Cleaner. Like someone turned the saturation up on the whole arena.
Less Friday-night feral, more families in the stands. Kids in mini jerseys pounding on the glass. Parents holding beers like they’re trying not to be tempted. An old guy a few rows back screaming at the refs like it’s his part-time job.
I like day games.
They feel honest.
The puck rims around the boards and pops loose near the circle. I step into the lane without thinking, stick down, body angled. Their winger hesitates for half a second.
That’s all I need.
“Mills,” I bark, and Gregory is already there because he always is. The puck snaps to my stick, tape to tape, and the ice opens up in front of me.
I read it the way I always do. Their center cheating high. Their defenseman pinching just a little too far. The seam is there for a heartbeat.
I slide the puck across. Nothing flashy. Just right.
Mason Barber reads it perfectly and pinches down from the blue line like a freight train with a personal vendetta. He gets a piece of it, the goalie kicks it out, and the rebound spills into the slot.
Dex Miller comes flying in like gravity personally offended him.
He rips the shot.
Ping.
Post.
The entire arena makes the same wounded sound at the same time.
Dex throws his arms up anyway, skating past me. “That was in.”
“It was in your imagination,” I shout back as I turn to chase the breakout.
Day game. Kids watching. And Dex still thinks reality is optional.
I backcheck hard, legs burning. Their winger tries to cut inside. I angle him off and pin him to the boards just long enough for Gabriel to scoop the puck free.
The kid behind the glass pounds on it like he’s trying to free us.
I glance up for half a second and see his face lit up like Christmas.
My chest does this small, stupid warm thing.
Then the whistle blows and the moment’s gone.
TV timeout.
I glide to the bench, breath fogging my visor. Coach Hale leans forward, clipboard tucked under his arm, eyes sharp.
“Good pressure,” he says.
I nod. That’s high praise coming from him.
Dex flops onto the bench beside me like he’s been shot. “Captain, I have been robbed.”
“You hit the post,” Mason says flatly.
Dex points at him. “Don’t invalidate my pain.”
Gregory taps his stick against the mat. “Statistically speaking, that was physics.”
Dex glares. “Dude, if I wanted math, I’d date an accountant.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
The music dips. The jumbotron flashes red hearts for reasons I don’t want to understand.
And then the announcer’s voice booms through the arena.
“Outlaws fans! Don’t forget! Coming up next week, it’s Hearts on Ice: A Valentine’s Charity Night!”
My stomach flips before my brain catches up.
“Join us for a family-friendly evening featuring games, prizes, and a lucky lady's chance to win a date with a Nashville Outlaw during our special dating-game segment!”
The crowd cheers. Loud. Enthusiastic.
Someone yells something unhinged that absolutely involves my face.
Dex cups his hands around his mouth. “I’m available!”
Coach points at him without looking. “You are not.”
“For charity,” Dex says.
“For silence,” Coach replies.
I keep my expression neutral as the camera swings down the bench.
It pauses.
On me.
Just a beat too long.
I can take a hit on the ice and pop right back up.
It’s the stage that makes me uneasy.
The horn sounds. Play resumes.
Faceoff in our zone. I lean in, calm. Their center overthinks it.
The puck drops. I win it clean.
We break out smoothly. No panic. No drama. Effort equals outcome.
Dex calls for the puck like he’s entitled to it by birthright. I send it anyway. He toe-drags, almost loses it, recovers, spins, and somehow keeps it alive long enough to dump it deep.
It’s a mess.
But it’s organized.
The puck comes back to the point. Mason fires low and hard through traffic, exactly where the goalie can’t see it.
He scores!
The arena explodes.
Mason lifts one arm like he’s mildly acknowledging success.
Dex skates by screaming, “That was also my goal!”
“You didn’t touch it,” Mason says.
“Spiritually,” Dex insists.
Final minutes. One-goal lead.
Coach pulls us in at the bench. “Smart. No hero plays.”
Dex opens his mouth.
Coach looks at him.
Dex closes it again.
“We close it out,” I say quietly. “One shift at a time.”
They nod.
That’s what I do. I steady things.
I get the puck deep, burn the last seconds, keep it simple.
The horn sounds again.
Win.
Stick taps. Applause. Daytime proud instead of nighttime crazy.
As we skate off, the announcer’s voice hits one more time.
“Hearts on Ice: A Valentine’s Charity Night! Get your tickets now and ladies, bid online today for a chance to participate in our dating game and possibly win a date with a Nashville Outlaw! Or, get your general admission ticket and watch the fun unfold."
The camera finds me again.
It lingers.
I notice.
***
By the time I step into the locker room, my sweat is cooling and the adrenaline is draining out of me in slow waves.
Music thumps. Guys shout. Dex is already talking too loud about how the crowd is “basically begging” for him.
And I can’t decide what’s worse.
That he believes it, or that next week, we’re going to put microphones on three of us and let the whole city watch.
And somehow, I’m the one expected to keep it from turning into a circus.
Coach Hale enters and claps once, sharp and loud, the universal sound for shut up.
“Alright,” he says. “Phones down. Pants up. Eyes here.”
Dex, who is currently shirtless and toweling his hair like he’s in a slow-motion commercial for shampoo, looks offended. “My pants are at a respectful mid.”
“Pull them higher,” Coach says without missing a beat.
A chorus of snickers bounces off the concrete walls.
Two PR reps walk in like they’re entering a zoo enclosure. Polished smiles. Tablets clutched tight. The kind of people who say “activation” with a straight face.
“Quick update on Hearts on Ice,” the taller one says brightly.
Dex points at her. “We just heard the update. Twice. During the game. I’m basically in love now.”
Coach cuts his eyes at him. “Dex.”
“What? I’m enthusiastic,” Dex says, then stage-whispers to the room, “That’s one of the rules. Smile.”
The PR rep’s smile twitches but holds.
“Great,” she says. “Yes. Smile. Light banter. Friendly. This is for charity, for the city, and for the organization’s image.”
Mason’s voice drifts from his stall. “So we’re doomed.”
The other PR rep coughs like she’s choosing her words carefully.
“The three of you selected for the dating-game segment will be on stage. Microphones. Live audience. Please remember: no… questionable jokes. No references to…” she glances down at her tablet like it’s going to save her…
“bodily fluids. No profanity. No flirting that could be interpreted as a promise.”
Dex lifts his hand. “Define promise.”
Coach’s stare could freeze the ice.
Dex lowers his hand. “I’m learning.”
PR continues. “Do not say anything lawsuit-adjacent.”
Dex leans toward me. “Is ‘lawsuit-adjacent’ like… ‘trial-curious’?”
I don’t even turn my head. “If you say that on stage, I’m volunteering you for an exhibition game in Antarctica.”
Gregory raises a finger. “Technically, Antarctica is not part of any professional hockey league.”
Dex looks delighted. “So it’s an international incident.”
Coach claps again. “Focus.”
“This is not a roast,” she says. “It’s not a locker-room interview. It’s a cute Valentine’s dating game. You’re charming. You’re warm. You’re safe.”
Mason mutters, “I’ve never been called safe in my life.”
Dex nods solemnly. “Same. I’ve been called a lot of things. Safe isn’t one of them.”
Gregory lifts his hand. “I’ve been called safe.”
Dex looks at him, genuinely impressed. “Congratulations, man. You’re like… a beige couch.”
Gregory considers that. “Beige is a calming color.”
The PR rep finishes with a bright, terrifying smile. “Any questions?”
Dex shoots his hand up like he’s in fourth grade. “Yes. Are we allowed to wink?”
“No,” PR says instantly.
Dex’s face collapses. “What are we, Puritans?”
Coach points at the showers. “Dex. Go finish washing the audacity off.”
Dex takes one step, then pivots right back to the center of the room like he’s been handed a microphone.
“Okay,” he announces. “Since the grown-ups are here and the vibe is ‘don’t get sued,’ I will be your official rehearsal moderator.”
“No,” Coach says.
“Yes,” Dex says.
“No,” Coach repeats.
Dex beams. “Great. First order of business: I am also your emotional support menace.”
“That isn’t a thing,” Coach says.
“It is now,” Dex replies, already pulling out his phone. “I have notes.”
Mason groans like he’s considering early retirement.
“Dex,” I say, “what are you doing?”
“Helping,” he says, offended. “You’re welcome. Captain, you especially need help because your flirting technique is ‘eye contact, then apologize.’”
“That’s not true.”
Dex scrolls like he’s searching for evidence in a court case. “It’s literally true. I watched you say sorry to a woman when she bumped into you at the grocery store.”
“She hit me with a cart.”
“And you said sorry,” Dex says triumphantly.
A few guys laugh.