“Sounds like the kind of list I prefer to be on. They seem like no fun, anyway. So, which of those kiddos belongs to you?” She curls her hands in the blanket and uses her chin to gesture toward the ice. The smooth, shining, bluish-white surface glints back at us, freshly cleaned. The team has just started their warm-up drills, sprinting back and forth, the swish of their skates slicing against the ice. Squinting, I search for Asher, and I can’t help the smile that bursts across my face when I finally spot him.
Well ahead of the group of kids, his eyes are ablaze from the competitive streak within his heart. He soars as though he has wings on his skates, fully in his element.
“That one there, Asher—number 88. He picked it because he likes Vonn Keene.” I shrug, not wanting to explain the fact that Asheractuallywanted the number 69 for his favorite player, Julius Keene, but I wouldn’t let him. It ended up being an enormous fight, but the number just felt inappropriate for an eleven-year-old’s jersey. Not to mention, Julius Keene may be a fantastic player, but what I’ve heard about him off the ice is far from complimentary. He shouldn’t be any child’s role model, much less my impressionable son.
“Wow, he’s so fast,” Marilyn murmurs, her eyes locking on my son in a way that seems almost assessing. “A lot of raw talent and potential right there. He’s what, thirteen?”
Her not knowing their age triggers something in my hindbrain, and I inspect the woman beside me. She gets a far-off look, like she’s putting together the pieces of a puzzle in her mind, and I shift uncomfortably. Marilyn seems nice enough, benign enough, but any mama bear, especially one with a past like mine, is cautious about what we tell others.Time to switch the focus.
“Not quite,” I skirt the question. “Who are you here to cheer on? I’m pretty familiar with most of the boys on the team.” Knowing she has a legitimate reason to be here is the only thing that will calm the anxiety prickling under my skin.
“Oh. I’m not with any of the kids. Though they remind me of when mine were so young,” she says wistfully before continuing, “I actually work for the AHL- the Alpha Hockey League—specifically the Scented Scorpions.”
My brow furrows, not understanding. Yes, my son’s team is loosely affiliated with the professional team, but only in nameand jersey. This is junior hockey, so why in the world is she here?
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand…” I break off, watching Asher line up on the blue line with the rest of his teammates. Their coach spills several pucks onto the ice, shouting instructions that are no more than a garbled mess by the time they reach my ears.
“Well, I have a few players interested in mentoring the next generation, maybe giving them some pointers for the upcoming exhibition.” She smiles at me cheerfully, her rows of perfect white teeth sparkling. “It’s a great program, and the top three shining stars at the exhibition tournament will receive sizable scholarships to pay for all their hockey expenses for the next two years.”
Two years? Paid hockey?
A scholarship like that could save me an astronomical amount of money. My mind spins with thoughts of better meals, better clothing for Asher, and all the things I could give him.
“Is your son planning on being a part of it?” Marilyn asks sweetly, her body twisting toward mine. “He seems to be ahead of the group already. I can only imagine how well he would do after some professional mentoring.”
And just like that, my thoughts fizzle. Asher isn’t signed up for the exhibition—much to his extreme disappointment. We’ve been fighting over it for weeks because he wanted to be a part of it, but the three-hundred-dollar participation fee was more than I could swing. Even with my new side hustle…
“Uhh… not yet.” Biting my lip, my eyes flick toward my son, taking in his well-worn, very used skates and the pads that don’t quite fit. Every piece of equipment we own is secondhand or donated, and still, he shines. There’s no doubt in my mind he could grab one of the top three slots.
“Well, there’s still another week to join,” Marilyn points out, as she hands me back the corner of my blanket. “I promise, if I see his name, I’ll make sure he gets the best mentors.”
Her smile is friendly as she winks. “Thanks for the blanket, Nixie. It was great to meet you. I’m off to chat with the coach, but I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”
She squeezes my knee, then spins on her too-high heels, sauntering away, exuding money and class. And as she shrinks from my view, I can’t help but wonder if meeting Marilyn was a sign. A sign that Asher’s future in hockey is brighter than just a kid wanting to shoot a puck. Maybe he’s meant to be a star.
And I refuse to let my money issues dim his light.
Chapter Two
Vonn
“You played like shit. You played like shit…” My pads are heavy, weighing down my legs as I hobble off the ice on my sharp skates. Julius, our team captain, a giant assholeandmy packmate, announces our failings as each team member shuffles past him. This new tradition is one we all hate, but when I told him to cut the shit, he just scoffed and flipped me off. I love him, but there’s just no reasoning with the Alpha. Still, if he thinks this is a way to get us playing more cohesively as a team, he’s dead wrong.
My stomach clenches, wondering what he’ll say to me, but his angry hazel eyes slice me to ribbons without a single word falling from his lips. And well, I guess that’s fair. He can’t tell me how shitty a player I am when I spent the entire game warming the bench. As a backup goaltender, I’m a redundancy on the roster. And to be honest, I’m not even sure I deserve that position. I’ve never made a save in a professional game. Whether that’s because I never get a chance or because I’m just no good is anyone’s guess. The coaches say I have potential, but I’ve never stepped between the bars outside of practice.
The desire to find something else has been niggling at me more and more lately. But would you leave a semi-lucrative salary as a benchwarmer to pursue your passion? And what the fuckismy passion?
A deep sigh bursts from my lungs as the team marches through the tunnel and into the locker room. After stumbling over to the wooden bench, I plop down on it and begin unfastening the tiny buckles on my pads.These fucking things.
Grunting and groaning, I remove all my equipment, then glance around, only to realize that pretty much everyone else has disappeared into the showers already. Everyone except Julius…
“You good?” he asks, breaking his usual ‘I’m a dick’ vibe now that everyone else is gone. Because the funny thing is, his whole captain persona is a disguise. A way for him to hide the truly decent man who lives behind his gruff demeanor.
“Of course I’m fine. I didn’t even play—just had the best seats in the house to watch our team get their asses whipped.” Standing, I turn toward my locker for my towel, but my eyes snag on the fuzzy gray sweatpants instead.Should I get cleaned up or just go the hell home?
“Whatever. Don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself.” Julius nabs a towel from his locker and tosses it over his well-defined shoulders. “Let’s get a move on, then go grab a drink at Slap Shots and maybe find a pretty beta to take to the Eiffel Tower tonight.”
He chuckles darkly, and while we’ve shared many “pretty betas” before, nothing sounds less appealing. Watching so many of our teammates find their omegas recently has me all up in my feels. But sharing yet another puck bunny won’t ease that ache. I’m ready to try courting someone. Swallowing hard, I get ready to tell Julius. The words are on the tip of my tongue, as they have been for the last few weeks.
