Coach Côte’s voice cracked through the chaos. “Let’s line up, fellas!” he barked, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go! Let’s move it!”
The guys surged to their feet, half-shoving each other toward the tunnel like kids racing for recess. Tate stayed where he was, silently rolling his eyes. It was pointless to jockey for position. The announcers called their names in a fixed order—always the same, always predetermined. But no one ever accused hockey players of being logical before a game.
The first fireworks popped overhead, their booms rattling the rafters, and the crowd roared so loudly Tate’s pulse jumped with it. He could feel the energy bleeding through the concrete, a living, breathing wall of noise that would only get louder once the puck dropped.
“Let’s go,” Coach urged again, but this time his grin softened the order. “Quick hellos, then get ready for action, boys…”
Tate froze.
No announcements? No lineup?
Just… straight to the ice?
That had to be bad luck.
His doubt must have shown, because Coach Côte slapped a hand on his shoulder, chuckling as though Tate’s nerves were a private joke.
“My wife’s out there,” Coach explained, tone low, like he was sharing a secret. “We’ve got an image to uphold. We’re the golden boys of hockey—we play right, sign autographs, and show the world what it means to be a Coyote. So we make an appearance, show there are no hard feelings. But…”
Tate raised a brow, half-standing as the surge of men pulled them toward the tunnel. “But?”
Coach’s grin sharpened into something dangerous. “But I want you to make it hurt.” His eyes flicked toward the opposite side of the arena, where Wolverines jerseys gleamed under the lights. “Take every shot, make every point count, and ignore the trash talking. Because they hired the big mouth I used to have here, and brought on another one just as bad, or worse, than Barrett Coeur—Jett Acton.”
Tate groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.
Jett Acton was notorious. A maniac in skates, with a smile sharp enough to cut glass and a reputation for making enemies faster than goals. Tate had a run-in with him last year, and he kept telling the referee that Tate was throwing pennies on the ice to trip him up, and then the annoying jerk would actually drop a penny, blaming it on him, and landing Tate in the penalty box repeatedly. In fact, Acton winked at him once as he casually tossed the little brown coin, and Tate nearly came unhinged.
Yeah, Jett Acton was borderline insane, devious, or both - and there was no telling what he’d say or do on the ice to get under your skin… all while smiling. And now he’d have to deal with him again.
The arena announcer’s voice boomed overhead, dragging him back into the moment.
Welcome to the North Texas Coyotes Arena, and have we got a show for you tonight. This evening, old meets new, as we’ve got a makeshift reunion on the ice and a divided house. The Wolverines harvested a few players from our team – and the Coyotes have reacted with three players that have the grit, the nerve, and the determination to show their fans that they’ve still got it…
Tate forced his skates onto the ice, the cold slickness biting under his blades. Normally, this was the moment he lived for—the rush of stepping under the lights, the fans screaming, his name echoing like thunder—his two seconds of glory. Tonight, though, the ritual was broken.
And broken rituals were bad luck.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three Coyotes already gliding toward three Wolverines—old teammates hugging like it was a reunion picnic instead of a grudge match. Tate rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.
Well, this is an interesting twist as the spouses of the team make their appearances near the penalty box…
Have you ever seen anyone slice up a jersey like that? Maybe they should be in the penalty box…
I think the players and coaches would disagree…
The noise wasn’t unusual.
What got him was the spectacle.
Some of the wives had gone all out, their faces painted down the middle—half in the Wolverines’ dark blue, half in the Coyotes’ blistering green. Tate’s stomach rolled. They weren’t even subtle about it.
Rival colors.
Rival jerseys.
Rival pride, mashed together like some chaotic patchwork quilt. Where was the team loyalty? If those guys left, they were no longer Coyotes but Wolverines – so why celebrate and honor that?
“Sacrilege,” he muttered hotly under his breath, shaking his head.
